As editor of a gay newspaper, Henry Thompson thought he had enough
problems dealing with the conservative, old-money owners and the cor-
rupt mayor of Atlanta—an evangelical clergyman who denies that Afri-
can-American men are at risk with AIDS and sees no benefi t in accepting
federal safe-sex-education funds just months before welcoming the world
for the 1996 Centennial Olympic Games.

Henry lost his lover to AIDS and sees the casual sex happening in the
community as almost criminal and certainly lethal. He relies on a good
friend’s skilled Tantric massages to release the tension in his life and raise
his spirits. Then, while taking in a good, voyeuristic sweat at a men’s-club
steam room, Henry fi nds himself in a tryst with a handsome local ath-
lete.

What happens to a crusading journalist when he fi nds himself falling for
a closeted gymnast favored to win gold medals at the upcoming Olym-
pics? When CNN and Sports Illustrated hound him in their never-ending
demand for sensationalism that threatens careers? Henry must fi nd the
answer to moral dilemmas: integrity versus propriety; passion versus re-
straint.

Author Elliott Mackle, himself a former journalist, offers readers a glimpse
back to a remarkable era and events in the life of the Gay South.

Hot off the Presses

Hot

off

the

Presses

a novel

Elliott Mackle

H o t o f f t h e P r e s s e s
Copyright © 2010 Elliott Mackle. all rights reserved. No part of
this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means,
electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, microﬁ lm, and re-
cording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without
permission in writing from the publisher. Printed in the United States
of America.

Published in 2010 by Lethe Press, Inc.
118 Heritage Avenue • Maple Shade, NJ 08052-3018
www.lethepressbooks.com • lethepress@aol.com
isbn: 1-59021-325-4
isbn-13: 978-1-59021-325-4

is is a work of ﬁ ction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are

products of the author’s imagination or are used ﬁ ctitiously.

Set in Warnock, Windsor, & Gill Sans.
Cover photo: Nicolas Hansen.
Cover and interior design: Alex Jeﬀ ers.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Mackle, Elliott J. (Elliot James), 1940-
Hot oﬀ the presses : a novel / Elliott Mackle.
p. cm.
ISBN-13: 978-1-59021-325-4 (pbk. : alk. paper)
ISBN-10: 1-59021-325-4
1. Gay men--Fiction. 2. Gay journalists--Fiction. 3. Olympic Games
(26th : 1996 : Atlanta, Ga.)--Fiction. 4. Atlanta (Ga.)--Fiction. I.
Title.
PS3613.A273H68 2010
813’.6--dc22
2010026699

For Dudley Clendinen

PART I

CHAPTER 1

LINKS

e can’t assume that Mayor Ramble is homophobic,” Pope Mc-
Clelland declared. “He’s never said any such thing, at least that
I’m aware of, on the record. He’s a preacher. He took some kind

of post-graduate degree at Emory University. Most of the city council
is behind him—at least up to now, or so I’m informed. But the way
your editorial reads, he’s Spiro Agnew’s evil brother-in-law. We can’t
simply jump in and knock him down for choosing one federal pro-
gram over another.”

“Won’t do,” echoed Marguerite McClelland, Pope’s wife and, to-

gether with her husband, co-owner of Atlanta’s gay and lesbian news-
paper, Outlines. “Not with the Olympic Games coming to town. Won’t
do at all.”

e McClellands had appeared in the newsroom that Tuesday in

1995 a few minutes before noon, just as I was about to put the weekly
edition to bed.

“Atlanta is supposed to be the city too busy to hate,” Marguerite

continued, smoothing the ﬂ awless piping on the lavender lapel of her
Pauline Trigère jacket. “We don’t want Outlines sounding hateful.”

“Billy Payne and Andy Young and Ginger Watkins have put a tre-

mendous eﬀ ort into attracting and hosting the Games,” Pope argued,
naming a trio of local worthies who’d spearheaded Atlanta’s winning
Olympic bid. Pope McClelland spoke with the grand, careless drawl

Elliott Mackle

of Georgia’s hereditary gentry—“Bil-eh,” he said. “Gin-juh,” “a-trac-
tin ’n hos-ten.”

“And Shirley Franklin,” Marguerite put in. “Don’t forget her”—“En

Shul-leh,” “Doan fuh-get huh.”

“Until such time as the big push is over,” Pope said, “we have to

pick the ﬁ ghts we can win. I don’t see any percentage in making wild
accusations.”

Pope paced back and forth in front of my desk, his spine and neck

straight up, cadet style, inside his chocolate-with-mocha-pinstripes
Oxxford suit. Th

e heels of his handmade Johnson & Murphys clicked

softly as he walked. A man trained from boyhood to settle matters
without fuss, he had a distance-runners’ long legs and the thick, white
hair of an aging aristocrat. Patting the palms of his spotted old hands
together, he gave back a tactical inch of ground. “Rawson Ramble is
no Martin Luther King, granted. But isn’t this kind of a minor matter,
really?”

“As far as public-assistance funding goes,” Marguerite put in.

“Mayor Ramble is surely an honorable man.” She’d seated herself on
the edge of one of the battered library chairs in my oﬃ

ce. Her back

was turned to a framed, blown-up color photograph of ﬁ ve naked
men carrying massage tables, towels and bottles of coconut oil across
a mountain landscape in Northern California. I was one of the seem-
ingly carefree ﬁ ve. An unseen sixth man, a photographer named Mark
White, died a year after he shot the picture, in 1991. Mark and I had
been lovers.

“We have no proof,” Marguerite said, touching one of the heavy

gold bracelets on her wrist. “Do we, Henry, dear?”

e McClellands probably talked this way at home, ﬁ nishing each

others’ thoughts, their words gentle yet deﬁ nite, hitting too fast for
any outsider to respond to. I felt like I was watching a tennis game—
with me as the bouncing ball.

“Let’s all think this through,” Pope said, holding up one of the

sheets of cardboard on which columns of typeset, proofread news
copy are pasted for printing. “‘Homo-hating Mayor Cuts AIDS Life-
line,’” he read, dropping his voice and pointing to the headline above
my editorial. “I just have, uh, reservations.”

“Rez-uh-vay-shuns,” his wife echoed.

Hot off the Presses

“You’re our editor and publisher, Henry. Th

is is not my call, nor

Marguerite’s. But don’t you agree? Th

at this headline amounts to

name-calling?”

Pope had a habit of emphasizing the last, usually qualifying, phrase

or word in a sentence. It reminded me of Jimmy Carter’s famous ques-
tion marks at the end of his more self-conscious observations. I try to
monitor my own speech for such unpersuasive verbal quirks.

Marguerite pointed a thin, lacquered ﬁ nger toward the pasted-up

board. Th

e gold bracelets clanked richly. “I’m sure you telephoned the

mayor for a reaction.”

At ﬁ rst, I took this as a question, a gesture toward making a suc-

cess of the newspaper launched four years earlier by the McClellands’
dead son, Howell C. (“Chad”) McClelland, and his partner, Charles
(“Chip”) Smith. But when the oversize white diamond on Margue-
rite’s hand ﬂ ashed, I wondered if it was an unintended slip. She fol-
lowed the remark quickly with “You’re such a ﬁ ne, ﬁ ne journalist. You
usually balance things out so perfectly, don’t you, Henry, dear?”

I’m “Henry, dear”—Henry Caldwell Th

ompson, Jr., son of an Air

Force ﬁ ghter pilot killed in Korea and a Tennessee housewife, stepson
of a TVA engineer. Holder of a master’s degree from the Grady Col-
lege of Journalism at the University of Georgia. Honors graduate of
Duke University with a double major in political science and Ameri-
can lit. Former assistant city editor of the Jacksonville (Fla.) Times-
Union and the Gainesville (Ga.) Times. Hired ten months earlier by
Chad McClelland and Chip Smith as assistant managing editor and
chief editorialist of Outlines, then and now the only big-time gay-les-
bian paper between Chicago and Miami.

Chad McClelland had inherited ﬁ ve percent of his Howell grand-

father’s First National Bank of Atlanta stock in a generation-skipping
trust the day he turned twenty-one. Marguerite and Pope’s only child,
he’d done as he pleased, ﬁ nancially anyway, once he ﬁ nished college.
Th

e weekly paper he’d bankrolled had dropped into his parents’ laps

the previous summer, just as the business was beginning to show a
small proﬁ t.

Chad and Chip had thrown an all-guys party at the family’s Sea

Island cottage the last weekend of July. Refreshments included cases
of Dom and the year’s hottest designer drug, something called GBH.

Elliott Mackle

With a storm tide rising and the sun going down, Chip and Chad
wandered half a mile out on a narrow sandbar. Chip, we discovered
later, couldn’t swim a stroke. Maybe Chad tried to save him. Or maybe
the sex-enhancing sedative knocked both of them silly. Th

eir bodies

washed up on nearby Jekyll Island two days later. In Atlanta, Chad’s
death was front-page and six-o’clock news.

ree days after the funerals, a lawyer from the bank summoned

me to a Peachtree Street oﬃ

ce, handed me copies of Chad’s will and

the two partners’ business-interruption insurance policies, informed
me that I’d been promoted to managing editor and publisher, and in-
structed me to take charge of the paper until further decisions could
be made.

I should have seen the conﬂ ict with the McClellands coming.

It should have been obvious. And yet, even as we talked that day, I
wasn’t particularly worried, not at ﬁ rst, not long-term. Because isn’t
journalism supposed to be about diﬀ erences of opinion? Don’t the
media exist in part to promote and diﬀ use the common currency of
ideas? And isn’t a newsroom, even a four-desk newsroom such as
mine, a marketplace of competing claims? I try to be an honorable
man among honorable people. I view my editing career as a calling,
not a job. I’m a dedicated man. I know it sounds a little pompous to
say so, but I’d always tried to do the morally right thing.

At the time, I ﬁ gured we could work things out. And, of course, in

one sense we did. Just not in a way I expected. But that’s getting ahead
of my story. Stay with me.

e day the McClellands just happened to drop by the newspa-

per’s oﬃ

ce on Monroe Drive, and just happened to pause in front

of the slanted paste-up tables, I was well into my fourth month as
managing editor and publisher. Up to that point, the McClellands had
been in mourning and then traveling in England. We’d communicat-
ed mostly through lawyers and trust oﬃ

cers. I’d not only had a free

hand to publish what I liked, I was liking my new role very much. For
a while, it seemed as if my absentee owners might let me work with-
out interference forever. I was now discovering exactly how far their
tolerance extended.

Outlines’ newsroom, ad-sales department and darkroom lay just

beyond the cracked-open door to my private oﬃ

ce. As Pope and Mar-

Hot off the Presses

guerite spoke, Ibo Williams, the design man, and Bambi Fawne, the
receptionist, were unabashedly eavesdropping. I ﬁ gured they might
as well listen. Th

eir jobs were on the line, too. Anyhow, they’d know

what was up soon enough.

e front-page lead story for the next edition, my accompany-

ing editorial and the discussion with the McClellands all had to do
with a potentially explosive topic, the refusal of Atlanta Mayor Raw-
son Ramble to designate a representative to the joint City of Atlanta-
Fulton County HIV Health Services Planning Council. Membership
in the inter-governmental agency was required by Title I of the Ryan
White Comprehensive AIDS Resources Emergency Act of 1990. At
issue was a city-state request for supplemental funds for minority
outreach in ﬁ scal year 1996.

In the language of Atlanta politics in 1995, the word “minority”

had only one meaning: African-American. Phrases such as “Ryan
White funds for minority outreach” translated into one essentially
unacceptable scenario for Mayor Ramble: spending federal money to
keep young black men away from street drugs, shared needles and
the AIDS virus. Ramble wanted nothing to do with such programs.
To keep such outreach at arm’s length, he essentially forced the health
planning council to suspend operations.

Doing the reporting had been a personal revelation. In Mayor

Ramble’s administration, the phrase young African-American men
and the acronym AIDS were never used in the same press release.
Same tactic for young African-American men and street drugs. Raw-
son Ramble and his Ramblers (the self-conscious nickname adopted
by the mayor’s inner circle of advisers) appeared to view HIV and
AIDS as a disease restricted to airline stewards, geeky oﬃ

ce clerks,

sissy-boy white waiters and careless mixed-race prostitutes. In the
Ramblers’ estimation, the majority of victims of the American AIDS
epidemic—the thousands of men and women who contracted the vi-
rus and died from it—had either consciously chosen the homosexual
life, abused hard drugs forced upon them by the white patriarchy,
failed to attend church on a regular basis or some combination of all
three.

Atlanta blacks didn’t contract HIV, not according to the gos-

pel preached by Pastor Rawson Ramble at his Shining Light Baptist

Elliott Mackle

Church. Th

ey did not abuse drugs, share needles or even use needles

for anything other than prescribed medications. Nor did they indulge
in anal, oral or otherwise risky or kinky sexual behavior with each
other or with anyone else except their faithful wives and sweethearts.
According to Ramble’s thinking, Atlanta’s African-American men
under thirty were statistically not at risk of AIDS and not in need of
educating or saving.

Rawson Ramble’s young men were said to attend church on a reg-

ular basis. Th

ey voted—or, at least, somebody voted in their names.

eir churchgoing mothers also voted. And so did their female cous-

ins and their sisters and their aunts.

at’s how the story was playing out in the autumn of 1995, in so

far as it played at all. Th

e daily newspaper hadn’t mentioned the de-

lay in seeking supplemental outreach funds. Television news depart-
ments seldom touched such stories unless they’d ﬁ rst been reported
by the print media—preferably the supermarket tabloid media—or
unless a celebrity or an apartment ﬁ re was involved.

It was an Outlines story, my story, and I was sticking to it. I’d

done the reporting myself, nailed down estimates on what the deci-
sion might cost the city and county’s social service agencies and then
called City Hall.

“Yes, of course I called Mayor Ramble for a reaction,” I said. “I got

as far as a community-aﬀ airs doorkeeper named Ellen Inman. She
talked for an hour. But she just kept dancing away from what all my
sources were saying—that Ramble is a classic homophobe who con-
siders gay men beneath contempt, and that he thinks we’re the worst
kind of sinners and perverts.”

“Oh, Ellen,” Marguerite said, waving her hand as if brushing away

a mosquito. “Sweet girl. She did her Junior League volunteer work
with Big Sisters of Atlanta. I know she funded a teenage drug-abuse
program out of her own pocket. Never had any children of her own.
She raised a lot of money for Rawson when he was on the city council,
once he decided to run for mayor.”

Marguerite McClelland was a beautiful woman in the old South-

ern mold: oval face, high cheekbones, small eyes that miss nothing,
narrow, painted lips that don’t give much away.

Hot off the Presses

“When I pushed her on the big issue,” I said, “she didn’t even bother

to deny that his position is church-party line—that homosexuality is a
choice, one that decent young black people never willingly make.”

“Probably exactly what he does believe,” Pope put in. “We—some-

body—needs to set up an education session for our mayor. Can’t have
him or his people talking like that to reporters.”

“What he says to his people, his close associates and some of his

church members,” I continued, “is that AIDS is a deserved scourge
visited on gay white America by a loving but angry God. And he slices
it both ways. Men of color, he says, ought to quote-unquote ‘marry or
burn in Hell.’”

I was sounding like a pamphleteer, not a journalist. I took a

breath.

Marguerite leaned forward. “What does he say about the black

mothers in Africa who are being infected by their husbands? Or the
children of those families?”

Pope stood up, crossed to the window and looked out at the news-

room. “Or lesbians of every race and creed—a signiﬁ cant population
group that the disease has hardly touched? Except to turn them into
better nurses.”

e McClellands were good people. But they didn’t have a revolu-

tionary bone in their bodies.

“What we’re reporting,” I said, “is what Ms. Inman told me: Th

Ramble is not inclined to stick his neck out for a measly four hundred
and thirty thousand dollars in supplemental funds, especially when
the Fulton County Health Department will administer it. He sees no
beneﬁ t in it. Not when the host city of the Centennial Olympic Games
is already tapped into the federal government for half a billion dollars
in mass-transportation funds, police and security upgrades, national
guard assistance, educational housing and facilities funds, homeless-
removal programs, bus rental assistance, assorted roads-and-bridges
infrastructure grants, a livestock quarantine barn at Hartsﬁ eld Air-
port and a swimming pool for Georgia Tech.”

“Th

e Games aren’t until next summer,” Pope said, missing the

point at ﬁ rst. “Couldn’t the extra money beneﬁ t Atlanta in the mean-
time? Keep a lot of people—minority people, young black people—
from catching HIV before the Olympics start in July?”

Elliott Mackle

Marguerite touched her husband’s hand. “I’m sure the Reverend

Ramble cares deeply about minorities.” Her voice had turned dry as
corn shucks. “Did you see the USA Today story last month? ‘Th

e Min-

ister of Minorities,’ that’s what they called him. Th

e article said he has

national ambitions.”

“Did USA Today ask him about homosexual and bisexual minor-

ity males?” Pope interjected. “I mean, that’s what we’re talking about,
my dear.”

“And that’s where we come in,” I said, stating the obvious. “Out-

lines, I mean.”

“You did press Ellen about the, uh, urban development grant?”

Pope picked up the copy board. “Yes, ah, here, I see you did. Hmmm,
‘a modest 375,000 in federal urban development funds for minor-
ity participation in one-time, inner-city projects.’ Quite a mouthful.”
He returned the board to my desk. “Was Ellen willing to react to the
Chronicle’s exposé?”

e Atlanta Business Chronicle, white-collar Atlanta’s conserva-

tive lapdog, had happily revealed the details of a series of highly ques-
tionable deals at City Hall two weeks earlier. Th

e paper’s revelations

thereby sweetened the tone of discussions in lawyers’ oﬃ

ces and Re-

publican cocktail parties from Five Points to Marietta.

e urban development grant was widely viewed as Olympics-re-

lated largesse for the mayor’s political cronies. One well-placed source
cited by the Chronicle characterized it as essentially food stamps for
out-of-work entrepreneurs eager to set up beer and souvenir stands
outside Centennial Olympic Park, Olympic Stadium, the Georgia
Dome and other choice venues during the Games.

“Ms. Inman said she’d have to get back to me on that one,” I an-

swered.

“Tell her we asked you to call her again,” Marguerite said. “Use my

name.”

e McClellands presumably recognized Ramble’s graft-giving as

part of the cost of doing business in Atlanta. As members of the old
guard (Pope’s great-grandfather founded McClelland and Co., one of
Georgia’s leading brokerage ﬁ rms, in 1868), they knew how the city
operates. And sure, maybe Ramble was doing no more than city fa-

Hot off the Presses

thers always do: raiding pork barrels in the name of civic virtue and
necessary development.

But with the Olympics on the horizon, black leaders wanted larger

dips from bigger barrels. Once content with the spoils of prosperous
black churches, insurance companies and the segregated stores along
Auburn Avenue, they were now demanding, and getting, a signiﬁ cant
share of the river of riches that swirls through Atlanta every year. In
the post-Martin Luther King Jr. era, these included not only political
power and the spoils of the bureaucratic system but also reserved
seats on the political payoﬀ express: directorships, Super Bowl and
World Series box seats, airport concessions and minority-participa-
tion contracts involving neither participation nor investment. Th

ere

were also the Lincoln town cars with uniformed drivers, the insur-
ance deals underwritten by city bond issues, the do-nothing consul-
tation agreements for services not rendered. Once Atlanta won its
Olympic bid, the keen-eyed vultures and savvy money hawks began
casting ever wider glances at tempting targets. Temporary posses-
sion of city-controlled real estate near the most potentially proﬁ table
Olympic sites became political road kill of the tastiest kind.

When reporting my story, I’d called most of the likely sources in

Chip’s Rolodex ﬁ le. Some were willing to be quoted, others not, in-
cluding lawyers and public interest agitators, white and black opinion
makers, males and females, gays and straights, intowners and outsid-
ers. I’d used more time nailing down details than an editor ought to
do, but I was proud of the story. Hell, Ralph McGill did a lot of his
own reporting. And he’d edited Atlanta’s daily paper and won a Pulit-
zer Prize at the same time.

In my own reporting, from person to person and group to group,

the comments were sadly, remarkably consistent. Yes, they told me,
Ramble’s core voters and supporters are the ultra-conservative black
ministers, church members and missionary groups. And none of
those folks will discuss AIDS or homosexuality. No, they said, Ramble
is probably not as clean as former mayors Maynard Jackson or Sam
Massell. But so far he hasn’t been indicted or charged. Yes, he’s trying
to build support among black business interests. No, as far as anyone
knows, he’s never used the word “AIDS” in public nor has he ever,

Elliott Mackle

during his campaign for mayor or later, addressed a gay-and-lesbian
political group.

But that’s not to say the mayor didn’t voice opinions on the mat-

ter. One outraged (and closeted) Clark College professor told me that
Ramble, speaking before an organization called Th

e 100 Black Men of

Atlanta, warned the white owners of Midtown’s gay bars and restau-
rants that the city’s downtrodden Christian citizens would be justi-
ﬁ ed in razing the buildings in which depravity occurred, and sowing
the ground with salt, “as was done to Sodom and Gomorrah, those
perverted cesspools of sensuality that the Bible calls the Cities of the
Plain.”

Pope covered his mouth with his ﬁ ngers and shook his head. “Ben

Massell wouldn’t have stood for it,” he said, his voice low and sad,
remembering a civic leader who represented what must have seemed
like the last glory days of the downtown white establishment.

“Besides developing the Merchandise Mart,” Pope went on, “the

Massells owned or controlled half the real estate between Five Points
and Fifteenth Street. Ben Massell Jr. was gay, you know. And quite a
wheeler-dealer. Died very young. Heart attack, I think.” Pope paused,
removed his eyeglasses and rubbed his eyes with a white handker-
chief. I guess he was remembering his own dead boy, something of a
gay wheeler-dealer himself.

“Even if the Feds were dumping AIDS money out of airplanes,” I

answered, trying to get back on point, “a lot of people think Ramble
would choke himself on hundred dollar bills before he’d spend an
extra dime on gay-related causes. He’s a black Jerry Falwell or Pat
Robertson. A homo-hater. But nobody important will say so on the
record.”

“Th

us your headline,” Pope said. “I get the reference. But we can’t

speculate editorially that he’ll act exactly like those rascals—and use
gays and the AIDS crisis as whipping posts to froth up his followers.”

Marguerite laughed, the ﬁ rst time she’d done so. “To coin a phrase,

Poppy. I think you mean whipping boys.”

Pope glanced ﬁ rst at his wife and then at me. “You know what I

mean, my dear. And I’ll trust Henry to edit it for me.” When Margue-
rite laughed again, Pope leaned forward and placed the editorial-page
board on my desk, the headline facing me. As the white cuﬀ shot out

Hot off the Presses

of the sleeve of his jacket, I recognized the solid gold cuﬄ

inks he was

wearing. Th

ey were half an inch wide and the initials—HCMcC—un-

mistakable. Th

ey were Chad’s cuﬄ

inks, not Pope’s. I’d seen them a

dozen times. Chip Smith owned a matching pair, initialed CJS. Both
sets were eighteen-carat gold, ordered from Bailey Banks & Biddle,
the couple’s anniversary gifts to each other the previous year. Maybe
they served as wedding-ring substitutes. Seeing them on Pope’s arm,
I wondered where the CJS links had ended up—whether Chip had a
father or brother who wore them now, or a best buddy back home.

“Mayor Ramble called us about this situation yesterday.” Pope

withdrew his hands to make the cuﬄ

inks to disappear. “He assures

me, and I certainly didn’t pressure him, that he cares deeply about
AIDS. He said he’s planning to personally visit the AIDS ward at
Grady Hospital just as soon as he can get it scheduled. And he’s go-
ing to sign a proclamation about St. John’s House, the AIDS shelter,
and look into what he can do about sending extra visiting nurses over
there.”

My gut went cold. Th

ere was no doubt in my mind where this

plan of action came from, and why it was happening now. Ellen In-
man must have known Piedmont Driving Club members Pope and
Marguerite McClelland all her life. It probably hadn’t taken her ﬁ ve
minutes to check on the ownership of Outlines, and to suggest which
civic strings should be pulled and which sores bandaged.

Don’t get me wrong. I had no illusions that my little editorial

package would bring down the Ramble administration, or cause even
a single city-council vote to change. But what it might do—what I
hoped it would do—was start a local debate about gay men, black
men and the AIDS virus that had seldom been voiced.

“He’s a politician,” I countered. “He’ll say anything, do anything,

whatever it takes to keep his job.”

“Th

e mayor was elected by a signiﬁ cant majority. And, frankly,

isn’t funding for Afro-American AIDS outreach more a matter for his
side of the fence than ours?”

Pope’s inherited racism, however veiled, probably ran as deep

as my do-gooder need to ﬁ x problems and right wrongs. My mouth
went dry. I wanted to yell, rage, explode somehow. Chad and Chip’s
philosophy for the paper was one of inclusion, not Old Atlanta’s kind

Elliott Mackle

of polite, voluntary social separation that’s basically segregation
brought up to date.

“Not for men who love men.” I heard the unsteady crack in my

voice. “Not if Ramble limits funding. Because that will almost guar-
antee killing more African-American men.”

Marguerite stood up, glanced at the photograph of me and four

other unclothed Body Magic brothers marching across the Califor-
nia mountaintop clearing. She spoke sharply. “Th

ere aren’t but a few

gay black men in Atlanta; that’s what Rawson says. He must be mis-
taken. But, Henry, you don’t cite any ﬁ gures that prove him wrong.
And Rawson does claim that the situation is well in hand, that he has
an agency already working on it.” She looked ﬁ rst at me, then at Pope,
as if he and I had both been ignoring her. “Now, I think a lot of what
Rawson says is horse puckies. I think he’s probably a bigger hypocrite
and homo-hater than Falwell, much less our own Charles Stanley, the
wife-beating, money-mad reverend who leads the Atlanta First Bap-
tist Church. But I still say Rawson’s right in one thing—one big thing.
With the Olympics on the horizon, and the need for thousands of
volunteers to run the Games, he can’t risk letting the city become
divided over minor issues, with people taking sides on all sorts of
things. We all have to work together until next August. Whatever our
long term strategy for change.”

My shoulder muscles felt like stretched rubber bands. I began

rolling them inside my shirt, trying to cut the tension. “So we just let
all those unlucky fags stuck in the housing projects go on dying until
August ﬁ fth? Is that it, Marguerite—until the Games are over and
NBC leaves town? “

“Henry,” Pope said. “We know how strongly you feel about his.

And rightly so. We’re not saying don’t run the story. But let me be
frank. You weren’t born here. You came to us from, where is it—Ten-
nessee by way of Miami?”

“Jacksonville,” I said. “Th

e Times-Union. And Gainesville, Geor-

gia.”

He nodded, accepting the correction. “Th

e Olympics will be the

biggest thing to happen in Atlanta since the opening of Gone with the
Wind. Th

e whole world is coming this time, not just Clark Gable and

Olivia de Havilland.”

Hot off the Presses

“We won’t have our son’s paper looking like General Sherman.”

Marguerite turned toward Pope. As she moved, I became aware of the
subtle aroma she gave oﬀ , a blend of Shalimar and Scotch whisky.

“Chad would have signed oﬀ on this package in a heartbeat,” I shot

back.

“We shall not discuss,” Pope said, his voice steely, “what our son

might or might not have done. My wife and, for that matter, I—” His
voice went momentarily mushy. “We just won’t. Not now.”

Marguerite moved toward her husband. “Poppy? Are you?”
Rising, he brushed her hand aside. After a pause, he took it. “Let’s

hold oﬀ running this story a week or two, Henry. Maybe it can be
made a bit more balanced. You can do a little extra research. Come up
with numbers. Give the mayor a chance to explain his side.”

“He had his chance.” I was silenced, at least temporarily, but un-

willing to quit. “Th

at’s why I called Ms. Inman. Her job is to brief the

press on the mayor’s point of view.”

Pope McClelland was already moving toward the door. “I’m sure

you have some other ﬁ ne story you can run in place of this one. Some-
thing not so potentially controversial? Just until we get things sorted
out, settled?”

Stung, I thought but didn’t say, Just until I can ﬁ nd another job

or else round up a group of investors willing to buy you rich, straight,
inbred cowards out.

What I said instead was: “We have a printer’s deadline of eight

tomorrow morning in Birmingham. Th

e boards have to be FedExed

overnight.”

“Call them long distance,” Pope answered. “Tell them to charge us

a late fee if they have to. What other story can you run?”

I thought fast. “We have a school board piece slotted for a couple

of weeks down the line. It needs a lot of work. It’s by Bambi Fawne,
our freelance art critic. He’s also the receptionist out front. Th

e city

of Atlanta wants to cut arts education.”

“Sounds promising,” Pope said.
Promising was all that could be said. Bambi was a Georgia State

University dropout, not a trained reporter. To be remotely publish-
able, his piece needed a dozen phone calls, a point of view and a com-
plete rewrite.

Elliott Mackle

“It could deﬁ nitely be controversial. Th

e Atlanta City school board

chair proposes to eliminate all art and drama teachers in the system’s
middle schools. Th

at will leave just the two magnet high schools, sys-

tem-wide, with any sort of arts programs beyond singing the ‘Star
Spangled Banner’ and ‘We Shall Overcome.’ Gay educators think it
will have a ruinous eﬀ ect on artistic sissy boys, the gay hip-hop and
R&B movements, baby-dyke actresses, sensitive straight boys who
might become architects or commercial artists, you name it.”

“Much more our kind of thing.” Pope slapped the doorframe to

signal a done deal.

“Th

e Ramble administration is behind it,” I said, meaning to sound

a warning. “Ramble or one of his thugs may even have thought it up,
as a money saver.”

“Well,” Marguerite said, “the paper absolutely must stand up for

arts and culture. Arts education is a good thing.”

“Good thing,” Pope echoed. “Need more of it.”
My warning clearly had not registered.
“Oh, and Henry, dear,” Marguerite said, preparing to follow her

husband out the door. “We really do love what you’re doing with the
paper. Th

e story on the lesbian mother, the one whose husband wants

to take her crippled son away? And the one about the little girl who
wants to play football? Th

ose were just what people need to know

about. Our friends have said so many nice things about both those
stories.”

Pope paused outside the door, waiting for his wife. “We read every

word, every week,” he called back. “You’re really good, son. Very pro-
fessional. I don’t think we’ve made it plain how much we appreciate
what you’re doing here—keeping on with what Chad intended.”

“Oh, but that reminds me, Poppy. Just one other little point I com-

pletely forgot to mention?” Reaching into her capacious black leather
handbag, Marguerite drew out the previous week’s second feature
page and spread it out in front of me. Th

ree buﬀ models wearing wet

bathing suits dominated the layout. Marguerite pointed to one of
them.

“I suppose I’m just an old prude,” she said. “But you can see this

young man’s pee-pee under his bathing suit.”

She really did say “pee-pee.” I kid you not.

Hot off the Presses

“Pictures like these sell bathing suits,” I said without thinking.

“Th

e photos were part of a promotional package supplied by Speedo.

ey came through one of our advertisers, a shop called Th

e Boy Next

Door. Skimpy bathing suits also sell papers.”

“Some readers might object,” Marguerite added. “Women—lesbi-

ans, people with little children.”

“We give our papers away,” Pope said. “And we want people to

want them. Th

ere’s plenty of skin magazines they can buy.”

“I’ll certainly keep it in mind.” I rose to my feet. “No more gratu-

itous pee-pees.”

As Marguerite passed him at the door, Pope leaned back inside

and barked one last, sotto-voce command. “No breasts, either. Let’s
just keep it clean, son.”

CHAPTER 2

RABBLE ROUSING

ucking fuckers!” I crumpled the oﬀ ending clip into a ball and
hurled it at the recycle bin. It bounced oﬀ the rim and skittered
across the ﬂ oor.

No titties, I thought. No pee-pees. No political investigations. So

much for groundbreaking gay journalism.

I picked up the spiked editorial, ripped the board in half and threw

it after the clipping. Th

is time I scored my two points.

e anger and frustration didn’t go away. Trying to ground my-

self, I took three deep breaths. Th

en three more, breathing slower,

pulling the air down into my gut. Th

e hot band gripping my shoulders

and chest seemed to tighten with each breath. I stretched my arms
up, down, behind me—opening my spine and lungs—and then swung
my arms in fast circles. My shoulders felt stiﬀ er than ever. I needed
a workout and a massage. But those would have to wait. I stepped to
the door and leaned out.

“Bambi,” I called, looking around and seeing nobody. “You want to

come in here please?”

Bambi Fawne—AKA Bernard David Whipple III, the latest in a

line of wannabe-journalist receptionists—didn’t answer. He was hun-
kered down in a modiﬁ ed lotus position on the ﬂ oor next to his desk.
His eyes were closed and his palms were crossed over bare legs, brass
ankle bracelet and woolen Argyle socks. Th

e white T-shirt stretched

Elliott Mackle

across his narrow chest was standard Bambi humor: “Bone’s Steak
House, Nobody Beats Our Meat.”

“I’m meditating,” he answered. “I heard y’all talking about me. It

didn’t feel good. And Daddy McClelland didn’t pay me no mind when
he came out. Just walked right past. Like I was some kind of house
plant.”

“He has a lot going on,” I said. “And we were saying things you’ll

like. Like maybe we can publish your piece on arts education this
week.”

“I sent them a sympathy card about Chad,” Bambi whined, pay-

ing no attention. “My inner girly-boy feelings get hurt so easy. Th

at’s

’cause I want all my big daddies to ’preciate me.”

ough Bambi had grown up in Atlanta’s Gwinnett County sub-

urbs, his parents were Appalachian mountain stock. He’d inherited a
nasal twang, a faint Elizabethan lilt and a victim’s point of view. He
had milky skin, dishwater blue eyes, Clorox-colored hair and a frame
like a rope.

e phone rang. Bambi uncoiled his body and reached out a thin

arm. He was short—a couple of inches shorter than I am, which is
ﬁ ve-eight on a good day—and probably weighed around one-ten to
my one-forty-two.

“Outlines, your Southern partner in life, politics and sport, this is

Bambi Fawne, and I’m mistress of ﬁ rst impressions, how may I direct
your call please?”

He said it all in one breath: whoosh.
“Girl,” shouted Ibo Williams, our art director, who was working

behind his drawing board in the far corner of the newsroom. “Where
you be getting that script? What if that be the MacArthur Genius
Grant committee calling me up? Henry, you got to fuss at him.”

“Shhh! It’s your husband, Miss Ibo.” Bambi waved the receiver.

“Shall I tell him you’re over at Piedmont Park peddling your ass to the
lowest bidder?”

Ibo threw a gum eraser at him. “Just hit the transfer button, child,

and send me that call. Th

en go peddle your lazy redneck butt into the

man’s oﬃ

ce like he asked you.”

Hot off the Presses

“Uncle Tom will be with you shortly,” Bambi said into the phone

before switching the call. “Soon as he gets his tongue unstuck from
Henry’s brogans.”

Despite brains, artistic talent and a pair of academic degrees, Ibo

often talked like a boy from the projects. Pope had asked about it the
previous week.

“Doesn’t he have the same kind of education you do? From Ath-

ens?”

“He just be funning with Mr. Charlie.” I threw Pope a smiley face.

“It be A-town irony from a homeboy with a M. of A. from the U.G.A.”
I dropped the smile. “He does it to me all the time.”

“You don’t mind?”
“At ﬁ rst, I thought it was just a pose. But now that I understand his

anger, it makes a certain kind of sense.”

“Not to me, son.”
“All these good-family black guys that Ibo went to school with

at Morehouse. Th

ey could have taken over from Dr. King, Bayard

Rustin, John Lewis and Julian Bond. Kept the revolution going, built
something. Instead, they’re working for Coke, driving Beemers and
building starter mansions.”

Pope ﬂ inched. “Th

e men you mention are all heterosexual. Were.”

“No, sir. At least one of the four was as gay as I am. But deep-

ly closeted. Anyhow, as a layout artist, editorial cartoonist and all-
around street ﬁ ghter, Ibo’s tops. He’s a good man, I care about him,
and I try to work around his sadness and anger.”

While Ibo dealt with his partner on the phone, I printed out a

copy of Bambi’s story and led the ﬂ edgling journalist into my oﬃ

ce.

We went over the piece line by line, beginning with the misspelled
lead sentence—“Mayor Rustin Ramboll and School Board queen So-
phia Watson are bad-ass Nigroes who hates queers”—and eventually
reached the unattributed ﬁ nal summation that “Downtown City Hall
and School Boards are ‘completely ﬁ lled’ with homophobic oﬃ

cials

who are today and ever after refusing to come to the aide of white and
black and other queer art pupils and music seekers.”

After an initial, thirty-minute pass at ﬁ xing the copy on the Mac,

Bambi sent it back to me. Th

ough the piece remained wordy, repetitive

and full of misspellings, he’d at least made it coherent in the tradition-

Elliott Mackle

al who-what-where-when-why style. Laying on praise for his eﬀ ort, I
sent him back to his desk and worked on it myself, cutting ﬁ ve or six
paragraphs and redrafting remnants that could be salvaged. Bambi,
meanwhile, made further calls and rechecked quotes and ﬁ gures. We
ended up with a ﬁ fteen-inch news story that was tight enough to hold
to the front page, without a jump inside.

Condensed and organized, the piece didn’t look too bad. Our

message was simple, and aimed squarely at free-spending, arts-sup-
porting gay men and women. We started by reporting that in a so-far-
unpublicized memo to Mayor Ramble, the school board chairwoman
(whose husband just happened to be an out-of-work entrepreneur
and Ramble supporter) had requested supplemental administra-
tive funds for ﬁ lling essential personnel slots. She argued that that
the system’s dire ﬁ nancial straits were entirely due to the previous
administration’s liberal spending policies in its expensive arts-in-all-
schools program. Th

e situation required a quick ﬁ x, the chairwoman

pleaded, before the eyes of the world turned to Atlanta and the Sum-
mer Games.

e memo had been leaked by a bureaucratic mole—a close friend

of Ibo Williams who just happened to work for the school board.

At ﬁ rst, the mayor was unmoved by the chairwoman’s argument

and thus unwilling to provide supplemental funds to pay on-board
consultants in leisure services (four) and public-assistance econom-
ics (two). Th

en one of Ramble’s advisers (unnamed) came up with a

tight money solution. Since the consultants were already hired, the
only other way out of the dilemma was to temporarily furlough non-
essential staﬀ —not system administrators, of course, but either high
school football and basketball assistant coaches or else middle-school
art teachers. Let the school board choose, he said. Th

is suggestion

was forwarded to the chairwoman by Ramble’s chief of staﬀ .

We’d been told, oﬀ the record, that the complaisant school board

was prepared to cave in from day one. Given the overwhelming popu-
larity of team sports in Atlanta, not to mention the mayor’s power
of the purse in various related matters, board members had already
assured each other that they had no choice but to dump arts educa-
tion.

Hot off the Presses

Ramble was no fool. “Chop the Birkenstocks,” he’d said in the pri-

vacy of the chairwoman’s oﬃ

ce. “Nip all that free-expression crap in

the bud, just like they do up in Cincinnati. We don’t be having no
Maple Th

orpe pissing all over Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ down

here. You know what I mean?”

Ibo’s mole-friend just happened to be sitting right outside the

board chair’s door, ballpoint in hand. And he deﬁ nitely knew what
Ramble meant.

Outlines warned its readers of an outcome worse than bad art:

that artsy, sensitive kids, many of them queer or culturally broad-
minded, would again be sacriﬁ ced on the mainstream altar of school-
boy athletics. Our message was clear: Racial and social tensions in the
public schools would increase. Trouble could result.

We quoted a parent, the single mother of twelve-year-old a tap

dancer, who put the problem succinctly: “City Hall, they don’t care
about nothing but jockstraps and high tops.”

“Front page story that runs over the fold,” I said to Bambi as I

typed in the codes for his byline. “You’re moving fast, Mr. Ralph Mc-
Gill the Fourth.”

“Miss who?”
Atlanta’s editorial heroes were clearly not Bambi’s strong suit. “By

Bambi Fawne,” he said, leaning over my shoulder. “With an ‘I’ and an
‘E,’ that’s right.”

Bambi suggested “Queer for Culture” as a headline. When I point-

ed out that this was a news story, not a feature, and that we didn’t have
a lot of time before the FedEx driver arrived, he gave me a wounded
look and replied that I didn’t respect his radical fairy-derived lan-
guage.

When I reminded him that I’d attended the Faerie Spirit confer-

ence in North Carolina two years running, and understood his alle-
giance to the separatist movement that aﬃ

rms gayness as a religious

calling, he replied, “Well, let’s gather the staﬀ then. We’ll have a heart
circle to decide about my headline.”

I vetoed the heart-to-hearts meeting by oﬀ ering an audaciously

raunchy alternative, “Jock Itch hits City Hall.” Th

is caused Bambi to

gag theatrically and cover his mouth. We split the diﬀ erence, settling
on “Mayor’s Cultural Jock Itch Infects School Board.”

Elliott Mackle

In retrospect, I see that this catchy headline was simply another

red ﬂ ag to bullish Pope McClelland. I do have a weakness for tabloid-
style heds.

In the adjacent newsroom, Ibo completed an accompanying car-

toon with little fuss. Once I’d outlined the story, he created a witty
drawing in which Mayor “Rabble” kicks brushes, palettes, musical
instruments and ballet slippers through a set of goalposts. Shaping
the art to ﬁ t the space vacated by my spiked homo-hater editorial, he
signed the cartoon with a ﬂ ourish, scanned it for the printer, pasted
up new copy boards and had the package proofed, wrapped and ready
to go in a little over an hour.

e lanky, balding, six-foot-four Ibo had preceded me through

grad school in Athens by three years. He was a graduate of an Atlanta
City magnet school himself followed by an honors degree at More-
house, the undergraduate college of choice for Atlanta’s black elite
males. Ibo was smart, talented and quiet—unlike most of the nation’s
editorial cartoonists who chat up every warm body in the newsroom,
trying out snappy lines by mouth and ear rather than on paper.

“Boss,” Ibo said, as we waited for the FedEx driver. “You know I

couldn’t help but hear what Chad’s parents were saying. Th

ey didn’t

give you much wiggle room, did they?”

I asked if he thought I’d mounted a decent defense. He said he’d

once heard Marguerite Pope lecture her son about the impropriety
of a detailed report on unsafe sex in Atlanta bathhouses, and that I’d
stuck up for the paper better than Chad had.

After a pause, he added that the only time he’d gotten antsy that

afternoon was when Marguerite complained about the visible penis
in the Speedo layout.

“Because, boss, we got a pee-pee coming up this week that’s gonna

have the old lady reaching for her smelling salts.”

After the briefest pit-of-my-stomach gulps, I batted the ball back

into his court. “Bigger than a beer can?” I said. “Smaller than a shoe
box?”

“Th

ink big,” Ibo laughed, holding his hands apart like an enthusi-

astic ﬁ sherman. “It’s a full-page color ad for Coors Beer, inside front
cover. We got two guys and one Harley cycle, with the guys admiring

Hot off the Presses

a view on what looks like the Big Sur. Th

e bigger guy looks like he

packed his dinner inside the front of his 501’s.”

“His buddy’s dinner, more likely,” I said. “And it sticks out, huh? Is

he cut or natural?”

“Can’t tell. Not inside those starchy new Levis he be’s wearing. It

could go either way. He dresses left, though.”

“And we can’t get the board back?”
“I sent those color boards oﬀ last Friday.”
“Well, it’s pee-pees under the dam, then. If she asks, I’ll have to tell

her that young Mr. Coors is just excited to see the Paciﬁ c Ocean.”

“Th

ey ask me,” Ibo joked back, “I say he be wearing a ten-gallon

hat down there.”

e outside door ﬂ ew open. Th

e FedEx man rushed in. “You guys

better be ready,” he called. “I’m running seven minutes late.”

“We be’s ready for whatever you think you can handle,” Ibo said.
“Th

ey ever give me a day oﬀ ,” the driver said, “I might take you

gents up on that. Show you what a real man can deliver.”

“Promises, promises,” I answered.
“Next week for sure,” the FedEx driver said, turning toward the

door, package in hand.

“Dream on,” Ibo called after him. Th

e outer door slammed.

“I’m headed over to the club,” I said. “I’ve got a ton of anger and

hostility built up. I need to sweat some of it out. Can you watch things
here?”

“No problem. Hope you see something you like in the steam

room.”

CHAPTER 3

STEAM HEAT

he black man seated across from me was bent over at the waist,
staring vacantly at the gray-tiled ﬂ oor of the Midtown Men’s
Club’s steam room. His hands were lightly cupped on his geni-

tals. He had a sexy shadow beard, buzzed head, solid shoulders, long
hairless legs and skin the color of a Compaq laptop. His pumped-up
arms and neck were beaded with drops of shiny sweat and conden-
sation. Drops became rivulets, rivulets formed small reservoirs and
the reservoirs expanded into sheets of wetness before the man ﬁ nally
glanced in my direction and began to scrape himself down with the
palms of his hands. Wiping his face with a towel, he dropped it on
the built-in tiled bench. Running his hands up the inside of his thighs
from knees to crotch, he groped himself nervously, stretching his half-
hard donkey in my direction and scratching the hidden area behind
his shaved balls. His eyes were wide open but he’d turned his scowl-
ing face down and to the side, as if inspecting the discarded towel and
ﬁ nding it somehow unsatisfactory. When he slowly looked up again,
staring, the scowl gone, I nodded and put my hand on my own cock.

He was a partner at Kickum & Wynn, one of the city’s big ﬁ rms.

We’d met a couple of times at club functions but I couldn’t think of his
name. Not that it mattered. Two horny guys in a steam room in At-
lanta don’t need names. All that’s required is ﬁ ve or ten uninterrupted
minutes and a working knowledge of the signals involved.

Elliott Mackle

We both knew the code. A hand or hands on one’s genitals means

“I’m cool to whatever,” even if that translates simply to watching or
ignoring other men’s carryings-on in a steam room, shower or sauna.
Gentle pulling, scratching and rearrangement of parts indicates an
interest in, or at least acquiescence to, participation in some kind of
erotic play. Mirroring signals the inclination to proceed further with
an exploration of the suggested possibilities.

Just as a theater’s curtain rises at the beginning of an act, towels

are removed when playtime begins. Most men keep them handy for
quick coverage in case of intruders. Th

ey’re also useful for mopping

up later, of course.

When three or more men are gathered together, the complete, if

informal, consent of the group is considered not only safe but courte-
ous. A man who keeps his towel securely wrapped around his waist;
who crosses an ankle over a knee blocking the view of his genitals, or
who folds his arms and otherwise keeps his hands oﬀ his pride and
joy is consciously or unconsciously signaling an unwillingness to join
the fun. Consideration of such a man’s feelings demands that other
cocks be neither repeatedly waved nor aggressively pulled until his
departure—hopefully soon—from the steamy hot box.

Kissing was uncommon in 1995, though not unknown. Anal inter-

course was rare. Th

ere was seldom much loose talk. One man might

invite another to sit beside him with a cupped hand or a word. But
personal space was preserved. No matter how erect or enthusiasti-
cally pumped a potential partner’s pole might be, men didn’t handle
each others’ cocks without ﬁ rst touching the other man’s leg, chest
or—gently and respectfully—balls. A nod or welcoming hand in re-
turn was suﬃ

cient to ignite a consuming, if short-lived, conﬂ agra-

tion.

Most club members, of course were comfortably heterosexual

and not inclined to experimentation. Nobody forced a man to do
something he didn’t want to do. Th

at said, Midtown’s membership

consisted of men well versed in the gentlemanly ways in which a team-
obsessed town operates. No matter what the venue, Atlanta operates
on consensus. Everybody beneﬁ ts in the end. Th

at’s the Atlanta Way.

e lawyer-dude and I reached our consensus fast, and got down

to business. For perhaps ﬁ ve minutes, we operated in perfect agree-

Hot off the Presses

ment. First we played hand mirror, just to heat each other up. After
the show-and-tell, he decided to take a closer look, so he shifted seats,
moving to the ledge next to me. After ﬁ rst bumping and then pressing
knees, we hand-smoothed each others’ shoulders, backs and chests.
His body hair was black and wiry, mine tan and soft.

I put my head on his shoulder and my hand on his fully risen

outcrop. When I began teasing the eggplant-colored head using a cir-
cular, ﬁ ngertip stroke, he began pulling my cock much harder and
rougher than I like.

“Let me show you something, man,” I whispered, inviting him to

rise and stand between my legs. Once on his feet, he took a confused
step backward, then righted himself and moved in close. His pointer
was pointed right at my sweaty chest. When I raised my hands to
handle him, his parts ﬁ t right in.

He was circumcised and producing a lot of slick wetness, so he

was easy to work on. After prodding his knees and feet further apart
to steady him, I held his piece level and started playing Nippy Mouse
with the tips of my ﬁ ngers. When I began pinching the loose skin of
his scrotum and then the area where his pubic hair was thickest, he
began scowling and taking short breaths.

Next, making rings of my thumb and ﬁ ngers, I slipped ﬁ rst one

and then the next and then the ﬁ rst ring and then the next ring
over the tip of his cock, continuing slowly back to the base of the
shaft, squeezing lightly as I went. Full-body masseurs call this ﬁ sting
stroke the bottomless hole. Because regular up-and-down pumping
can bring a horny man oﬀ faster than a vibrator applied to a teenage
punk, the bottomless hole oﬀ ers nearly the same sensation with a lot
less ejaculatory risk.

My man was ready to risk everything, however. His eyes were

closed, his hips lightly humping my hands and his breath was be-
ginning to go ragged. I’d heard him mutter “Suck, suck me, man,” a
couple of times. But that kind of sex wasn’t safe, and I wasn’t going
there.

Instead, I redoubled my eﬀ orts, smoothing his stomach, hips and

ass with my wet left hand while pistoning his jutting rut with my right.
I’d just slipped my left hand behind his rising scrotum, intending both

Elliott Mackle

to support and tease the contents as the crisis came, when the steam
room’s metal-and-glass door swung open.

“Watch it,” I said, dropping his cock and pulling a towel over my

crotch.

e black man didn’t seem to hear me at ﬁ rst. His hips kept mov-

ing, fucking the humid air. “Ugh. Go ahead and suck me, man,” he
whispered again. “Suck.”

A tall white man with gray sideburns and a modest belly looked in,

surveyed the scene and smiled as if remembering a good joke. He had
a square, jowly, football-playing face, like Harrison Ford, only older.
Stepping through the doorway, he pulled the door shut, unhitched
the towel from his waist, sank down on the tile shelf by my side and
brushed my knee with his.

Recovering quickly, the black man moved away, arranging his

towel over his unruly rack. But if he hoped to suggest uninvolvement
in, or lack of responsibility for, the hanky-panky just interrupted, his
gestures were fruitless. My quick cover-up could be set down to mod-
esty. But the other man’s anxious cock was too hard to ignore.

e older guy leaned back, nudged my elbow and gently cupped

his privates. Th

ough I didn’t know his name either, I was pretty sure

he was a friend and contemporary of Pope McClelland. I wondered if
he was a regular reader of Outlines. He looked more like a subscriber
to the Wall Street Journal and National Review.

He turned sideways to face me. When I nodded, he began to touch

me gently. One of his big hands smoothed my chest and stomach,
pulled and tweaked my nipples, rubbed moisture around my navel
and brushed the underside of my balls. At ﬁ rst, he didn’t touch my
resurrected uprising. His other hand moved behind me, giving my
spine a ﬁ ngertip rub, with occasional explorations farther south.

e African-American man had seated himself across from us,

and watched every move the older man made on me. Now doubly
aroused, I drank in the attention, breathing deeply and exhaling with
an “ah” sound. It’s a technique I learned through Body Magic safe-
sex training: breath work that circulates energy and delays ejaculation
and hyperventilation.

My eyes were closed. I felt the big man shift his weight. His back-

side hand left me. His other hand took hold of the base of my cock,

Hot off the Presses

as if holding a golf club. Th

en he leaned over and began licking and

sucking the head, slurping, bobbing up and down on me.

I felt as if I was being sucked inside out. I liked it—loved it, almost

surrendered to it—and yet feared and despised it. By 1995, the virus
had killed my lover and many of my friends. HIV, like mosquitoes
ﬂ ying through a tattered window screen, had slipped into too many
men’s bloodstreams. What if the man making love to me was HIV-
positive or even had a full-blown case? What if he had open sores
in his mouth—and accidentally bit down on my penis? Some men
thought—hoped—that safety lay in withdrawal before ejaculation.
But what if, despite tepid medical assurances and suppositions, HIV
could be carried in saliva and pre-ejaculatory ﬂ uids? Who knew?

You can imagine the drill most of us went through time after

time—ﬁ guring the odds, looking for symptoms and knowing that oral
sex was comparatively, but far from completely, safe.

Opening my eyes, I glanced down. A bald spot had formed on the

crown of the older man’s sweating scalp. He looked healthy enough.
Th

e bald spot was tanned, the skin tight and free of blemishes. Th

man’s enthusiastic slurps were growing louder. He was kneeling in
front of me. Th

e young black man was standing behind him, his hands

pulling on his nipples. His cock, hugely erect, looked as if carved from
black ivory.

Leaning forward, I put my hands on the older guy’s shoulders

and pushed him gently away. “Oh, man,” I whispered. “Stop. It isn’t
safe. But that’s so wonderful. Th

ank you.” I patted his shoulder again.

“Whew.”

He looked at me hard, as if I was some crazy kid who didn’t know

good sex from bad. Rising to his feet, he aligned his leftward-point-
ing sharpshooter with my face. I wasn’t going there either. When he
hunched closer, I spit on my hands and began to masturbate his un-
cut piece.

He wasn’t buying that. Th

e black man was now hunkered on one

knee, positioned almost between us. Turning slightly, the older man
speared the waiting mouth, plunged and said, “Ahhh.”

It took him no time to ﬁ nish. “God damn,” he said through gritted

teeth. “God damn, God damn fuck. Yeah, fuck! I need, I need. Yeah.

Elliott Mackle

Do that. Yeah. Th

at’s, yeah. Oh Christ, oh yeah.” His slightly wrinkled

ass writhed and twitched in my face as he unloaded.

Before the white man’s ass had ceased its rhythmic contractions,

the black man retreated to the far side of the steamed-up room.
Touching his chest and working his mouth, as if either disgusted or
hurt, he quickly arranged himself on the shelf, his legs spread in a V,
his angry eyes wide open, as the older man followed.

e white man bent down and took his partner reciprocally. Th

younger man began to purr and snarl. His buzzed head snapped back
and forth against the tiled wall.

e snarling man’s legs stretched out toward me. He hunched his

shoulders ﬂ at against the tiles. “Won’t take long. Get…it…out. Ah,
ugh.”

Rigid, and with the larger man writhing on top of him, the black

man resembled a wounded panther brought down by an oversize lion.
“Ugh, it’s coming…out…ugh, uuugh!” Th

e look on his face combined

dismay, embarrassment at his own need and disgust, ugly and pain-
ful. Pleasure didn’t seem to ﬁ gure in the mask.

ough I’d seen enough, courtesy dictated that I remain quiet un-

til the encounter was complete. No disturbances allowed while ejacu-
lation was in progress.

I shut my eyes, drew a breath and reached between my legs. My

penis had not only shriveled, it had run for cover inside my groin.

Get the fuck out of here. You need an erotic massage from some-

body who knows how to give one. Not this amateur shit. Go get a show-
er. Th

en call Skip.

When I looked up, the white man was gone and the seated black

man had slumped forward. His ankles were locked together beneath
him. His face was buried in his hands. Th

e soggy towel lay discarded

on the ﬂ oor. He was shaking his head from side to side and either sob-
bing or grabbing exhausted breaths. He now even more resembled
some carnivorous animal’s unhappy supper, a dying but still conscious
victim who at last, if momentarily, realizes his mistake in straying so
far from the safety of the herd.

“Take care,” I said as I pulled open the door. He waved but didn’t

answer.

CHAPTER 4

KRISPY KREMES

ody Magic changed my life, maybe saved it, and certainly helped
me ﬁ nd my calling as a gay journalist. A men’s movement found-
ed by an ex-Jesuit in the Nineteen-Eighties, Body Magic involves

ritual, transformative therapy, brotherly love, head-to-toe massage
and Tantric, usually non-ejaculatory group sex. Sessions combine
rhythmic breathing, music or drumming and vigorous genital mas-
sage that elevates and concentrates erotic energy. Formal massage
rituals culminate in a clench-and-release movement called the Big
Draw. During and after a Draw, the resulting joy and sexual excite-
ment can be focused on changes the brother wishes to make or ques-
tions and situations he wishes to explore.

Along the path of enlightenment, of course, Body Magic brothers

often get together for less strenuous therapy, including ecstatic play
sessions.

When I dialed Brother Skip’s massage studio from the locker

room, the machine picked up. After a short series of electronic hic-
cups, Skip’s boyish, slightly breathless tenor came on.

“You have entered Nirvana Whole Body Systems,” the tape began,

“Atlanta’s one-stop oasis for certiﬁ ed Swedish, Shiatsu, Holistic and
Tantric massage. We also specialize in Accu-pressure treatments,
Finnish exfoliating scrubs, Balinese herbal balancing, immune system
enhancement and deep pressure therapy beneﬁ ting the scalp, lungs
and circulation.”

Elliott Mackle

Skip’s South Georgia accent and sweet, innocent-sounding deliv-

ery reminded me of Bill Clinton romancing a room full of Connie
Chungs.

“In our convenient Midtown studios,” Skip’s taped voice contin-

ued, “we feature private spa facilities, Golden-Glo tanning beds and
Sonoma-style pneumatic baths. We are fully licensed, we accept ma-
jor credit cards and we are able to oﬀ er selected treatments in your
home, hotel suite or oﬃ

ce by appointment only.”

Lively music chirped in the background, ﬁ lling the spaces between

Skip’s words. Th

e tune, an Ennio Morricone sequence lifted from the

soundtrack of “Th

e Mission,” reminded me of Gregorian Chant sung

by Japanese schoolboys—“Grroria, grroria, ah, ah, ah.” During the
Nineteen-Nineties, several California-trained masseurs began using
the track as a mood-changer.

Although Skip’s description seemed to imply a wellness center

staﬀ ed by countless experts, Skip himself was sole proprietor, princi-
pal masseur and therapist. At busy times, he drafted massage-school
colleagues to ﬁ ll in.

Unless Skip picked up when I began answering back to his irritat-

ing tape, I usually broke the connection and called again later. Au-
tomated response machines are technology’s cockroaches—an ugly,
fast-moving breed that’s impossible to wipe out or discourage. Skip
was a close friend, a regular sexual playmate and one of the other
naked men in the photo on my oﬃ

ce wall. I’d urged him to add a by-

pass prompt for buddies and regular customers. Or else to invest in a
second line. So far, he’d done neither.

“Nirvana is directed by Skip Roberts,” the tape concluded, “a fully

licensed graduate of the Walt Whitman School of Massage in Oak-
land, California, and of the Atlanta School of Massage. For a com-
plete description of the treatments oﬀ ered at Nirvana Whole Body
Systems, press one.”

I held the phone away from my ear. Th

e message was winding

down. “To invite Skip Roberts to dinner press two.”

“To request your spa or studio appointment,” Skip’s voice contin-

ued, “press two.”

“To blow the Toshiba’s circuits,” I answered, “press three.”
“To leave a private message for Skip Roberts, press three.”

Hot off the Presses

I pressed three. “Skip, are you there? Pick up the phone, okay?

is is Henry. Or are you in a session?”

“Hey, what’s happening?” Skip’s voice came on, live and fully

awake, sounding a lot less Southern-puppyish. “Brother Henry!”

“Have you got a client on the table?” I asked. “You know I hate

that tape.”

“To get naked with Skip Roberts,” he answered, dropping his voice

to a wooly bass-baritone chirp, “press your root chakra. To press your
root chakra without getting naked, press six.”

Skip talked faster in person than he did on the recording. He also

sounded better minus the New Age sound eﬀ ects.

“Couldn’t you at least shorten the crystal-dreams promo? Before

somebody takes a club to the machine? Namely me.”

“I’ll, like—yeah, I’ll reconsider the ramiﬁ cations. But can I point

out, Sacred Brother Henry, that you’re the only one who’s ever com-
plained about the tape.”

“Back to chakra one. What’s your schedule? You got any plans?”
“Tomorrow? Right this second? Th

e whole of next year? For you,

sir? I am, like, completely at your disposal.”

“Tonight,” I said. “Could we do dinner? And maybe trade mas-

sages after?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely.” Th

en ﬁ ve seconds of silence. “I’ve got one

more client. Her appointment’s in, lemme see, thirty minutes. Th

en I’ll

just have to shower and clean up. Where do you want us to meet?”

I said I’d pick him up at the studio and how did dinner at the Caril-

lon sound. He said it sounded like he ought to wear stretch pants, but
that if I could stand him fat, so could he. I replied that nobody forced
him to always order the fried chicken, cornbread dressing and choco-
late pie, adding that I’d be outside his door in two hours.

he Carillon Restaurant serves Southern fried chicken and sea-
food, steaks, collard greens, blackeyed peas and home-baked
breads to a steady stream of middle-class, mostly white people

seven days a week. Firmly rooted about ten years behind the times,
the Carillon’s tearoom recipes and Old-Atlanta ambience (ﬂ owered
wallpaper, hunting prints, cloth napkins) are updated only as abso-
lutely necessary.

Elliott Mackle

After seventy years in business, the restaurant’s clientele consist-

ed of two principal groups: blue-haired ladies and middle-aged gay
men. On weekends, the men usually outnumbered the women two to
one. Th

e majority of the women, some accompanied by mousy hus-

bands, had lived in Atlanta all their adult lives. Most of the gay males
grew up elsewhere and moved to Atlanta seeking jobs, relationships
and exactly the kind of semi-uncloseted social freedom the Carillon
represented.

“It looks like a gay bar in here,” Skip said, turning toward the res-

taurant’s smoky lounge. “Don’t you just love it?”

Giving him a gentle push toward an empty table near the ﬁ replace,

I headed for the hostess stand. Retro by design and balance sheet,
the Carillon accepts neither reservations nor credit cards. Big-haired,
big-hearted waitresses address customers as “honey” and “dear.” Th

bar is a hangout for gents of the old school, grand old gals gone mod-
erately wrong, and gay men who treat it as a weekend supper club.

After adding my name to the list, I backtracked through the

stand-up lobby crowd, trading quick greetings with men whose faces
or names I knew, and picked up drinks at the bar: Black Jack Daniel’s
on the rocks for me, Perrier without ice for Skip. Although I planned
to dump my problems in my buddy’s supportive lap, I didn’t intend
asking for his advice, not necessarily. I just needed a chance to lay out
my ethical and professional options.

When Skip looks at you, you’re the only person in his ﬁ eld of vi-

sion. On the massage table, in conversation—or during sex—you mo-
mentarily become the one other person inhabiting his private planet.
After Mark died—Mark my lover, the man who took the photo on
my oﬃ

ce wall—I kept thinking Skip and I would fall in love, assum-

ing that our brotherly friendship would deepen. Instead, we became
another pair of mirrors, twins, our physical and spiritual bond sym-
pathetic reﬂ ection rather than boundless passion.

Skip was my best friend. I hate the cliché “there for each other.”

But that’s what we were, in every way we could be. And I was ready
to vent. Skip, judging by what he’d said in the car, seemed willing to
listen.

But as I approached the table, Skip was looking not for me but up

at a tubby, ﬁ fty-ish man with nervous, ﬂ uttering hands and a mop of

Hot off the Presses

oiled mahogany hair. Th

e man was parked close beside him, partly

blocking the path to the chair I ﬁ gured was mine.

Skip looked tall even sitting down. He was over six feet and wiry

but broad hipped, with buzz-cut dark hair, bright brown eyes and
long, powerful hands. His hands were now arranged on the cock-
tail table, one atop the other, resting quietly. When I approached, he
glanced from me to the other guy before rising an inch oﬀ his seat.

“I’ll check the book,” Skip said, nodding to the man. “And leave a

message on your machine.”

Turning quickly, the man moved away. Skip accepted his drink

and glanced at me, adjusting his radar. “Th

ank you, sir. Tastes good.”

“Friend of yours?” I inquired, reacting, not thinking.
“He’s… I don’t believe you know him.”
I pushed. “Client? I shouldn’t ask that.”
“Do you care?”
“I thought I knew a lot of your friends. You didn’t introduce the

guy.”

“He didn’t even say goodbye. And I shouldn’t say his name. It

would be—”

“Unprofessional? Because he’s got secrets? He’s not Body Magic,

is he?”

“He…no, I don’t think he is. Like, I have my phallic altar set up in

the studio—with pictures of all of us at the retreat at Wildﬁ re Ranch
and rainbow candles and my crystal phallus and all. He didn’t even
notice. He’s been in for massage three or four times.”

“Married man? Getting a little peter-pull on the side, huh?”
“Not that he ever said. He doesn’t wear a ring. Doesn’t talk much,

and he’s wound pretty tight.” Skip paused, considering. “I guess that’s
not too revealing. A lot of them are like that.”

“What do you charge for a total body massage—warm coconut

oil, manual release, hot shower and herbal tea afterwards?”

Skip looked uncomfortable. I was letting my bushy-tailed journal-

ist’s ego overrule my friendship with Skip, nosing into the aﬀ airs of
his clients, men whose lives were theoretically none of my business.

I say “theoretically” because closeted gay men were among the

readers I most wanted to reach—so as to open up their fearful minds
and hearts, and help them lead happier lives. Our distribution box-

Elliott Mackle

es were located all over Metro Atlanta. Secretive men could pick up
Outlines on the way home from church, outside most MARTA sta-
tions or near the local Kroger or YMCA.

Skip stuck out his tongue and wiped it around his mouth, chang-

ing the subject with a silly, Happy Face gesture. “Sacred Brother Hen-
ry, I thought you were the man in need of a hot oil rub and a helping
hand. Like, maybe this is just your horns talking, making you a little
jealous?”

“Damn right I’ve got horns tonight, Sacred Brother Skip. You also

know how much better it gets when you and I trim each other’s horns.
Guess I’m just trying to keep you reined in.”

“Sure, whatever. But you also promised me dinner. And I believe

you want a listener as well as bodywork. So spill, okay? We’ll get those
horns attended to soon enough.”

I looked around the room. Nobody was standing close enough to

overhear us. Still, I took a breath and dropped my voice. “I’m about
ready to look for another job,” I said, surprising myself. Th

at wasn’t

what I’d intended to say. But I plunged on, thinking out loud. “Out-
lines doesn’t feel like it’s working out for me. I want to stay in Atlanta,
though.”

Skip dipped a ﬁ ngertip in his soda, raised the ﬁ nger to his mouth

and sucked oﬀ a drop of water. “Where are you going to look?”

I did another mental double-take. His answer surprised me.

“You’re not even going to argue, or ask how come I’m unhappy?”

“I trust you to make good decisions. Or else why would I want you

as my brother? And, like, you’re going to tell me anyway. Aren’t you?
You do want to discuss this? I know you’re unhappy, just from how
you sound and walk. Th

e way you drove the car, you almost wrecked

us up on Piedmont.”

Skip’s age and voice kept misleading me. Th

ough I’d directed a

small-town newsroom at the age of twenty-ﬁ ve, I usually viewed any-
one else under thirty as some kind of self-centered kid. But Skip was
both—a full-grown man with common sense and a breathless boy
still happy to be mentored.

So I answered his question with several more. “You know St.

John’s House, the AIDS shelter where I do volunteer work? You know
they got into a bad situation? One of the residents—not my assigned

Hot off the Presses

buddy—was doing drugs, and he assaulted one of the other guys, and
somebody called 911? Channel Five got wind of it—?”

Skip nodded. “Aggravated rape is what I heard. St. John’s kicked

the bad guy out on his ass, for good.”

“Kind of. What made it worse is that the board chair was mis-

quoted big-time. Some producer from Channel Five got her out of
bed in the middle of the night and she spouted oﬀ . Volunteered that
the bad guy was already on probation for drugs and physical assault.
Except that that particular alleged rape was in Texas more than ﬁ ve
years ago, and didn’t have anything to do with this situation.”

“Not anything directly, you mean? So you’re thinking you could

go clean house at Channel Five?”

“Th

ey need it. But not this week. St. John’s House is looking for a

PR and development oﬃ

cer. I’d probably have an inside track because

I’m a volunteer buddy. I’m also close with the director. We served on
a fund-raising roundtable for Project Open Hand a couple of months
ago. She’s carefully avoided asking my advice so far—because she
knows that Outlines is covering the story. I thought I’d call her up,
take her to lunch, feel the situation out.”

“Sounds like a plan. But why would you leave the paper? Like, you

haven’t been editor but for a couple of months.”

“Going on four. But I don’t think the owners want a real editor—

not somebody with my kind of expertise or, you know, standards.
Seems like all the McClellands really want is to publish some kind of
weekly memorial to Chad. Th

ey deﬁ nitely don’t want to shake any-

thing up. It’s like they see Outlines as a newsletter for civic minded
queers and their well-behaved parents and friends.”

“Can’t you just run it as a memorial until they forget about it?

Take the money and make nice? Th

e paper does serve the commu-

nity. And it helps lots of gay people. Me, for instance. Th

e ads I buy,

they really work.”

“I didn’t sign up to edit the Gay Yellow Pages. Queer ﬁ ngers should

do more than walking. Today’s queers and dykes need to vote, they
need to get involved, they need to help cure AIDS.”

“Th

e McClellands won’t listen?”

“Th

ey listen. Th

ey tell me they just love what I’m doing. Th

e bank

trust oﬃ

cer said they want to stay strictly hands-oﬀ except at check-

Elliott Mackle

writing time. But the ﬁ rst time I start getting into a good tussle, the
camels poke their noses into the tent. Th

ey spiked a story today, my

story, an investigative piece about federal AIDS funding for minority
outreach—with Outlines nailing Rawson Ramble for sticking it to the
queers.”

“Mayor Cornpone, right?”
“Right. Been to the mountaintop, bathed in Martin’s blood,

hauled Th

anksgiving turkeys for Hosea Williams. But now he’s the

mayor. Th

e McClellands are Old Atlanta—the old guard. Th

ey think

City Hall deserves respect, that the city father-in-chief knows best,
because of the oﬃ

ce he holds.”

“Which is ﬁ ne up to a point?”
“Sure. But not to the point of spiking a piece that contrasts what

the mayor wants—federal funding for his political cronies who are
setting up businesses to milk the Games—versus funding designed to
help keep young guys from catching HIV.”

“Atlanta can’t have both?”
“Ramble says not. Or his mouthpiece does, a white woman named

Ellen Inman, who just happens to be a close friend of Marguerite Mc-
Clelland’s.”

“What a coincidence.”
“I talked to Ms. Inman a bunch. Hizzoner won’t even say the word

‘AIDS.’ And so far he’s not up to speaking to the gay press.”

“You could write about that.”
“As if! I laid the whole kleptocracy thing out—that his cronies,

who call themselves the Ramblers, plan to grab every Olympic dime
they can lay their hands on. I also had to hold a four-graf editori-
al urging Ramble’s supporters to call on him to abandon his short-
sighted homophobia, and arguing that Atlanta needs additional AIDS
funding more than it needs small-business loans for entrepreneurs in
sharkskin suits.”

Skip rolled his shoulders and stared at me. “Are you sounding a

little tiny bit racist?”

I replayed the last few lines and didn’t much like my one-sided

tone either. “Jesus, I hope not. I mean the money would go to the
black community either way.”

“Just checking.”

Hot off the Presses

“I’m not racist, no way. No more than I can help—what with being

a Southern white boy, trained from birth as a Christian family man,
pillar of the community and all-around elitist pig.”

“Th

at’s what I thought. So, like, maybe your owners assume that

you assume that Mayor Cornpone can do nothing right, and that you
believe he’s completely prejudiced so far as queers and dykes are con-
cerned. And they’re keeping your leash tight until they’re sure.”

I didn’t like the feel of this, either, so I dodged, saying, “Hello, Skip.

Ramble is homophobic. Or he uses it, which comes out the same. Re-
member before the election, when he told Bill Nygut at Channel Two
that he had absolutely no homosexuals in his church or his neigh-
borhood? And that he hoped the queers, moustachio’d women and
street-walking transvestites would vote for his opponent?”

“I didn’t pay much attention. You’re probably right, he’s a ’phobe.

I don’t see why you have to quit your job over it.”

I downed the rest of my drink and quickly considered a second

helping. But I held back. Too much alcohol would take the edge oﬀ
the massage planned for later. “Journalistic standards,” I muttered.
“Th

e McClellands don’t give a shit about journalistic standards.”

Skip smiled. “Do journalists take something like a Hippocratic

oath? First do no harm and so on? A list of do’s and don’ts?”

“Yeah, kind of. You don’t swear it out in blood before you ﬁ le your

ﬁ rst story. Reporters and editors are trained to be independent and
impartial. Publishers ﬁ ght for the greater good, supposedly. Owners
roll in the dough of righteousness.”

“But your owners aren’t queer—that we know of. And they aren’t

journalists. Th

ey’re what? Rich breeder ducks who happened to hatch

a gay swan. I still say, be nice, cut them the same slack you give liberal
sucks like Bill Clinton and Tipper Gore. Th

ey’ll probably forget about

it in a month or two.”

Denying that any such compromise would work, I proceeded to

bitch on and on about the McClellands, then turned to the horrors
of Bambi Fawne’s cultural-funding piece, the one I’d been pressured
into rewriting.

After a while, the hostess called my name and we were shown to a

table in the main dining room. When the waitress came around, Skip
ostentatiously consulted the menu before ordering a low-cal dinner—

Elliott Mackle

tomato aspic, broiled scallops (no butter) and steamed rutabagas. I
went with green salad, grilled chicken, gravy on the side, and squash
casserole. I was feeling smugly thin and virtuous until a half a fried
chicken was delivered to the next table. Th

e aroma of hot grease and

golden buttermilk crust tempted me mightily. But I was trying to stay
healthy and cut the fat. Even diet plates at the Carillon are laced with
cholesterol, salt and sugar. So I stayed with the grilled chicken.

What a selﬁ sh bastard I must have sounded like. It took no more

than a buttered muﬃ

n and a swig of sweet tea to turn my attention

back to the topic at hand—me and my precious ethics. Since pick-
ing up Skip an hour earlier, I’d done nothing for him, not unless you
count a glass of mineral water, a pat on the shoulder and the standard
inquiry about how his day had gone. Instead of conversing one-on-
one with my buddy, I was sticking to my favorite topic: how Henry
Th

ompson was born to save the gay world.

I was lucky to have Skip for a friend. Most twenty-eight-year-old

guys would have told me to shove it—and shoved oﬀ themselves. Skip
just leaned back and stretched his shoulders inside his polo shirt,
nodding and waiting for me to run down. Mirrors, like I said. We saw
the good stuﬀ inside each other.

“I’ve got another plan,” I said, hardly taking a breath. “Plan B. An

Olympics job, an Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games slot I
heard about, also PR, or kind of.”

“Could be fun,” Skip answered. “Did I tell you—?”
I thoughtlessly cut him oﬀ again, still intent on plowing my own

row of possibilities. “Th

ere’s this fraternity big brother of mine,” I

said. “Ted Brown. I saw him at a Braves game, he’s on Coca-Cola’s
in-house public relations staﬀ . He graduated from Duke a couple of
years ahead of me. Coke is lending him to ACOG for a year and he’s
supposed to direct all local and Southeastern print media contacts.
He’s right under the overall PR honcho, some carpetbag overseer
from Bell South.”

e waitress set down Skip’s plate of aspic and my salad without

comment.

“And you’re ﬁ rst on his list of local print media to be contacted?”

Skip glanced up at the waitress and smiled at her, a good grandson.
“Appreciate it, ma’am. Th

anks.”

Hot off the Presses

“Th

e other way around,” I said, ignoring her. “He asked me to call

him real soon. Says he’s gonna need a couple of staﬀ and we ought to
talk.”

Skip shook his head, signaling that he got it, but not quite. “Okay,

like, you’re going to interview for an Olympics job? Does your fratty
brother know you’re a how-you-say? What I mean is, does he know
the kind of paper you write for?”

at went right to the point. Th

e Olympic movement is not ex-

actly a gay-friendly enterprise. ACOG was headed by a white-shoe
lawyer and a consortium of slick, presumably straight politicians and
Downtown boosters.

“He’s married,” I answered. “Lives in the burbs. Moved to Atlanta

to work on the Gwinnett Daily News. Lost a sixty-ﬁ ve-thousand dol-
lar a year job out there—when the daily drove the suburban paper out
of business. But yeah, my fratty brother knows what I do—in both
senses—and knows what a fucking idealist pig I am, too.”

“Abso-fucking-lutely ideal at giving brotherly massages,” Skip

whispered, smearing mayonnaise on his aspic salad. “Did you get oﬀ
a lot with your brothers when you lived in the frat house?”

I laughed. “You want me to tell you dirty stories over dinner?”
“Don’t you ever get horny and hungry at the same time?”
“Is that a stack of Krispy Kreme donuts in your lap, little brother,

or are you just glad to see me?”

“Did you ever fuck a stack of warm donuts, big brother? I tried it

in high school one time. And then my girlfriend licked the sugar oﬀ
me. It was hot, very hot.”

“Is this a napkin in my lap?” I groped my trousers. “Or are you

just trying to get me aroused before I even lie down on your massage
table?”

“Like, whatever ﬂ oats your donuts.”
I enjoy this kind of mindless, mildly sexy banter, though only with

men I’m already intimate with. Playing word games with unavailable
men is frustrating, so I try to avoid it.

“Th

e scallops and rutabagas?” Th

e waitress stood before us, a large

ironstone platter in each hand. I’d hardly touched my mixed greens.
Skip moved the remains of both salads aside. “And the chicken,” the

Elliott Mackle

waitress continued. “Let me just freshen that tea. More hot bread,
gentlemen?”

Digging in, we ate quietly for a while. Th

en Skip returned to what

at ﬁ rst sounded like my concerns, not his. Actually, he was thinking
ahead to what sounded like good times for both of us, later on.

“Would this be a real job?” he said. “Like, with a salary and you’d

wear a suit and have a desk and computer terminal and get to hang
out with Billy Payne?”

I said I didn’t know about hanging out with big shots, but that it

was deﬁ nitely a real job, with salary and beneﬁ ts, including a MARTA
card to ride the train to a downtown oﬃ

ce every day.

“Th

at’s so cool,” Skip said. “If you take the job, we can be ACOG

weenies together.”

I was about to spear one of his broiled scallops. I paused, fork in

midair. “Say again? I thought you hated sports and crowds? I thought
you were planning to rent out your apartment and leave town next
summer?”

“Th

ey need volunteer body workers. Just like they need medics

and housing hosts and bus drivers. All the massage schools and stu-
dios in the phone book got invitations to an organizing meeting at
Blue Ridge Grill. It included dinner so I went and was accepted. I’ll be
working on athletes and I’m helping coordinate the massage program
at the Georgia Dome.”

“Holy shit.” I speared the scallop. “Th

ey’re gonna let queer boys

put their hands all over those world-class straight jocks?”

Skip looked mildly hurt. “You’re not the only one with ethics. Th

jocks and masseurs I’ll be working with are professionals, too. Any-
how, a lot of the big teams travel with their own trainers. So we’ll
probably be doing grunt work, athletes from smaller nations. Either
way, athletes are meat just like anybody else. Seen one haunch—you
know.”

“Ouch, little bro,” I said. “But you’ll still be servicing big-time

Olympic stars rather than jock sniﬀ er journalists—like Sacred Broth-
er Henry. If I get the job.”

Skip scooped up a spoonful of gravy and poured it over the re-

maining scallops on his plate. “And you’ll get a salary and a ticket to
ride. I’ll get a set of uniforms and lunch.”

Hot off the Presses

“I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings. I’m acting like a stupid bull.”
“It’s those horns again.” Skip prodded my shoe under the table.

“You make me horny, too. But I’m still thinking about half a slice of
pie.”

“Instead of my jock-sniﬀ er ﬂ esh, little brother?”
“Th

is Olympic thing is next summer’s fun, Henry. Right now, I

don’t see why I can’t have my chocolate pie—and you for dessert.”

“As long as the pie doesn’t put you to sleep before you get me on

the table.”

“Trust me, Henry. I know my job. And I’m pretty sure you’ll end

up eating the other half of the slice.”

I glanced up, searching for the waitress, but then saw a free-lance

writer named Albert Walters headed my way. Prancing like a lame-
but-game show horse, kicking out with every step, he halted in front
of our table.

Prancing is probably not easy for a thirty-something man who

stands six-four in his red, white and blue Converse High Tops. Wal-
ters presumably wanted to be noticed. He walked on his toes, as if the
Carillon’s carpeting was treacherous ground.

e crotch of his skin-tight, Atlanta Braves shorts writhed as

though an angry hamster was trapped inside. A dirty canvas book
bag was slung over his “Another Gay in Paradise” T-shirt.

“Did you see my lovely article in the Advocate?” He skipped the

usual preliminaries. “Th

ey cut it a bunch but—” He raised his hands

like a minstrel singer. “Everybody still says it looks real good.” He stuck
out his hand and said his name. “You do remember me?” Giving Skip
a nod but not his attention, he continued, “I’d love it if we could work
together, Henry.”

Although I’d met Walters before, I had no idea whether or not

he could report a story. I feared he hoped to sell me the Advocate’s
out-takes. “Good work,” I said, feeling my way non-committally. “Was
that your ﬁ rst piece for them?”

“Oh, no!” He settled down beside me in the booth. He smelled

as if he’d been wearing the same clothes for a week. “No, they love
me. I can cover the Georgia waterfront for them. But they just tell
me there’s not anything happening here in Hotlanta. Which is bull-o
shitto, don’t you know?”

Elliott Mackle

He leaned closer. “Well, I mean you’re happening, aren’t you, Mis-

ter Henry Th

ompson—the practically brand-spanking-new editor of

the most important gay, lesbian and trans-everything paper here in
the A.T.L. So there! But the Advocate news editor I spoke to out in
California after your bosses died said they already had you covered.”

Walters leaned forward, his mouth within kissing distance of my

ear. “I tried to get you some ink, give me credit for that. Anyhow, con-
gratulations and felicitations all over the place.”

Maybe he’s a real writer—a bloodhound in search of a story, con-

scious of nothing but digging out the facts, immune to any consider-
ations save bringing home the journalistic bacon.

It seemed unlikely. But I always needed free-lancers and I could

hope. Chip Smith, the dead man I’d succeeded as Outlines’ editor,
once remarked that Al Walters worked cheap because he was basi-
cally unreliable as a reporter, that about half his facts didn’t check out
and that he was known to have made up quotes when an interview
subject was unavailable. After a couple of early experiments, Chip
had bought nothing else from him. But I ﬁ gured I ought to judge Wal-
ters’ work for myself.

“My piece for the Advocate,” Walters went on. “You really didn’t

see it?” Reaching into the book bag, he pulled out a magazine. He’d
already folded the dog-eared issue back to his single-column contri-
bution.

“Th

ey just used a little bit of what I sent them, ﬁ ve grafs about the

gay ice skaters that practice up in Cobb County. You can keep it if you
want,” he said, waving the magazine.

I put the magazine on the seat between us, intending to skim it

later. Outlines had already covered the ice skating phenom. Our regu-
lar softball-league stringer had written a short feature during the oﬀ
season. Talk about ﬂ uﬀ .

“Mr. Th

ompson, I have scads more material on what I call our

suburban jock-ettes. Could I send you a draft? I just know it’ll be
something you’ll be happy with. And there’s a pre-op transgender
veterinarian in Walton County who hopes to be a torch bearer for the
Olympic ﬂ ame.”

is last sounded promising. And with the Olympics coming to

town, I needed sports-related copy—if I stayed on as editor, that is.

Hot off the Presses

So I told him I was always pleased to see good work but that I liked to
see a proposal ﬁ rst. “It was good to talk to you,” I added, looking up,
hoping he’d leave. He was sweating now and taking shallow breaths.

No wonder he smells bad, if pitching stories to editors gets him this

overheated.

“I’m not just a jock licker, you know,” Walters said, eerily echoing

the conversation Skip and I had just ﬁ nished. “I’ve been looking for
an assignment to write about William Fred Mott, the Atlanta Opera
conductor, who’s really a hoot, do you know him?” Walters fanned
himself with his hand, probably more for visual eﬀ ect than ventila-
tion. “Miss Mott got herself rolled in a compromising situation one
night after work—or so they say. And I’d love to interview Chris Cole-
man, the head of Actors Express. You could run a hunky centerfold
shot of him. I mean, that’s all they do at Actors Express—fag shows
with gratuitous nudity, practically every other production. And they
sell out. I’m willing to bet the farm that Miss Chris has got a real
pretty butt.”

Walters was unwilling to quit his pitch. But I was past ready to

stop listening. Handing the magazine back, I said, “I don’t know if
we can use any of that. Just send a few clips with your proposals and
we’ll see. Proposal should run no more than a short graf. You know
we can’t pay much?”

“Oh, but the exposure!” he said. “In Outlines! I’ll send you a pack-

age on Monday.”

I was sure he would. But he’d gotten my hint. Turning, he waved

to someone across the room and pranced away.

Skip ﬂ ipped a ﬁ nger in my direction, popping me on the nose with

a drop of tea. “You’re like, so kooo-ahhl,” he whispered. “He would
suck your dick for fucking ever if you’d give him an assignment. You
must get a lot of that as the editor of the paper”

I wiped my nose with my hand. “Some. But it doesn’t get them

anywhere. I mean, it’s the ethical thing again. Unless they can write or
have some kind of voice, I don’t have the time to train them.”

“No casting couch in the editor’s oﬃ

ce?”

“You’ve seen my oﬃ

ce. But no, I wouldn’t do that. Sex with some-

body you edit can fuck up your judgment.”

Elliott Mackle

“And yet—” He ﬂ ipped another drop of tea in my direction. “Your

paper is all about sex.”

“Huh?” Th

e comment knocked me oﬀ balance. Here I was arguing

the ethics of editing a legitimate gay newspaper and my best friend
was halfway accusing me of running a jerk-oﬀ journal.

“Sure! Six ways from Sunday: homo-sex, trans-sex, bi-sex, ambi-

sex and lesbi-sexual couples with stroller babies in Candler Park.
Th

at’s your readers, right?”

“Well, yeah,” I said, feeling a bit relieved. “Th

at’s the demographic.

We are in business to serve the community, report on it, comment on
it and inﬂ uence it—for the better, when we can.”

“Sex is the demo-fucking-graphic, Henry. Like I said, the massage

ads I’ve run in Outlines have pulled in more business, dollar for dollar,
than the ones in Creative Loaﬁ ng and Southern Boys. Gay people have
money to spend—and they spend it.”

“Do you think? Some people see that as a fallacy. Th

e gays-with-

more-disposable-income canard. I’m wondering whether maybe we
just toss it away on diﬀ erent things—scuba lessons in the Bahamas
versus ballet lessons for daddy’s little princess. Pedigreed Shih Tzus
as opposed to home-bred baby bubbas.”

“Skating lessons in Cobb County. Fund-raisers for gay-youth out-

reach. So are you going to give Mr. High Tops an assignment?”

“I dunno. I’ll read his proposals. Chip, the previous editor, said

Walters cost Atlanta magazine’s newsmakers column one of their
six-ever, full-out retractions.”

Skip rolled his eyes.
“Yeah, all-ﬂ uﬀ , all-the-time. But somebody’s got to do it. Walters

faxed them an item about Emily Saliers, the Indigo Girls rock sing-
er, just when the magazine was on deadline and long on space. Th

trusted Walters’ claim that Saliers had propositioned Senator Sam
Nunn’s wife at a Buckhead day spa. Actually, Saliers was out of town
at the time—meditating at a Zen retreat in New Mexico, I think it
was.”

“He just made it up?”
“And nobody fact-checked the thing. Mrs. Nunn has skin like a

titanium bomb shelter. But she’s a PR rep with a family business to
run. So she went ballistic.”

Hot off the Presses

“If it wasn’t true, why did she care? Is she a dyke?”
“Not that I know of. I wonder if there’s a story in that.”
Th

e waitress was standing before us. “Dessert, gentlemen? We

have both chocolate cream and lemon meringue pies tonight.”

I looked at Skip. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Are you ready for your treatment, Sacred Brother?” When I nod-

ded, he looked up sweetly at the waitress. “Do you suppose you could
wrap up a slice of each? To go? And a bag for the rolls, too. We didn’t
ﬁ nish them.”

“No problem,” the waitress answered. “Love to.”
“You’re shameless, Sacred Brother,” I said. “Th

ank you.”

“We’ll need sugar-nibbles once we get through with each other,

Brother Henry. Right now, though, I’m just hungry for you. So let’s
get going.”

CHAPTER 5

AROMATHERAPY

orty minutes later, I lay face down on Skip’s table. We were both
naked. We’d hugged, touched and slowly removed each others’
clothing before getting started, all part of the Body Magic ritual.

Skip’s turn on the table would follow mine.

Skip had lighted a candle and placed it on the nearby phallic altar.

“Love Shack,” by Th

e B-52s, pumped out of the CD player. Th

ough the

volume was turned down, the beat was insistent and arousing.

One of Skip’s hands rested lightly on the small of my back, the

other between my shoulder blades. “Do you have a special intention?”
Skip asked. “Or is this just relaxation and release?”

I shook my hips. “My chest’s tight as a drum. Pope and Margue-

rite are killing me. I don’t know what to do next. And I’m horny as a
goat.”

Skip’s hands began to move. “So why did you take the job with

Outlines anyway? I mean, I know you’re quote-unquote idealistic. But
wasn’t it a step backward for a big-time journalist?”

Skip ran his knuckles slowly down my spine, neck to crack. He

paused, drew a breath and plowed north again. It hurt good, like
stretching after a workout.

“Maybe I’m more quote-unquote gay idealistic,” I answered. “It

took me less than two years to ﬁ nd out that the Florida Times-Union
wasn’t super-enthusiastic about an openly gay assistant city editor.
Not once they realized that meant covering both sides of subjects

Elliott Mackle

they considered too controversial to cover at all. Like bigoted Baptist
preachers who tell their followers to march out and kill queers for
Christ.”

Skip’s strong ﬁ sts pushed deeper, probing for knots in the muscles

and fascia surrounding my ribs and vertebra. I rolled my shoulders,
trying to escape. He bore down.

“Th

at didn’t really happen, did it? Preachers saying that?”

“Sure they did. Probably still do. I nailed quotes from a bunch of

people. Most of them wouldn’t give their names. But there was one
pair of school-teacher lesbians who jumped right in. Retired ladies
living down at Green Cove Springs. Th

ey were old-time Christians

from Ohio. Th

ey like to choked when they heard this redneck spout-

ing oﬀ two Sundays in a row.”

“Like once would be slip of the tongue, so to speak?” Skip smoothed

the skin on my back, applying a light coat of warm coconut oil so the
hairs wouldn’t rub.

I sucked in air, loving the touch. “We quoted both of them. Th

preacher and half his ﬂ ock called my publisher in highest dudgeon,
sent faxes to my editor, threatened to boycott the paper, cancel their
advertising, the whole nine yards. Preacher Man denied saying any
such thing, exactly. Said he was misquoted and taken out of context,
that he was preaching the Holy Bible which he had every right to do,
that it’s all right there in the Good Book and did my publisher want
to go against Jesus.”

“Th

ey knew you were gay when they hired you, right? I mean,

you didn’t haul a closet into the newsroom?” Skip’s hands paused and
turned. I could feel his thumbs circling, then pressing into a tight spot
just below my left scapular “What’s this?” he asked, pressing down.
“I’m feeling a lot of tension—” He pressed harder. “Here.”

He was right. I sucked in air, trying to avoid the pressure on the

hard knot he was probing. “I been jerking oﬀ with my left hand,” I
answered, trying a joke, not really wanting to discuss my blighted ca-
reer at the Times-Union. “I wanted a change of scenery at night,” I
explained. “I hold the stroke book with my right hand.”

Skip’s roving ﬁ ngers moved to the muscles enclosing and sup-

porting my ribs. “Your left shoulder would be soft as goose grease if

Hot off the Presses

you did that, not all tightened up. It’s deﬁ nitely some kind of buried
tension.”

I was beginning to lose myself in the massage, relaxing under his

hands, drinking in the warm aroma of sweat and coconut oil that
Body Magicians associate with erotic rituals.

“Is that like right-brain, left-brain function?” I said groggily. “Left-

handed tension? Is there a story there? Do only gay men experience
it?”

Skip pushed harder on my rib cage, forcing me to breathe deeply.

Responding to the persuasive pressure of his weight and movements,
I pulled warm air into my lungs.

“When you need to hot-wire to yourself without stress, you ought

to just crank up the VCR,” Skip said, smoothly shifting his hands so
that the tips of his ﬁ ngers stroked my underarms and neck. “Pop in a
training tape and go. Th

at way, you can use both hands on your magic

wand.”

Skip’s attention moved to my biceps. Gathering each arm in one

hand he began kneading and rolling the muscles, as if squeezing bags
of butter. I couldn’t think of anything to say.

After two or three minutes, Skip whispered, “Closet? Times-

Union. Bad preacher. No donuts.”

“Fuck it, Skip, the old man knew I was gay when he hired me. Said

he wanted to inject a little minority razzmatazz into his dead-ass city
desk.”

“Razzmatazz. Koo-uhl.”
“Jacksonville has yet to enter the Twentieth Century. Maybe he’d

just attended some publishers’ convention. ‘Building minority cover-
age’ must have been the ﬂ avor of the month. Hell, razzmatazz, all the
old guys all used words like that in the city room. Durn-tootin’ was
another. He told me after I came to work that he was taking a ﬂ yer on
me. Taking a ﬂ yer. Fuck.”

I shifted on the table and sucked in more air. “Work on my neck

some, okay?”

“Abso-fucking-lutely. Your neck’s tighter than your shoulders.

Your jaw’s like a set of rusty pliers. Back here. Feel that? Oh…wait.
Oh, shit. Hold on a minute.”

Elliott Mackle

Skip’s muscular hands were suddenly gone. Opening my eyes, I

saw that he’d grabbed a hand towel and was ﬁ ddling with the baby-
bottle warmer used to heat plastic squeeze-bottles of oil.

“Water burned oﬀ ,” he reported. “It’s nothing. Forget it. I’ll have

to throw this bottle away. Th

e bottom’s melted out.” Unplugging the

warmer, he returned to the table. “You ready for me to work on your
legs and glutes now? How’s the temperature?”

I shifted so that my knees were farther apart. Th

e fan overhead

blew welcome air on my naked ass. “Th

e room’s warm enough,” I an-

swered. “My butt could use some work.”

Skip rubbed oil in his palms, moved to the foot of the table and

began kneading the backs of my thighs.

“One very razzmatazz butt,” Skip murmured, pushing his open

hands up my legs from mid-calf to hip. “Not a durn-tootin’ wrinkle
on it. You’re holding together pretty good.”

“For an old guy? Th

anks, Sacred Brother. Mr. Razzmatazz was sec-

ond generation old fart. He inherited the paper, edited it for a while
before bringing in a lot of hired help. Could do what he wanted. His
only son was a big drinker. He stuck Junior up in want ads.”

Skip’s strong hands moved up my legs again, the heels of his palms

separating and smoothing bands of muscle. As he pressed against
and then retreated from my ass back down my thighs, then pushed
forward again, one of his thumbs brushed the skin of my scrotum.
I sucked in a breath. I wasn’t particularly aroused at that point. But
it was time for the session to begin blooming into eroticism. I swal-
lowed and took an audible breath.

“You were, like, his social experiment?” Skip asked. “Was that fair

to you?”

Skip’s strong, open hands pushed up my legs again. Th

is time both

his thumbs brushed my scrotum. He was using his hands to ask if I
was ready.

“Yes. It was fair. I thought I knew what I was getting into. Yes.”
Skip stroked my inner thighs. My scrotum had begun to tingle

and draw up. My penis, folded beneath it, pushed against the cotton
sheet that covered the table. I sighed, meaning, Yes, yes, keep at it.

Skip’s ﬁ ngers moved to the outside of my legs, down past my knees

to my ankles, then up my calves again, up the back of my thighs. Al-

Hot off the Presses

lowing his hands to pause brieﬂ y in the trough at the small of my
back, he then drew what must have been one foreﬁ nger slowly down
to my perineum, the ridged, sensitive area between anus and scro-
tum. Pausing again, he gently swept the tips of four or ﬁ ve ﬁ ngers over
the small mounds of my scrotum.

“Christ.” My voice involuntarily dropped a couple of octaves.

“You’re so good. Th

at feels so fucking, feels so fucking, feels so fuck-

ing—”

Skip’s hands retreated down my legs again and pushed up again,

this time skirting my scrotum on the return trip, squeezing my thighs
and shoving my ass hard, as if to reposition it somewhere between my
shoulder blades.

“Are you ready to turn over?” he asked, pausing. “Would you like

to breathe with me now?”

Gently positioning his arm under my shoulder, he helped me turn

on the table. My shoulders, spine and the backs of my legs were warm
jelly, a good sign. My cock was heavy and halfway hard. I could see
the wetness at the tip.

“Are you sure you have enough oil?” I mumbled, smiling at what

seemed a great joke, indicating my rapidly enlarging cock. I shut my
eyes. Settling back on the table, I whispered, “I could ﬂ y tonight, I
could ﬂ y.”

Slipping a rolled towel under my neck and re-anointing his hands,

Skip cupped his right hand over my cock and balls, his left over my
heart. “Breathe,” he whispered. “In through the nose, out through the
mouth, making a sound as you exhale. Push as you exhale. Push. Try
to breathe with the music.”

I answered with a line from Walt Whitman, one much quoted

by Body Magicians: “‘Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my
body as I pass. Be not afraid of my body.’”

e CD player had switched to a Mickey Taylor drumming ses-

sion. Skip replied with one of our favorite Transcendental lines: “‘As
I receive pleasure, so the whole universe receives pleasure through
me.’”

I sucked in warm air. “Th

e city editor—a fucking illiterate socio-

path,” I said on the exhale. When I sucked in again, Skip’s left hand
moved clockwise around my chest, catching the thin, curled hairs

Elliott Mackle

that surround my nipples. His right hand met the pressure of my ris-
ing erection, gently pushing it down and away, pointing it toward my
feet. “He’d been promoted upstairs from Sports, the guy was a big
time jock sniﬀ er, another Cracker redneck. Mr. Razzmatazz gave him
orders to let me develop and assign minority stories on my own. Said
we needed to reach out to new readers.”

Almost without pausing, Skip applied more oil to my chest, pubic

hair and cock. “Breathe,” he urged me. “Breathe. Draw it in, push it
out. Drink in the pleasure. What kind of minority stories? Guess you
didn’t start out with black transsexual lesbian adoption cases?”

Skip’s slick thumb drew ﬁ gure eights up and down the soft, ten-

der ridge on the underside of my penis. My hips rose involuntarily,
following the sensation. I grabbed a gallon of air and answered. “He
must have wished—Jesus, God, yeah, do that—he, this sports editor I
got saddled with… God, oh fuck.”

“Breathe, breathe.”
Following Skip’s murmured coaching, I sucked in air through my

nose, sighing on the exhale, keeping time with the music and with
Skip’s hands. We learn this kind of breathwork—it’s also called holo-
tropic breathing—in weekend introductory sessions. After ﬁ ve or ten
minutes of in-and-out breaths, the body becomes charged with oxy-
gen. Exhaling with sound helps avoid hyperventilation. Deep breaths
are useful in circulating the energy and fending oﬀ ejaculation, which
eﬀ ectively ends a session.

Rhythmic accompaniment—live drumming works much better

than recorded music—together with quick, regular breaths and the
ﬂ ood of pleasurable physical sensations, allows the willing mind to
separate from the body and ﬂ oat away. A trance state can result, or a
shamanistic journey to the underworld.

Okay, I’m being the erotic pamphleteer again—Henry the idealist.

Don’t let me put you oﬀ with jargon. Because for some men, erotic
massage is nothing more than a ticket to a sexual ride that Don Juan
would sell his soul for twice over. And that’s okay, though not for
me.

In the era of AIDS, the ritual oﬀ ers safe sexual connections among

men who love men, however many are gathered together. I’ve experi-
enced most of the variations our discipline oﬀ ers. Th

e trick, or at least

Hot off the Presses

mine, is to build up a charge composed of throaty, mindless breathing
and erotic sensations, a charge that stays just inside orgasmic over-
load. Th

en I surf along the edge, trying to let go of damned near ev-

erything, holding onto just that scrap of consciousness that keeps my
eyes closed (though I can still “see” the blackness, even with a blind-
fold). My hard cock begins to feel about a foot long (it’s half that).
Th

e rush of sensations sends my mind soaring like an eagle over the

Smoky Mountains. When I hit that edge—and it doesn’t always hap-
pen—I can make mental and emotional connections I’d completely
miss in everyday life. I get in touch with my own grinding loneliness,
the loss of Mark, the conundrum of trying to do all the things that
only I, Henry Th

ompson, can do, and want to do—and nearly always

end up doing all by myself, and sometimes half-assedly.

When I ride that edge, things can get crazy, a good kind of crazy, I

mean. John Cowell, a man I was previously involved with—I say pre-
viously because his physical body had been dead six months before
this incident happened—John got inside my skin during a group mas-
sage one night and let me know he wanted to ejaculate. And he, or his
spirit, using my balls and urethra, shot oﬀ like a NASA rocket. John
splashed one of my masseurs right in the eye. John then said “Good-
bye, Henry, and thanks,” and I haven’t heard from him since.

I’m not a religious man. On the other hand, I don’t rule out spirits.

So far, though, I haven’t experienced the classic High-Church trance
where Jesus appears, muscular and naked, and takes the place of the
masseur. No, I’m not kidding. A priest friend of mine who lives in
Alabama, Father Dan, has visions of a divine being he calls “Jesus in a
Speedo.” It once happened when I had him stretched out on my own
massage table. My oiled hands were on his cock and his heart. To-
gether we cut his earthly ties and Father Dan hit the road to transcen-
dental heaven. He claimed I was Jesus—Jesus with his circumcised,
sanctiﬁ ed cock sticking out of the top of blue-and-white Speedo
briefs—and Jesus came for him that day, and Father Dan came for
Jesus.

Skip was good at his work. Th

ough I hadn’t hit orbit yet, I was

bobbing and drifting, a balloon tied to earth with a loose string, a
horny rack with wings, a phallus with a soul.

Elliott Mackle

“Did you ever publish any stories about queer athletes?” Skip

whispered. “Even in Jacksonville there must be a few.”

By this point in an erotic massage, both the masseur and his client

are spiritually bound together and can operate without words. But
Skip knew how verbal I am, and that I often didn’t know what kind of
trip I need until I got close to the end of the ritual. So he usually kept
the vocal communication going.

When I take oﬀ on the erotic journey, I follow one of three paths.

e most usual is a ﬂ ex-and-release ﬁ nish, the full-body orgasm, the

Big Draw. It involves clenching every muscle of your body for twenty
seconds and holding your breath. Th

e release—the cessation of in-

tense sexual energy—can bring on a secondary trance state.

e second path is an ejaculatory climax, requested ahead of time

and aided by the masseur.

ird, and most useful of Body Magic’s journeys—but also the

rarest—combines a Big Draw with a brief, hands-oﬀ , spiritual journey
guided by a trusted body worker. It’s in this latter case that a quest-
ing man can jump hurdles—answer the hidden, basic questions he
hesitates to even think about when he’s merely horny and alone or
dead-tired and desperate.

“All those sports teams,” I said, answering Skip’s leading question,

my hips rising. “Th

ere must have been a lot of sweaty hand jobs in

Jacksonville locker rooms. Jacking in Jax. God, oh fuck.”

Skip’s semi-erect cock brushed my hand and I gently grasped it.

He didn’t react, which is standard procedure. Instead, he concentrat-
ed on guiding me toward the end of the ritual. My pleasure and the
recirculation of erotic energy were his principal concerns. His open
left hand moved from my arms to my chest and down the middle
of my gut. His right ﬁ st, meanwhile, exerted spastic pressure on my
erect penis, compressing and only occasionally milking it.

“Th

ey say the Olympics has a ton of closeted athletes,” Skip whis-

pered. “You think I’ll get my hands on a few? Seems like they never
come clean until after they win their medals and get their endorse-
ments. Greg Louganis, for instance.”

“Th

e bastard,” I said. “Work on my balls, yes.”

“Is he a bastard? Like this?”

Hot off the Presses

“Yes, oh fuck. Because he hit a board in competition. Was bleed-

ing all over the medics and oﬃ

cials—and the pool deck where the

other, you know. And, Jesus…”

“Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out.”
“And hadn’t bothered to tell them. He had HIV.”
“He was scared to. Breathe with me. Th

ey might not have let him

compete.”

“He was the best in the world. He knew he was queer. Th

ey couldn’t

have kept him out.” Both of Skip’s hands were now on my cock, rub-
bing back and forth crosswise, as if rolling dough. “Yeah, there. Right
there. Fucking pansy scaredy-cat diver.”

“All those ﬁ gure skaters.” Skip gathered my balls and the base of

my penis together in his left hand, then clasped them with his thumb
and middle ﬁ nger. With the tip of one foreﬁ nger, he began drawing
ﬁ gures on the skin of my tightly stretched scrotum. “And all those
German and Australian women with shoulders like Mike Tyson. Th

all take—”

“Men,” I said. “No women. If I go to work for ACOG can you get

me into your massage room? And the men’s showers?”

“Gymnasts the ﬁ rst week, basketball after that. Th

at’s the prelimi-

nary schedule.”

“Gymnasts,” I said. “I want to see John Roethlisberger naked. I

want my hands on him. Fuckin superhunk.”

“Breathe, breathe.” Skip was kneading my cock with both hands

again, milking and squeezing. “Th

e pretty boy that does the rings?”

“I want him naked. Yeah, there, Skip.”
“And that sexy one from Cobb County,” Skip said. “Wade Some-

thing, I think that’s it. I saw him on TV last week, he was in some
kind of teach-kids-to-read commercial with Monica Kaufman. He
was modeling a USA Olympics T-shirt that might as well have been
sprayed on. He has kind of a high voice.”

I’d never heard of the man. But now I wanted him—here, on the

table with me, in me, on me, to help me get where I—what?

“Fuck,” I said. “In me. Here.”
A Tantric journey works best when the man on the table gives

up control, surrenders himself to sensation, lets his own electricity
charge his entire body as if it were a neon tube. Th

e man receiving the

Elliott Mackle

massage must allow himself to ﬂ oat beyond thought, forget even the
words for what he’s feeling, forget that there are words to describe
the sensations he’s riding. He can’t ask conscious questions, not if he
wants real answers. All he can do is breathe in the pleasure and wal-
low in it.

I was ﬂ ying, a Roman candle, a cloud of ﬁ re. And, yeah, I know

this all sounds like New Age 101, like Castaneda’s peyote-popping
magician. I’m no philosopher. But I do know that real mysticism is
beyond words. Because words, at bottom, are artiﬁ cial constructs,
symbols, not in themselves real, except as words. Like I said, I’m a
word man and yet all this is goddamn diﬃ

cult to explain. I’m doing

the best I can.

To paraphrase Castaneda, the Tantric man becomes the plea-

sure, and the pleasure, in turn, becomes the Tantric man. And, at that
point, his enlightenment may—just may—begin.

e candle on Skip’s altar was guttering out. Th

e aromas of sweet

smoke, tropical oil and sweat, together with our breathing, body work
and sexual imagery, had gotten to me. For the moment, I could still
see where I was headed. I let out one more notch of control. My balls
were drawn up tight.

Skip slowed his hand but didn’t stop. He knew just how to draw

me out and out and out, up, up, up—soothing me, touching the places
that wouldn’t make me crazy, gradually easing the pressure of his ﬁ n-
gers, opening the door to pure spirit, leading me to the crest of aware-
ness.

And there it was: Go with ACOG, go with the Olympics. Th

ey have

ideals, idealistic Greek ideals. More than the McClellands. More than
most of the closeted, fearful men I’m trying to reach. Th

is is my his-

tory—Is this my history? Olympic men coming to Atlanta, goddamn
men, peace on earth, good will toward men, I love men, I love men,
men.

“Christ. Too close, watch your, oh yeah, touch lower—there, yeah,

Skip, yeah, yeah.”

I was still half-thinking, recalling images—Greek gods, the pedi-

ment ﬁ gures on the Parthenon in Nashville, naked athletes in locker
rooms. I was still dependant on words and concrete images. I was still

Hot off the Presses

holding onto Skip’s hard cock. And I’m pretty sure that’s the point
where I began to go oﬀ track that night.

As I rose on Skip’s hands, I looked ahead, pictured a city of golden

men, saw my future and made a decision. But I didn’t rise high enough
or see far enough, didn’t realize that insight is only a beginning.

“Breathe. Can we do ten charging breaths?”
Higher, stronger, faster, ah, ah—
I managed only two more inhales before nature kicked in and I

started shooting oﬀ . Five jets, of which the ﬁ rst two hit my chest. Th

afternoon session in the steam bath had gotten me so over-aroused I
couldn’t stay on the edge, couldn’t control it any longer. Eros exists for
us to use. But sometimes Eros takes over and has his own way with
us.

I guess you’ve already realized what a controlling, edited existence

I’d trapped myself into. Which meant it was damned near impossi-
ble for me to ever give up control, to turn myself over to someone
else and ﬂ oat free. Like I said, though, that’s what a Tantric journey
requires. To ﬁ nd yourself—to discover something inside that you’re
looking for—you have to lose yourself. To lose yourself, in turn, you
have to trust your shaman-masseur to take you as far as possible into
the other world, to watch over you during the session, and to sum-
mon you back just in time.

So here’s what I really mean by riding the edge: Balancing on the

line between a full life and a lingering death, between clarity and des-
peration, between self knowledge and shutting down.

at night I was doing a half-assed job of letting go, of trusting

Skip to care for me. I should have said something, should have trusted
Skip to help me ride the insight, turn it inside out, not just grab it and
go. But I didn’t realize that until later. Luckily, when I did realize it,
Skip was there again to help me through.

Skip drew a deep breath and stepped away, saying nothing as I

clenched in an improvised, half-assed Big Draw. My still-harnessed
consciousness hurled forward into darkness as I pumped out a week’s
worth of stored-up lust.

Yeah, you’re the answer, I knew then but didn’t say. You and the

Games are the answer. Yeah, don’t stop. Yeah, you’re my brother, I’ll be
with you. Th

e Games. Oh fuck. Fuck yes.

Elliott Mackle

e Games together, Skip answered. He didn’t use words either.

But I felt and heard him say it. Lucky us, big brother.

Morricone’s waterfall theme from Th

e Mission tumbled and

soared, far away and then close, carrying me downward, throwing me
up and then, with the crash of drums, dissipating in echo and silence,
bringing my half of the ritual to a close.

When I came back into myself, Skip put both hands around my

shoulders, laid his sweaty chest on my sticky one and whispered in
my ear, “Good man. You got that out. You needed that. And you de-
serve it. My turn next. We just have to clean up ﬁ rst. Would you like
some juice?”

I said what I really wanted was a bite of chocolate pie, but that I

could wait. We looked at each other and laughed, erotic conspira-
tors.

And then he turned away, clicked “Love Shack” back on track and

said, “We’ll take a ten minute break.”

CHAPTER 6

UNKINDEST CUTS

hen I strolled into the oﬃ

ce on Th

ursday morning, Bambi Fawne

handed me two message slips, both marked Urgent and Imme-
diate Action, both from Ellen Inman, the mayor’s community

aﬀ airs mouthpiece. Th

e Outlines exposé, nicknamed “Ramble’s Jock

Itch,” had hit City Hall.

“I think it’s about my story,” Bambi chirped, looking pleased. “Ms.

Inman sounded totally upset. She said, ‘Tell Mr. Th

ompson to call

me about this, tell him to call at his earliest, earliest convenience,
Ms. Fawne.’ And when I told her for the second time that you weren’t
scheduled in before ten, I thought she’d like to come right through the
Bell South and chew my lovely earring oﬀ .”

She’d have broken a tooth. Th

e surgical-steel appliance in Bambi’s

earlobe was a recent gift from his biker boyfriend, Melvin (“Harley”)
Grifterson. Originally a starter loop in the pierced tip of Harley’s pe-
nis, it had come to Bambi as a token of manly protection after Harley
graduated to a larger size.

I asked Bambi if there had been any other calls. He said yes, Moth-

er McClelland had phoned, looking for either Ibo Williams or me.
But because she hadn’t speciﬁ cally asked to be called back, he hadn’t
written a number down.

Bambi wasn’t exactly primo personal-assistant material.
“Anyone else?”

Elliott Mackle

Nobody, he said, except the mouth breather who called every

week or two. “He sounds real sad today. Depressed or something. I
wanted to reach out to him.”

“He actually talked?”
“I gave him the gay help-line number. Like you said to do? He

started crying. Whispered that they always hang up on him.”

“Maybe Aid Atlanta would work out better for him.” I picked up

two copies of the freshly printed Outlines from the rack by the door.
On Th

ursdays, my ﬁ rst task was to look over the edition. I needed to

check it for misprints before getting back to Ellen Inman. So I headed
for my desk, spread the paper out and started scanning pages.

Outlines had hit Midtown’s streets two hours earlier. Th

e part-

time distribution staﬀ was just then stuﬃ

ng bales of papers into give-

away boxes in Buckhead, Little Five Points, along Cheshire Bridge
Road and on the near West Side. With any luck, our report on cuts in
arts education in the public schools would be the talk of the newspa-
per-reading audience for at least a couple of days.

I gave the front page close attention. No uncaught typos jumped

out to trip me up. Ibo’s cartoon on page eight looked even better than
the sketch. Closely rendered details—Ramble’s tasseled loafers and
prematurely balding head, the ﬂ ying ballet slippers and quivering
goal posts—added punch to the message.

e Coors ad with the prominent pee-pee, about which Ibo had

warned me, looked sexy but unobjectionable. True, both men’s jeans
were as tight as banana skins. But the prominently silhouetted penis
could just possibly be construed as a fold in the cloth, not an actual
(quite large) human part. As far as brewery ads aimed at white-collar
gays went, the illustration was pretty tame stuﬀ .

I dialed Ellen Inman’s direct line and got her voice mail. She called

me back six minutes later.

“Miss-ter Th

ompson,” she hissed. A lighter clicked, followed by a

drawn-out “Ahhhh.” Th

e mayor’s specialist on community drug abuse

was ﬁ ring up a cigarette. I wondered whether she smoked a ﬁ ltered
brand or rode bareback.

Good morning, Vietnam. “At your service,” I said with all the po-

liteness I could muster.

Hot off the Presses

“I thought we had a deal going.” She took a breath, her deep voice

going a little hoarse with angry pleasure. “I don’t like this at all.”

Genuinely surprised, I asked what she meant.
“Let me review what was said, then. Ahhhhh! I’m looking at my

notes here. You and Marguerite agreed, I believe, to hold oﬀ on your
vicious, one-sided, personal attack until the mayor and his advisers
could review the entire situation. Or am I wrong?”

Deal me out. “Huh?”
“You’ll be glad to know that Mayor Ramble has already expanded

his busy schedule to make room for a visit to the HIV-AIDS Clinic at
Grady Memorial Hospital. Surely you are aware that he’d been hoping
to do so ever since he took oﬃ

ce? But this very special private time

with Atlanta’s aﬄ

icted citizens is being worked in as a personal favor

to, ahhhhh, you and Marguerite.”

Not that I’m a skeptic, but I wanted it on paper. “You’ll be putting

out a press release?”

She sucked in tobacco smoke. “Don’t go there, Henry. Don’t make

me ask whether you doubt my word. I’m giving you an exclusive. Are
we on the same page yet? Th

e mayor’s secretary has it scheduled for

either next Tuesday afternoon or Friday before lunch.”

“Sounds kind of indeﬁ nite. Are you trying for TV coverage? Can

I send a photographer? Th

e mayor gonna make a statement? Or

what?”

“Th

is is personal. Because he cares.”

Yeah, right. “Th

is is wonderful news, Ms. Inman. We’ll certainly

try to cover it.”

“Th

at’s not necessary, not at all. And it’s not why I called.”

Volunteer nothing, deny everything. “Yes’m?”
“About that piece in your paper this morning? It’s all half-baked

innuendo. I have to wonder if your reporter checked any of it out. Th

mayor has a strict hands-oﬀ policy concerning independent boards
such as the Atlanta Board of Education. Do you understand me?
Hands oﬀ and above board—above the table, I mean. What your—
what is she, your secretary? Th

is Bambi? What she wrote—”

“He, him. Bambi Fawne. Bambi’s a he.”

Elliott Mackle

“Well, all right. Moving right along. Whatever this person is, what

he or she wrote—and what you printed—is just plain wrong. Do I
have to walk you through it line by line?”

Editors don’t like issuing corrections and retractions. Good re-

porting usually takes care of it. Yet Ellen wasn’t sounding as if we’d
gotten much wrong. What it sounded like to me was that after she’d
gotten her ass chewed raw she’d been ordered to give me the same
treatment. So I did what editors have done since the invention of the
printing press. “Shoot. We want to give our readers the whole truth
and nothing but.” Th

en I listened and made notes.

Mayor Ramble, she informed me, had never laid eyes on the school

board chair’s memos about staﬀ cuts. Further, she claimed, Ramble’s
chief of staﬀ had seriously overstepped his authority in sending out
a memo suggesting that full-time arts and drama teachers be laid oﬀ
as a cost-cutting measure. Ramble had neither seen the memo nor
approved it. Trying to be cute, she said the mayor couldn’t even pro-
nounce the word Birkenstock. And the quote about the artist Robert
Mapplethorpe was a complete fabrication; the mayor had never been
to Cincinnati except to change planes at the airport.

A sudden shout in the outer oﬃ

ce distracted me. I glanced up and

saw Bambi standing at the window and waving furiously for me to
come. Shutting Mrs. Inman oﬀ in mid-complaint, I promised I’d get
back to her when we had answers to her questions. Meanwhile, we
stood by our story.

I crossed the room and opened my oﬃ

ce door. Mayor Ramble’s

righteous rant ﬁ lled the newsroom. He was cussing out Ibo Williams
via the speaker phone Th

e layout artist waved his notebook in a circle.

e mayor’s aggrieved attack was being caught on tape.

Chad McClelland and Chip Smith, like many prudent publishers

and editors, had equipped the newsroom not only with computer ter-
minals, a laser-print network and comfortable chairs but with top-of-
the-line phones and built-in tape recorders. Ibo, a trained journalist,
had switched on the recorder and speaker as soon as Bambi an-
nounced the caller. Ibo was taking notes and responding as best he
could.

“But what pains me,” the mayor shouted, “young maaan, what

pains me in my soul, what pains me so grievously is that you have

Hot off the Presses

broken bread at my table, you have befriended my beloved son and he
trusted you like a brother. Young maaan, was it all sham and decep-
tion? Have I clasped a serpent to the bosom—the very bosom—of my
family? Can you do this and face your Creator on Judgment Day?”

“Now, Reverend Ramble—” was as far as Ibo got before the dia-

tribe continued.

“Did I stand up with Martin Luther King Jr. in Washington DC

and Memphis? Did I lay down my body to be attacked by Bull Con-
nor’s dogs in Alabama so the spoiled children of Morehouse College
could mock me? I do not own a pair of tasseled shoes! My hair has
receded only slightly. Th

e arts in the City of Atlanta shower blessings

upon us all. As does intramural football. Your owner has already of-
fered an apology and—”

“It’s an editorial cartoon, Reverend, really, and who—?”
“Th

e mayor will not be mocked. We stand at the head of a great

city, a mighty city, one that rises above adversity, above division, above
petty diﬀ erences, above even the sinful heritage of slavery times and
separate but unequal schools! Above Lester Maddox! Did you study
redneck justice at Morehouse? Did you ever sit in a department store
lunch counter except to stuﬀ your face with chicken and biscuits?”

“Our story reported that—”
“Lies!” shouted Ramble. “Distortions and innuendo, not a word

of truth in it, nothing to be believed by decent, God-fearing citizens.
Did anyone around you ask the mayor for a response? Did anyone
pause to consider that the mayor might have something to say about
words being put in his mouth by perverts and prevaricators?”

“Th

ere were witnesses, Reverend Ramble. And I believe our re-

porter did call your oﬃ

ce and talked to—”

“And you! Who was baptized into the holy church of Jesus Christ.

You! Who should be supporting a wife and family and contributing to
the uplift and salvation of ignorant sinners in Christ’s name. You lend
your name and God-given talents to a sink of corruption that can ap-
peal only to perverted pansies and manly women. Boy, you ﬂ irt with
the homosexual lifestyle at the peril of eternal damnation.”

“Outlines has won a number of—”
“Out house it should be called. I’ve seen it. It’s worse than a ﬁ sh-

wrapper, and we both know it. You! Ibo! Child! Do not corrupt inno-

Elliott Mackle

cent youth with the Man’s tainted morals. Repent! Because until you
do, until you forsake the unmanly life, you shall not be welcome in the
house of the mayor. Repent! What our son Martin does, and who he
associates with elsewhere, that’s his own business. But we have to tell
him kindly not to bring you around no more.”

“Well, Reverend Ramble, it’ll be a—”
“Don’t you say it, young man. You be always welcome in my

church. But you had best crawl up the aisle on your knees! Beg God
for forgiveness! Beg God to turn your sissy ballet slippers toward the
path of righteousness and away from evil. Beg God Almighty for an
honorable marriage and children with a good black woman.”

“Your son had nothing to do with—”
“Boy, you just leave our Martin out of this. He’s not studying any

such trash as your paper. He works too hard for such foolishness. And
so do we, doing what we can for this city, and with the whole world
coming to visit next summer.”

After another three or four oﬀ -the-point minutes, Ramble’s angry

political tirade and rolling evangelical language abruptly disappeared.
“Is your dear mother well?” he said. “I ain’t seen her of late. Tell her I
pray for her—and for all the Williams family. Yes, indeed.”

When Ibo didn’t answer, the mayor tried again. “You hear me

boy? Because you know I always got your all’s interests in mind. And
I pray to the Lord God that you’ll come back to the fold before some
bad thing happens.”

When Ramble ﬁ nally hung up and Ibo switched oﬀ the record-

er, Bambi Fawne danced a jig around the room. “He’s a real meanie,”
Bambi squealed. “You, boy”—pointing at Ibo—“and you”—pointing
in my direction—“you perverted, evil faggots. Repent!”

“I’m a manly woman, myself,” Ibo responded, dropping his voice

and holding up a Teva-clad foot. “Ballet slippers to the contrary not-
withstanding.”

“Ramble is going to shit Bibles when he ﬁ nds out you taped him,” I

said, half amused and half afraid of the political bombshell the mayor
had tossed in my lap. “But I’m wondering whether we can use any of
that particular interview. You didn’t warn him you were taping it, did
you?”

Hot off the Presses

“Use it? Th

e Rev knows the rules, boss. He phoned me here in

the newsroom, not at my home. Hey, Bambi girl. When the Reverend
came on the line, you did identify us as Outlines?”

“Sure did, Ibo Jeebo. Just like always, ‘Outlines, your Southern

partner in life, politics and sport.’ His secretary actually placed the
call. But then the Reverend Mayor came right on. And I said it all over
again.”

“So he was deﬁ nitely talking on the record. Th

at be good enough

for us, boss?”

I said I’d give it some thought. What particularly worried me was

not just the journalistic code but Ramble’s throwaway remark that
he’d received an apology from the owner of Outlines. Th

at could mean

either Marguerite or Pope or both, talking out of turn.

I picked up the phone on Ibo’s desk. But Marguerite beat me to

it. As I was punching in the number, the main-line phone rang on
Bambi’s desk.

Pointing to the receiver in my hand, Bambi mouthed “Mother.” I

punched in.

Marguerite omitted the usual pleasantries. “Henry, dear, we are

concerned about what you’ve printed in our paper today. We can’t
imagine what you were thinking.”

“Well, good morning, ma’am. And let me ask ﬁ rst if either you or

Pope spoke to Mayor Ramble or Ellen Inman this morning. Because
I’m concerned that the mayor thinks he’s received some kind of apol-
ogy from us. And Ms. Inman mentioned some unspeciﬁ ed deal. So I
have to be very concerned about interference in my newsroom.”

“Henry, dear, your newsroom? When we left you on Tuesday, we

agreed to a story about the school board, not an attack on Rawson
Ramble. And that’s what I told Ellen.”

“And I’m afraid that’s what’s called talking out of school. Journal-

ists and press reps play by an agreed-upon set of rules. Th

at includes

newsroom integrity and conﬁ dentiality. Inman is a political ﬂ ack,
a conduit between the administration and the press. She provides
information and tries to inﬂ uence reporters to take their side. She
knows the rules, or ought to. A newspaper tries to report all sides,
and print what the editors believe to be true.”

“Don’t lecture me, young man. Ellen is an old friend.”

Elliott Mackle

“If it turns out we’re wrong, we print a correction.”
“I didn’t say the facts were wrong. But the insulting tone, that hor-

rible cartoon. I was oﬀ ended.”

Pope McClelland must have been listening on another phone. “Th

headline is unforgivable—Henry? Pope here. Th

e headline is no bet-

ter than locker-room talk. Have to question your judgment there.”

“Sir, I told you the mayor was involved in this. We cited two sourc-

es. His ﬁ ngerprints are all over the job cuts in arts education. As we
reported. Th

e cartoon ﬁ ts the facts.”

“Anonymous sources,” Pope said. “On that, we have, uh, reserva-

tions.”

“Rez-uh-vay-shuns,” his wife echoed.
“Deep Th

roat was anonymous,” I said. “During Watergate.”

“Rawson is no Dick Nixon,” Pope said.
“We don’t know that,” Marguerite countered. “What we do know

is that Pope and I have decided we need to know in advance when
you plan to publish potentially controversial stories, at least in the
near future.”

“Just until we are all in agreement,” Pope added. “Because Mar-

guerite and I want the paper to continue to publish as a memorial to
our son. You see?”

“We thought we’d come in ﬁ rst thing tomorrow morning? Is that

all right with you, Henry dear? Is that too soon?”

What could I say?

s usual, Ibo and Bambi had been shamelessly eavesdropping. Af-
ter the McClellands hung up, Ibo spoke ﬁ rst.

“Daddy McClelland wants him some truth, huh? Well, that-

there football cartoon of mine don’t cut near close enough to the
bone. Next time what about we be’s showing the mayor with his pants
down and his ﬂ ag pole waving.”

“I knew you cut too much out of my story,” Bambi said, talking

over Ibo and beginning to whimper. “Th

ey’re going to ﬁ re me. I’ll be

out of a job.”

“Maybe they will,” I said. “But not yet.”
While Bambi sniﬄ

ed about his dashed hopes for a big-time ca-

reer in radical gay journalism, I asked him to get busy on the phone

Hot off the Presses

and call in our staﬀ reporter, our senior free-lance writers and pho-
tographers with regular gigs and the ad-sales chief for a six-o’clock
meeting.

Turning to Ibo, I asked, “Pants down? With his ﬂ ag pole waving?

You don’t mean he exposes himself?”

Leading me across the newsroom to his drawing table, Ibo shook

his head, whispered “Boss, boss, boss,” and began rapidly sketching
a black church lady in Ella Fitzgerald glasses and a large Sunday hat,
kneeling in prayer. Behind her, also kneeling, a balding black man—
obviously Ramble—lifted the lady’s skirt with one hand and unzipped
his ﬂ y with the other.

“Boss, boss, boss. You just don’t know, do you? You really don’t?”
“Jesus, I guess you’re right. So what don’t I know?”
“My mama slipped up one time and told me. It happened to a

friend of hers—a well-respected church choir director. Th

e lady’s

husband was a deacon in Ramble’s congregation at that time. Th

e Rev

told her—ah, well, whatever he told her, he got to her, he got him-
self into her sweet, trusting mind. He got her so turned around she
couldn’t do nothing but what he asked her to do—do with him.”

Bambi squealed. “Holy homos!”
“Th

is is the preacher who just talked so big about marriage and

family and kicking the gay lifestyle? Our mayor is even more an A-
Number-One hypocrite than we ﬁ gured?”

“Come to ﬁ nd out, boss, that Mrs.—ah, the lady I mentioned—she

wasn’t the ﬁ rst or last church member he messed with. Th

ere was

ladies in several churches, actually. Over a dozen that my mama per-
sonally knows of. Seems like he’s following President Kennedy’s wick-
ed ways rather than Brother Mohandas Gandhi’s path of peace. But
it’s not generally known.”

“Most of the black churches supported him in the election. Th

at’s

his big constituency.”

“Th

ey did. It is. A lot of our people don’t know. Or they vote for

who they’re told to vote for or paid to vote for. I been around the Rev
half my life. His son Martin and I were in the same home room to-
gether and then frat brothers at Morehouse. We still hang out some.
Marty’s okay. But the Rev? Somebody once said he’s a hard cock with
a politician attached.”

Elliott Mackle

“Keep working on that sketch,” I said. “Th

anks for telling me about

this. I need to go make a few calls.”

“No pee-pee in the picture,” Ibo answered. “I know.”
Back at my desk, with the door closed, I pulled out my Rolodex

ﬁ le. First I phoned Ted Brown, my Duke fraternity brother. I told him
right oﬀ that I was interested in working with him and the Atlanta
Committee for the Olympic Games. But I said I’d like to discuss op-
tions before appearing at his downtown oﬃ

ce for a formal interview.

Ted had already made clear he wanted me as an assistant press chief.
So he agreed quickly, and we scheduled an informal dinner meeting
for the following week.

As a backup, I called Ann Kaplan, managing director of St. John’s

House, the AIDS shelter. I was scheduled to spend time with my bud-
dy at the house later that week, anyway—read to him, because his
eyesight was almost gone, and help him bathe. So I suggested that
Ann and I meet the same day, talk generally about press relations, and
discuss how I might be of use to her and her board. Ann, too, quickly
agreed.

ose tasks done, I pulled my coat oﬀ the rack, opened the oﬃ

door and informed Bambi that I was taking a long, early lunch.

“In a total meltdown emergency,” I told him, “leave a message at

Midtown Men’s Club. Otherwise, say I’m in a meeting.”

Which actually wasn’t too far from the truth, not once I entered

the club, stowed my clothes, showered, grabbed a towel and stepped
naked into the steam room.

CHAPTER 7

MUTUAL ADMIRATION

wo old men, white towels wrapped snugly around their waists,
sat side by side in the steam room at Midtown Men’s. Neither
glanced up when I pulled the door shut. At the far end of the

room, half obscured in shadow and steam, a much younger man was
standing upright on the teakwood bench. His hands were clasped
over his head. His shoulders rocked as he stretched and pulled his
arms and elbows. Muscular and compact, he was no taller than ﬁ ve-
six or ﬁ ve-seven, an inch or two shorter than I am.

I arranged my towel on the tiled shelf halfway down the room, set-

tled back, shut my eyes and waited for the sweat to come. Drawing in
long breaths through my nose, letting the hot air ﬂ ow out through my
mouth, coughing occasionally because the atmosphere was perfumed
with what smelled like Mentholatum, I tried to ﬁ nd my center.

Concentrate on the breath. Th

e breath, the breath. Just the breath.

e breath of meditation, the Zen breath, the Tantric breath, the trance

breath. Th

e breath, the breath. Breathe in, breathe out.

e job is not what you signed up for. Outlines changed radically

the day Chip and Chad drowned oﬀ Sea Island. You can quit. You
cannot save the gay and lesbian movement all by yourself. Not in a
hundred years. Not with the McClellands running your case. It may
be time to move on.

Wait, stop. Concentrate on the breath. You aren’t centered. Th

Zen breath. Breathe in, breathe out.

Elliott Mackle

Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe in, exhale. Breathe in, ex-

hale.

Damn, damn, I’m by myself too much. Mark’s dead. Th

e job’s all

I’ve got. Ibo’s got a partner. Bambi’s got his biker-boy. Pope and Mar-
guerite at least have each other. Skip’s a buddy, not a partner. Breathe,
breathe. Skip and I know each other too well. Maybe if we hadn’t both
had boyfriends when we met at Wildﬁ re Ranch. Maybe if we’d taken
it slow when we did get together. And this isn’t the ﬁ rst time I’ve gotten
close to a good man and it didn’t work out. I don’t even have a dog.
Sure, I can get laid, I can get laid all I want. Tricks and fuck buddies
are easy. Skip turns my nuts inside out. But this goddamn by-myself-
ness doesn’t cut it. I need to settle down with somebody. Except my
somebody never even ﬂ ashes on the screen. Where is my guy, huh?

Henry, Henry, Henry. Concentrate on the breath. Concentrate on

the breath.

Breathe, exhale. Breathe, exhale. My somebody’s got to be out

there—right around the corner, someplace—but where? Should I go
out and do street reporting? Start networking? Atlanta is ﬁ ve times
bigger than Jacksonville. Jacksonville had it all over Gainesville, not to
mention Duke.

Breathe. Breathe.
Shit. Shit.
Th

e center was not holding. Sweat had started to come. I was sop-

ping. My scalp felt like a woolen doormat, my neck and underarms
were little Okeefenokee swamps. Rigid and deﬁ nitely unrelaxed, I
could feel the sharp corners of my shoulder blades pressing against
the hot, unforgiving tile.

Maybe the athletic young man standing on the sauna bench is my

Zen. Or could be.

e soft place at the back of my balls was beginning to sizzle. I

wondered what his face looked like.

Breathe, exhale, breathe, exhale.
Using my hands as scrapers, I slicked the sweat oﬀ my head, arms,

chest and thighs.

Without hoping for much, I stretched my cock out, rearranged

my scrotum and cracked my eyes open. Th

e old men were gone. Th

Hot off the Presses

steam valve had cut oﬀ . Th

e younger man was standing perfectly still,

feet together, hands on his genitals, staring down at me.

e wooden bench creaked as he stepped to the ﬂ oor, dropped

onto his hands and feet and began a series of pushups. Th

e straight

line from his neck through his waist to his butt, knees and ankles
didn’t waver as he completed a dozen lifts, then two, then three doz-
en, then four. His biceps resembled oblong French loaves. His thighs
seemed made of molten brass sheathed in tan glove leather.

Okay, total honesty here: I didn’t look so bad myself. My dad, a

decorated air force pilot, passed on his long, strong bones, clean An-
glo complexion, high-energy grin on a rectangular face and better
than average intelligence. Workouts, avoidance of dope and relatively
light indulgence in Jack Daniel’s, plus being well inside forty (I was
thirty-four that year), added up to a package that a lot of guys, and an
occasional woman, seemed to like just ﬁ ne.

e youngster on the ﬂ oor had a helmet of dark hair, long face,

charcoal eyebrows, bright white but slightly out-of-kilter teeth, dim-
pled Irish chin and straight, narrow nose. His sharply deﬁ ned muscles,
tight skin and popped veins resembled a contour roadmap. Except for
the hard, round butt, ankles and feet, he was lightly tanned. Th

e un-

tanned portions of skin reminded me of cream-colored boxer shorts
and white tennis socks.

Later, he told me he was a semi-professional athlete and that the

tan lines were from countless laps run outdoors in a lucky pair of cot-
ton shorts. Otherwise, he wore white briefs provided free by Hanes
and Champion, as well as jockstraps, warm-up suits and cotton shirts
from the same sources. Both companies belonged to the Sara Lee
conglomerate, a free-spending Olympic sponsor. Other USOC and
ACOG donors provided incidentals such as wristwatches (Swatch),
shoes (Nike), trousers (Levi Straus) and a black pickup truck (Ford).
Local corporations took care of air transportation (Delta Air Lines),
groceries (the Coca-Cola Company), membership and dues at Mid-
town Men’s (UPS) and a part-time, full-pay job that consisted mostly
of personal appearances (Home Expo).

Rising to his feet, the young man spoke ﬁ rst. “You mind if I give us

some steam?” His hands were on his hips now. I glanced up. He nailed
me with his deep-set, Tom Cruise eyes. He had thick, supple thighs,

Elliott Mackle

a tightly knotted navel on a long waist and the kind of wide, rounded
shoulders that look padded but aren’t.

When I nodded and said, “Sure, ﬁ ne with me,” he picked up the

steam room’s hose, turned the tap and squirted cold water up at the
thermostat’s extension rod. Hot clouds began billowing up under my
feet.

I didn’t need to touch my cock to know I was responding visibly to

the young man’s presence. I didn’t try to hide it.

Nor did he cover his rising erection as he closed the tap, crossed

the room, wiped his hands and face with a towel and settled down on
the tiled ledge opposite me, his legs apart, waiting.

When I touched myself, he did the same. Leaning his head to one

side, speculatively, he stared back at me. I nodded, running my eyes
up and down his body, stopping to admire his tapered calves, narrow
hips and genitals before returning to his face.

e mirror image wasn’t exact, and not only in terms of ﬁ tness

and musculature. I’m circumcised, as are most of the men I know.
Th

is young man was not, another reason to notice him.

Touching the tip of his penis, he drew the foreskin down, expos-

ing the squared-oﬀ head, then up, down again, up, down, drawing in
sharp, hurt-sounding breaths as he stroked himself.

No doubt about it, the guy was with me. We’d connected so im-

mediately we might as well have been hot-wired together. I stood up,
took a couple of steps toward him, bent over and touched my fore-
head to his. Breathing in his light scent, I squeezed one of his nipples
hard.

He pulled me closer. I thought he wanted to exchange kisses or

settle me onto his lap. Instead, he placed both hands on my shoulders
and gently guided me to a kneeling position in front of him.

Safe Sex Rule Number One: Never exchange body ﬂ uids with a

total stranger. I was not about to suck this guy’s cock, not even if he
actually was Tom Cruise (which he wasn’t) or even if he was an early
favorite for gold medals at the Atlanta Games (which he actually was,
though I didn’t know it yet).

Instead, pulling his hips slightly forward on the tile shelf, I took

his balls into my mouth, a move I ﬁ nd almost as much fun as sucking
cocks—and one that’s safe.

Hot off the Presses

His hips rose when I began gently prodding his scrotum with my

tongue. “Oh man. Yeah man.”

I ﬁ gured maybe he’d never enjoyed that particular ride, or one

that good. I seemed to be on the right track, but I wasn’t there yet. So
I didn’t let up.

After a couple of minutes of this, he was pumping his own hard

dick. I got to one knee, preparing to rise, kissing the insides of his
thighs, then his nipples and mouth as I did so. Reaching for me, he
grabbed my cock with his other hand, pulling and pushing roughly.

He had bruises on his wrists, forearms, hips and forehead, all—he

told me later—the result of spills he’d taken during training on the
pommel horse, his gymnastic specialty, and on the rings, the other
device on which he was a world-class competitor.

Picture a miniature John Kennedy Jr. with a dash of Abe Lincoln

seriousness and you begin to get the picture. In short, he was one of
the best looking men I’d ever been sexual with, the most physically
developed, and as enthusiastic a cock-pumping pleasure seeker as
any Body Magic brother I knew.

“I could come,” I whispered. “Soon. Feels great.”
“On me,” he said, winking and breathing hard yet sounding al-

most cocky. “Pull on me down here, yeah, yeah, there, harder,” he said,
drawing my other hand down behind his scrotum, wrapping my ﬁ n-
gers around his smallish pouch.

He pressed my hand tighter, directing me, until I mastered the

vigorous up-and-down rhythm he wanted.

“On me,” he said again, breathing hard, pulling on my cock just as

hard, adding between breaths, “Look at me, man. Just look at me.”

I did. We locked eyes. He felt a mile deep. I took a breath and

dropped my barriers. Th

at was it.

Zen.
Th

e breath. Concentrate on the breath. Nothing else exists but our

eyes, these hands and cocks, our breaths right this instant, bright wet
pearls ﬂ ying, my juice mixing with yours. Oh goddamn fuck. Again,
again. Breathe. I can’t breathe. One more. Oh Christ. On him. On
me.

I thought I’d fall. He caught hold of me as I started losing my bal-

ance, pulled me to his side, and into a laughing embrace.

Elliott Mackle

“Oh, man,” he said.

ater, showered and dressed, Wade Tarpley and I exchanged
names and conspiratorial grins over mugs of dark-roast organic
Sulawesi at the Caribou coﬀ ee bar opposite Ansley Mall. Both of

us were intent on extending the rush of happy discovery that’d started
at the club. And so we opened up more than Atlanta men ordinarily
do after anonymous beat-oﬀ sessions in steam rooms.

“You wore me out,” Wade said, throwing me another wink and a

big aw-shucks smile. “Wore me out real good. Feels like I been run
through the fuck machine twice.” Rolling his shoulders, he pulled oﬀ
his USA warm-up jacket, revealing his pumped arms. “I don’t have an
un-come muscle in my body, man,” he added, dropping the jacket on
the magazine rack next to his chair.

“You gave me the energy. You’re fun to play with. Can we—well,

hey, I’d like us to hook up again.”

“You kidding me? God, yes. Goes without saying.”
“Whew,” I said, brushing imaginary sweat oﬀ my brow. “I’d have

had to keep hitting on you, otherwise. Maybe followed you home.”

“I’d seen you at the club before, Henry. I had my eye on you. You

weren’t gonna get away.”

I shivered. “You did? How come? What did you like?”
“I appreciate that you didn’t take any notice of me, ﬁ rst oﬀ . A lot

of people know my name, my face, and they think they know me.” He
shrugged. “Th

ey’ve seen me at matches, on the tube, whatever.”

“And they either hang back or get too close all of a sudden, get

too familiar?” Th

e freelance writer who’d approached me during din-

ner at the Carillon came to mind. “I kind of know what you’re talking
about.”

“I worked out next to you last week, just taking a break from rou-

tine. I usually train over at Tech, with my coach, every day. You didn’t
give me a second glance. It just blew me away.”

“When I’m on the machines, I zone out,” I replied, slightly embar-

rassed. “You could have been Jane Fonda.”

“I don’t think so.”

Hot off the Presses

Wade was seated with his back facing the counter and the few

other people in the room. So when I saw a man approaching us, I
merely glanced up and then away.

e man halted just past us, inspected the cold ﬁ replace behind

me, and turned to nail his celebrity sighting.

Wade had started to say something else, something about his

workout schedule. Th

e man moved closer, stopped inches from our

table and bent down. When Wade still didn’t look up, the man stuck
out a ballpoint pen and a brown paper napkin stamped with the Cari-
bou logo. “Wade? Would you mind? An autograph? For my daughter.
She’s a big fan of yours, her name is Tiﬀ anie—that’s T-I-double-F-A-
N-I-E. How you doin’ today?”

Wade looked up, as if surprised, and took the paper and pen.

While he signed, the man provided his own name, handed over two
printed business cards and gave us an open invitation to call anytime
we needed advice on procuring or installing commercial heating and
air conditioning systems.

“You should of got the gold in Barcelona,” the man said pleasantly

before saying goodbye. “You’ll get one or two for us next summer, for
sure, Wade.”

Getting to his feet, Wade ﬁ shed a handful of gold-wash-and-

enamel USOC pins out of his coat pocket. He handed two of the cel-
lophane-wrapped pins to the man, “For Tiﬀ anie and Tiﬀ anie’s dad,”
he said. He handed another pin to me. I put mine next to my cup on
the table.

“Wear these at the Games,” he added, eﬀ ortlessly stepping into the

role of on-duty public ﬁ gure. “Cheer for the whole American team,
not just Wade Tarpley. Keep your ﬁ ngers crossed that I even qualify.
Pray for the best Games ever.”

“We’ll be there,” the fan promised. “So will you, Wade. God, this

is a thrill.”

After the man went away, Wade dropped into his chair, sat silent

for a minute or so, then caught my eye and held the look.

“What?” I ﬁ nally asked.
He looked away. I sipped my coﬀ ee. When I looked up again, he

was staring back.

“What?” I said again.

Elliott Mackle

“You sure you didn’t recognize me, back at the club?”
“What does it matter? Truth? No, I didn’t. It felt good being with

you today.”

He held the stare. “Th

is ain’t any game, Henry.”

“I knew your name. Everybody in Atlanta knows your name. But

in the steam room? I recognized a man I wanted to be with, a man I
thought I’d never seen before.”

He shook himself, puppy-like, and pulled a sidewise grin. “When

in actual fact, I was tracking you.” He reached out, scooped up the cel-
lo-wrapped pins and put them back in his pocket. “Th

ese are cheap-

shit plastic. I’ve got better ones at home, real gold. I’ll give you one
of them. Or do you want a stars-and-stripes windbreaker like this?
What size do you take? Somebody at ACOG sent me a dozen. Four
sizes.”

“Is this the price you pay?” I asked, gesturing toward the door.

“Th

at guy? Somebody always wanting something?”

Wade retreated back inside the silent stare.
“You don’t have to give me presents. You’re giving me your time.

You gave me yourself at the club.”

“I’m still not used to it. Th

ey stare at me when I’m competing,

when I meet with the Little League team we sponsor, when I go to the
Kroger.”

“What if Tiﬀ anie’s dad had recognized you in the steam bath?”
“No problem. I’d have had a towel around my waist in record time.

You and me would have hooked up another day.”

“A friend of mine’s a big fan of yours,” I said. “You ought to meet

him, Skip Roberts, he’s a masseur, he’s going to work the Games as a
volunteer. We got together a couple of nights ago.”

“Got together? As in, like we just did? You boyfriends or some-

thing? I mean, it’s none of my business. I thought you were kind of
available.”

I shrugged. “We’re not boyfriends. We gave it a try. We met during

a Body Magic seminar in California. Now we don’t have any secrets.”

“Body Magic? Th

at some kind of dating service?”

“Not by intention—though it’s partly about men getting together

for safer sex, men who care about each other and honor each other’s
limits.”

Hot off the Presses

ere I went, sounding like a pamphleteer again. Evidently I was

convincing, though, at least initially.

“Safe? Like—you wear two sets of rubbers when you fuck?”
“It’s not about fucking. We don’t wear anything. It’s all pretty

much nude, except we wear socks, so we don’t get massage oil on the
ﬂ oor and have somebody slip and bust his ass.”

Wade looked skeptical. “And you take classes in this stuﬀ ? Man!”
“Sure. Tantric massage is a technique you have to learn. So is

rhythmic breathing—like I was doing in the steam room before I shot
oﬀ . When I’m on a massage table, sometimes I go into a trance or ﬂ y
away somewhere. Th

e ﬁ rst time I did it—well, hey, I don’t want to tell

you too much, or bore you. And it’d spoil the impact if you decide to
take the training. We have pretty good teachers, actually. And a guru.
He lives in California.”

Wade shook his head. “I don’t think so. Th

ere’s no way I could

ﬁ nd the time for anything not connected to jumping the horse. And
it must cost.”

is didn’t sound right. I looked around. “Dues aren’t cheap at

Midtown Men’s.”

He smiled, not sheepishly but as if this was a small part of a much

bigger joke. “It’s a perk, man. One of the sponsors arranged it—UPS
headquarters. Th

ey give club memberships to half a dozen Georgia

Olympians. We have to wear shit-brown, delivery-boy warm-ups
during meets in Japan and Korea.”

at’s when he told me about the free sportswear, plane tickets

and groceries. Which sounded okay for a semi-professional jock. He
didn’t mention the Ford pickup until later.

What he said next, before I went back to the oﬃ

ce, should have

made a diﬀ erence, though. But I stuﬀ ed it. Didn’t think it through.
Listened to the words but not the implications. Didn’t see the silent
stare as a warning bell. Gave my brand-new, world-class, sex toy-in-
training the beneﬁ t of every goddamn doubt in the book.

“No way could I ever play around with a bunch of strangers in

public,” he said. “One-on-one, sure, like with you. If word got out,
I’d be bounced oﬀ the USA Gymnastics team faster than Ted Turner
makes money. My sponsorships—hell, my career—would be down

Elliott Mackle

the toilet. Anyhow, I’m in a relationship. See, I want to get married
later, and have kids.”

I must have blushed with disappointment. My gut felt like an ex-

press elevator headed for the basement. He noticed.

“Henry, I want to be sexy with you,” he said, his voice low, his blue

eyes probing mine, hooking me. “Not with a bunch of dicks I don’t
know. Didn’t you hear me say I’d had my eye on you. From way back.
And then when you—well, what we did, and, you know, how it felt?”

My intestinal elevator slowed but didn’t halt its downward plunge.

Back oﬀ , I thought. He isn’t available. Time to get back to the oﬃ

ce.

is was a one-time deal, fun while it lasted.

Leaning forward, Wade motioned me closer. “Your buddy Skip?

He’s white, too, right?”

When I nodded, he continued. “Cool. Too many intown guys par-

ty in mixed company, am I right? Like, in integrated packs, black and
white, you know? Turns me oﬀ . Far as Wade Tarpley’s concerned, in
those kinds of matters, white is right.”

Another warning bell ignored. I was still thinking with my balls. “I

take it you aren’t dating Hank Aaron’s daughter?”

He winked, smiled and touched my shoulder. “Celeste’s white

as they come, a Cobb County girl. And see, she’s a nurse. She’s had
medical training, plus had all the psychological angles knocked oﬀ
in post-grad training at Piedmont Hospital. Me, too, for that matter.
Team has a sports psychologist that works with the athletes real close.
I learned to visualize my moves years before Barcelona.”

He sat back. “Celeste cuts me plenty of slack. Recognizes the pres-

sure on a man. Doesn’t ask what I do when she’s not around.”

It all sounded so reasonable. “How does your weekend look?” I

said. “I can make time.”

“I got training sessions at Tech. What about we hook up on Satur-

day, say around twelve-thirty or one? Take it from there?”

Pulling a business card out of my coat pocket, I printed my home

phone number and address on the back. “Would you be driving?
Leave the car anywhere on Sixth Street,” I said. “Come around to the
back. Don’t bother to knock.”

Hot off the Presses

“Sounds good,” he said, jotting a number on a paper napkin. “Why

don’t you call me Friday to conﬁ rm. Punch in where you are, I’ll call
you right back.”

I said I would. And that was that.

CHAPTER 8

THE OLYMPIC FLAME

e have a plan,” Ted Brown said when we met for dinner. “Straight
from A.D. Frazier, who’s Billy Payne’s right-hand man. But this
info is deﬁ nitely not for publication, Henry. I know you can keep

your trap shut until you’re on board, right?”

I hadn’t actually agreed to take the ACOG press-oﬃ

ce position.

But my fraternity big brother was doing a hell of a selling job. He
was treating me like a trusted insider. He wanted me as a player in
Atlanta’s biggest-ever eﬀ ort at international boosterism. Th

e money

and responsibility he oﬀ ered were substantial. I almost said yes on the
spot. Th

e prospect of working as Ted’s news manager, even though

the gig would last less than a year, felt considerably better than strug-
gling to ride out the McClellands’ whims and fancies until another
gay-press job turned up.

“A.D. got all the top information weenies around a table last week,

including yours truly,” Ted continued. “Th

e man just laid it out. He

bites for keeps; that’s for sure. ACOG is not only going to manage
the ﬂ ow of news and blend sponsors’ interests with coverage of our
world-class athletes. We’re going to ration and direct the information
stream day to day, beginning December one. Th

ree of us are draft-

ing a hush-hush calendar, starting Monday, just as a talking point for
our next confab. I’d like you to jump right on that for me. Get your
feet wet. Ya’ see, Little Bro, we’ll have a diﬀ erent venue or event fea-
tured every day right up to Opening Ceremonies. Th

is’ll be tied in to

Elliott Mackle

international qualifying competitions, exclusive development stories
on athletes, limited-edition shirts and souvenir collectibles—all the
usual ﬂ uﬀ stuﬀ that builds fan interest. Plus—I’m sorry to say, but
this is our reality at ACOG—we plan big spotlights on the products
that major sponsors like Coke and Sara Lee and Kodak expect to in-
troduce next summer. I ran the whole scenario by my counterpart
in Barcelona last night over the phone. He was ﬂ abbergasted. Had a
phrase for it: ‘¡De puede se imaginar!’ Which means something like,
‘Wow.’ No host committee has ever approached coverage manage-
ment in quite this way.”

Ted sipped his Chardonnay. Th

e ACOG slush fund was paying

for top dollar slosh—1991 ZD Reserve. Ted knew I got oﬀ on oaky,
muscular California whites so he’d ordered a bottle of the expensive
Napa product to start. We’d ﬁ nished our crab cakes, a signature dish
at Chefs’ Café on Piedmont Road, and were well into second glasses
of the Chard when Ted handed me the wine list. “See anything you
been dreaming about? My expense account is stretchy as grandma’s
drawers.”

Mike Tuohy, the restaurant’s owner-manager, appeared at Ted’s

elbow, holding the iced bottle of ZD at its base, topping oﬀ our glass-
es. “Gentlemen, your shrimp-and-scallop pastas will be out in three
minutes. If you care to stick to whites, Mr. Brown, I did manage to
secure a supply of Joy Sterling’s Iron Horse 1990 Celebration Cuvée.
It’s a limited-edition Olympics special. Only about two hundred and
ﬁ fty cases are being released. I’m not even supposed to be selling it
yet. But since you’re with ACOG, it would be my pleasure to give you
an advance tasting.”

Ted nodded at me. “You want bubble water to celebrate?”
He was pushing me for a decision on the job oﬀ er. I knew I needed

to sleep on it. So I glanced up at Tuohy. “You don’t think champagne
is too light for the seafood?”

Tuohy didn’t blink. “Of course we have the whole list of Fetzer

special bottlings for the Centennial Games, Mr. Th

ompson. But,” he

said, turning back to Ted, “you know me, being from Northern Cali-
fornia. And wanting to support the Games? Th

e Fetzer Chardonnay

does have a lot of body to it. But I’d say it’s somewhat rougher and a
lot thinner than the ZD.”

Hot off the Presses

“Fetzer signed on as a sponsor real early,” Ted explained. “Th

ey’re

paying ACOG a bloody fortune to put Olympic ﬂ ames on their main-
stream hooch. Nationwide, there’s just been a huge outpouring of
support for the Games.”

“Th

e shipping cartons even look like souvenirs,” Tuohy said. “Some

of my customers are taking them home. A few are laying down some
of the Fetzer bottles.” He smiled. “Don’t know how long the stuﬀ ’ll
last.”

“Whatever you guys decide,” I said. “I have to drive, though.”
We settled on a Gewürztraminer—not Fetzer but the expensive

stuﬀ from Germany.

“I’m torn,” I admitted a little later over the seafood. “I’ve known

you for sixteen years, since the day I pledged the house at Duke. I
need to be honest. I want to come with you. But I hate to dump the
McClellands when they’re in a bind. Feels like win-lose, lose-win.”

Ted sniﬀ ed his wine, air-kissed the sweet-spicy perfume, then ap-

preciatively sipped. “Th

ey’re an old Atlanta family. Th

ey’d view this

as helping hold up the side, I think. Atlanta is hosting the Games, not
just the Atlanta Committee. We—ACOG—we’re the coordinators,
the go-fers, you could say. Th

e homefolks ultimately beneﬁ t—just like

Atlanta business does: Delta Air Lines, Georgia Power, UPS, Home
Expo and, presumably, McClelland and Co.”

Rather than answer quickly, I sipped the honey-colored Gewurz

and put down the glass, disappointed. It had too many ﬂ avors, like
a banana split. “Th

e McClellands want to run the paper as a monu-

ment to their dead son. Th

ey’ve chewed me out twice in the last three

weeks. Make it nice, don’t print anything that might oﬀ end somebody
and for God’s sake no sexy male models in the Coors’ Beer ads. You
know?”

“I don’t say we aren’t going to be looking at issues, Little Brother.

e IOC press people have a lot of funny ideas—like how we can

portray certain committee members, what can not be mentioned on
pain of death—expense money that most people would call bribes.
You know.”

“Th

e international committee of thugs and murderers—Andy

Young’s UN buddies? Th

e gang of Th

ird World thieves that sold the

Games to Atlanta? Like that?”

Elliott Mackle

“First and Second World, too. You didn’t hear me say so. Th

ugs

and thieves on the IOC, yeah. Th

eir politics are majorly diﬀ erent than

anything I ever knew about. General Francis Nyngweese of Uganda,
for instance, Idi Amin’s henchman. A real piece of work. And Dr. Un
Yong Kim, a.k.a. Mickey Kim, the English-speaking son of a Korean
prostitute, well known as an arms-dealing go-between for President
Park. I don’t know if there are any murderers, not for sure. But clearly
we’re going to have to adjust your attitude a notch or two.”

e wine was making us talky, conﬁ dential. Ted had ordered des-

sert, peach crisp with cinnamon ice cream. He had two kids at home
and sported a married man’s belly. It didn’t look bad on him. He’d
been handsomer, though, back at the house, when he’d stayed bone
thin—from carrying so many business texts around, we joked—but
also because he avoided sucking up the spaghetti and pizza dinners in
which the fraternity’s penny-pinching cook specialized.

“What about gay and lesbian? You got a place for us in your hush-

hush calendar?”

Ted put down his spoon. “Knew you were going to ask that, Hen-

ry.”

“It’s my beat, hey.”
“Frankly, and for the record, it hasn’t come up, not as far as our

oﬃ

ce is concerned. Th

e Olympic Games are family entertainment.

Some of the delegates come from very conservative, uh—”

I didn’t like the sound of this. “Th

uggery’s okay in Uganda and

Korea, huh? But not cock sucking and pussy bumping. You’re right. I
do have some attitude.”

“Disney was wrong,” Ted answered mildly. “It’s a big world, not a

small one. A lot of jockstrappers—and thugs—are probably as much
alike, one to another, as a bunch of pedigreed lab rats. But only as
jockstrappers and thugs. What they do oﬀ court can no doubt aﬀ ect
the public acceptance of a particular sport, not to mention individual
performances. But IOC says your kind of extracurricular workouts,
pre- and post-event, are not our business.”

I was clenching my ﬁ st around the wine stem by the time he ﬁ n-

ished. Rather than risk breaking the glass, I put it down, hard. Ted
winced.

Hot off the Presses

“Being a gay man is not what I do oﬀ duty. Greg Louganis was

sleeping with his coach and spilling tainted blood on unsuspecting
medics long before somebody dragged his terriﬁ ed, jockstrapper butt
out of the closet. Have you heard of Tom Waddell, the American de-
cathlete? He was gayer than Rock Hudson—and a hell of a lot braver
and more open about his life.”

Ted leaned toward me, concern plastered across his slightly

homely face. “Henry, you’re not. Please…don’t… Oh, fuck. Don’t tell
me you have AIDS?”

Where had this come from? “No, no. I’ve been so safe for so long

I hardly even catch head colds. Why?”

“All those guys you mentioned caught AIDS. Rock Hudson and

Waddell died of it. Of course I’ve heard of Tom Waddell. Give me a
break. I keep a stack of sports books next to my bed. Th

e IOC sued

him, right, when he tried to start something called the Gay Olym-
pics?”

“What I mean is,” I said, not soothed, “how’m I gonna feel if it

turns out I’ve signed up for nine months of work to promote thuggy
homophobes, IOC pussy killers and goose-stepping supporters of
Nazi family values?”

“Which is why I want your journalistic radar,” Ted answered

quietly. “So we get the good ship Atlanta through the Nyngweese-
and-Company mineﬁ eld and safely home.” He sipped his wine. “You
don’t have to tell me that Juan Antonio Samaranch, the IOC chair, is
a Franco Fascist. Dick Pound, his Canadian sidekick, probably wears
a brown shirt, too. Sieg heil, Generalissimo! Gay issues are bound to
come up. I know you’ve already reported on horse shit like the ﬁ rings
at Cracker Barrel and the so-called Olympics Out of Cobb debates
in Marietta. Racial issues will be out there for sure, too—women’s is-
sues, handicapped-access issues.”

“Cross-dressing street-walker issues? Deliverance-type butt-fuck

issues up in redneck North Georgia where you’re ﬁ xing to run the
rough-water canoe races?”

We both laughed. Th

e tension broke.

“Can I call you the ﬁ rst of next week?” I said. “I want to do this—

work with you. I love Atlanta. But I need to think it over for a couple
of days. See where I stand.”

Elliott Mackle

Ted looked momentarily disappointed. But his answer was kind

and encouraging. “Worst case, Henry. Mother of worst cases. Say you
decide not to come with us. It’ll be Shit City for me personally. But
I’ll have to live with it. You need to be involved in the Games, though.
You have a job to do, one way or the other, you and your newspaper.
So we’ll make it happen. Trust me on that.”

CHAPTER 9

THREE’S A CROWD

called Wade’s apartment from the pay phone at Chefs’ Café. He
picked up on the second ring. “Why don’t you come on over,” he
said, with no preliminaries. “I’m missing us being together, man.

But we got to talk.”

We’d hooked up three times since our encounter at Midtown

Men’s Club. We met once at my apartment; once for lunch with Skip
Roberts at Zocalo, a Mexican restaurant on Tenth Street (followed by
a quickie, again at my apartment), and once in Wade’s condo just oﬀ
Peachtree Road. Wade’s ﬁ ancée Celeste Emery was on duty at Pied-
mont Hospital that afternoon. We’d talked a lot then.

“Oh man, oh man, oh man,” he’d whispered that last time, lying

in my arms in his bed, kissing my shoulder, both of us sticky and
sweaty and stinking of safe but energetic sex. “Th

at was it, the great-

est. Greatest ever, maybe. I’ve never, never had anybody do all that for
me, share himself like you do.”

I touched his ears and rubbed his thick brush of hair. “You’re

worth it. Anytime.” But I was already watching the clock, wary, ready
to cover our tracks should Celeste return early. “You think we’d better
change these sheets? Before your, ah, lady friend gets home?”

Reaching out, he pulled me down on top of him, moving easily,

as if I weighed ﬁ fty pounds rather than one-sixty-ﬁ ve. “Listen to me,
man. Forget the sheets. I care for you—so much. Only, I got every-
thing on my mind all the time, workouts with my coach, the personal

Elliott Mackle

appearances for Home Expo and Gymnastics USA, it’s a hell of a lot
of pressure. Henry? Oh man, tell me you’ll be back—be with me when
I need you. You—I mean, you do want to do this with me some more,
don’t you?”

Wade squeezed me so tight I almost couldn’t draw breath. He had

arms like electriﬁ ed springs. His short, powerful legs came up, grip-
ping my hips. And then he rolled us, and was on top, his wide-open
eyes inches from mine. “Might have to force you, man,” he said, look-
ing half serious, his tongue wagging between his lips, mock-deter-
mined.

“Any time,” I said. “Whenever you want me. No force needed.”
He kissed me deeply, thirty seconds worth. Th

en I felt him tense

and coil. In a second, he was on his feet, bouncing beside me, oﬀ the
bed and onto the rug, turning and beating his open hands against
the wall, grinning, laughing and ﬁ nally turning a cartwheel across the
room. “Yippee,” he shouted. “Yippety-do-dah!”

I called him three times the next day. Th

e machine picked up after

two rings every time. I left messages, one after the other. He didn’t
call back that night or the next day or the next.

When I ﬁ nally caught up with him the morning before my din-

ner with Ted, and mentioned that I might be free after my meeting,
neither of us brought up the unanswered messages. He’d just said,
“Sounds good, man. Call me.”

Wade and Celeste’s apartment was a second-ﬂ oor, two-bedroom

ﬂ at in a garden complex on Biscayne Drive, within walking distance
of Piedmont Hospital. Th

e smaller bedroom was set up as an oﬃ

ce.

Wade and Celeste slept on a king-size four-poster in the larger bed-
room. Th

e living-dining area housed a Mission-oak hutch with tro-

phies and medals on display, a Simmons Hide-a-Bed, mix-and-match
modern chairs, tables that looked like Pier One or Storehouse, a set of
gleaming barbells and a television set the size of a kiddy pool. Stacks
of sports magazines, event programs, unopened mail, jars and car-
tons of nutritional supplements, FedEx boxes and Home Expo pack-
ages lined the baseboards and bookshelves.

Wade was alone in the living room when I arrived that night. Th

blinds were pulled and the doors to both bedrooms shut.

Hot off the Presses

His wrists were taped and he wore black Nylon track shorts and

nothing else, not even shower thongs. When I looked at him, I was
aware of the hard muscles and tight skin but also the brown and pur-
ple bruises on his arms. We hugged; he smelled clean, like soap and
towels. When I moved to kiss him, he turned his face away and pulled
me onto the couch, beside him but separate, so that we were skin on
shirt but not quite wrapped around each other.

He asked if I wanted something to drink. I answered that I wanted

to know what was on his mind. “You said we need to talk,” I said.

He patted my leg and glanced up, questioning. “Jesus, this is hard.

You know, Henry, we met in a steam bath. And I really started out
thinking, maybe that’s where we should keep it? Like, on the side,
once in a while, once or twice a month?”

e chill hit me fast, the descending elevator that starts in your

throat, shoots down through your gut and ends up at the tip of your
shrunk-to-nothing cock. He wants to dump me. It’s over.

“Only I don’t want to do that,” Wade added. “My whole life’s riding

on my performance at the Atlanta Games next summer. And I want
you there with me. So I had to tell Celeste.”

e elevator bounced and headed skyward. “Tell her what?”

“Henry, I told Celeste all about you, what a great guy you are. Hey,

hey, she knows I see men once in a while. She says it’s a bisexual streak
in my nature.”

Wade touched my leg again. I was thoroughly confused. I started

to pull away from him, ﬁ guring I might as well accept the rebuﬀ po-
litely and keep my dignity. Hell, I’d been dropped before.

He squeezed my thigh, hard, then rubbed it and moved closer.

“Celeste says my anonymous fucky-fucking around is a common
phenom of American masculine over achievers, well documented in
the literature. So I said to her, Well, professor, you’re my woman and
you’re about all I ever want in a woman. Except, I told her, I want
somebody like Henry, too.”

I put my hand over his, keeping him from moving it closer to my

crotch. I was still confused and getting a little angry. “I guess that
pretty much lays it out,” I said, “As far as your private life goes. Leav-
ing aside you being a widely recognized celebrity and Olympic cham-
pion and all. So what did Celeste say? ‘It’s me or Henry?’”

Elliott Mackle

Both his hands were gripping and rubbing my thighs now. His

eyes were locked on mine. I was the deer, he was the headlights. I was
feeling not aroused or even anxious but something else: unexpectedly
connected, opened up to, yet somehow threatened and angry about
it. Still, it sounded as if Wade was being dead honest, or at least as
honest as he could be. Was this, I wondered, one of the aspects of
love I’d missed along my spotty path? Was I hearing, and responding
to, that one true thing that forges people together? Were my fear and
anger some kind of holdover from when my dad got shot down and
killed in Korea? Or was it my bad luck to always miss the real message
and instead go for the short-term fun?

“No, man,” Wade said. “She wants to meet you. Said we all ought

to talk about how to work this out. Said she was damned glad I was
acting sensible in bringing it up. Because she’s been scared shitless
that I was going to catch a disease, get sick, even bring it home and
give it to her. She said she sees enough of that at the hospital, in the
wards. Said you sound like the right kind of man to be my buddy.”

My chest felt tight. My eyes got hot and I blinked. I was tearing

up. I touched his cheek and moved closer. He turned slightly, his face
moving down the front of my shirt, kissing the buttons. His shoulders
and upper back were pock-mocked, whether the result of teenage
acne or overuse of steroids I had—and have—no idea.

“Celeste cuts me plenty of slack. Recognizes the pressure on a

man. Doesn’t ask what I do when she’s not around.” He sat back. “You
know what she did for me a while ago?” He squeezed my knee a ﬁ -
nal time. “She ran a AIDS test for me, no names attached, through
the hospital lab. And hepatitis and a bunch of others. You ever been
tested for AIDS, Henry? Celeste can get you one, you know.”

Before I could answer, he was on his feet and across the room,

opening the door to the bedroom and calling, “Honey? Celeste? Can
we come in there? I want you to meet my buddy, Henry Th

ompson.”

Celeste was propped up on pillows at the head of the made-up

bed, a thin, ice-blonde woman with narrow lips, arched eyebrows and
deep, dark pupils rimmed by mountain water. She was about my age—
nearly a decade older than Wade, in other words. She was dressed in
a white blouse and athletic shorts. A faint network of broken veins
and capillaries marked the skin of her arms and legs. An open bottle

Hot off the Presses

of cabernet and a jelly glass sat beside her on the night table. She was
holding a copy of Vanity Fair. She tossed the magazine aside when
Wade bounded on to the bed and settled down beside her.

“Come on up here with us,” he called, pointing at the far end of the

bed and patting the white cotton spread.

I didn’t move. Meeting Celeste this way felt wrong, somehow oﬀ .

It was a surprise I hadn’t expected and didn’t like. A hot-cold rippling
in my gut turned into tipsy discomfort. Th

e surge of wine, seafood

and anxiety in my stomach had all the makings of nausea. I almost left
the apartment right then.

But Wade reached out and took my hand. So I kicked oﬀ my shoes,

climbed onto the bed and settled down, facing them.

Celeste opened the conversation just like Wade would, starting at

the dead-center point. “I’m so glad you’re here with us,” she said. “Of
course I wasn’t sure when Wade suggested it. But your eyes, the way
you move. Wade told me about the good you do. In the gay commu-
nity? Th

e positive stories you publish? Now I’m sure I want to get to

know you a whole lot better.”

Wade leaned toward her, grinning a little devil grin I’d never seen

before. “He’s going to love you, too, Sweetie.”

She fanned her right hand, as if waving a cigarette. “Just like I

love you, Wade, but even more,” she replied, not looking at him. Th

she said, “Wade tells me you got a master’s over at Athens. Only you
never met? Is that right? Until he spotted you lifting weights? At the
club?”

“Weren’t there the same years,” Wade said. “Anyhow, yours true

majored in jock management and Henry was up in grad school learn-
ing how to run newspapers.”

“You were world class at Barcelona.” Again I found myself admir-

ing his sculptured arms and chest, long tapering waist and intent eyes.
“You managed pretty good there.”

“Just bronze,” Wade aw-shuxed.
“Just bronze,” Celeste drawled. “As if you wouldn’t have killed for a

place on that podium.”

“Hey, Henry. You remember I told you about Doc Cohen, my

sports psychologist? He’s got me out-pointing the Russians and Japa-
nese in my visualizations every time now—choking those boys on my

Elliott Mackle

chalk when I blow by, racking up points. Don’t even think podiums
any more.”

“Visualizing the day when you’re commentating for NBC?” Celeste

said, dead serious, no jokes in her delivery. “For instance during the
2012 Games? Maybe Henry can write brilliant scripts for you, Honey.
Or, tell me, do newspaper editors actually write anything these days—
any more than hospital directors make rounds and see patients?”

“Our boy is a pretty good communicator on his own.” I laughed

a little despite myself. “I bet he could talk me into practically any-
thing.”

e nausea had gone away. I was riding my emotions like a kid on

a skateboard. It felt like I was talking too much—even though I’d said
little.

Celeste reached for the cabernet, swigged a couple of heavy gulps

and passed the wine to me. I followed her lead. When I oﬀ ered the
bottle to Wade, he shook his head. Celeste and I quickly ﬁ nished it
oﬀ .

Wade meanwhile bent his body forward at the waist, walked his

bare arms and hands down his legs, and slowly stretched from side to
side until he had his taped wrists around his bent toes and the palms
of his hands ﬂ at on the soles of his feet. After a couple of deep breaths
he released his feet and continued his serpentine move toward me,
touching my feet and legs, then rising on his knees and taking my face
in his hands.

“Jesus, Wade,” I said when he put his mouth on mine. “Don’t. She’s.

ere. I. You. Don’t.”

“Kiss me, goddamn it.” His tongue entered my mouth like a ram.

“Just kiss me, man. I want you so much.”

So I did kiss him. For a long time, until I was breathing hard and

the front of my pants felt tight. As we made out, I let him manhandle
me around and onto my back, so that my head was in the middle of
the bed near Celeste’s hips. He popped two buttons before he got my
shirt oﬀ . I helped with the buckle and ﬂ y rather than risk a case of
zipper burn. By the time he had me naked, he was breathing harder
than I was, pressing my hands against his Nylon-covered erection,
snorting greedily and kissing my mouth, my neck and my chest over
and over again.

Hot off the Presses

Celeste must have dimmed the lights and stripped while Wade

wrestled me out of my clothes. When I saw her again she was wedged
next to me, smoothing my forehead with one hand and oﬀ ering the
tip of her breast with the other.

I took it, licked and sucked. It was softer and larger than most

men’s hard nipples, nothing like a dick—not a living thing that pulses
and jumps when suckled and pulled. More like a silky beanbag. Ce-
leste smelled almost like Wade; the two of them probably used the
same fruity soap and shampoo.

Was this a compromise, I wondered as Celeste touched my hard

cock. Or just three days’ worth of my own horniness and lonely frus-
tration?

I’d been with two girls in college, both times completing the stan-

dard procedure in more or less satisfactory fashion. Neither girl asked
for second helpings, and I didn’t volunteer. But I heard no complaints
either. My desire for both girls had been fueled by a braggart frater-
nity brother’s tales of just how good such backseat pieces of sorority
meat really were.

I came away from both encounters confused but smug, as if I’d

passed a multiple-choice biology test by guessing the right answers.
No doubt I’d have been a lot happier going to bed with the brother. It
took me another couple of years to ﬁ nd out for sure.

is time, I needed nothing more than Celeste’s breast in my face

and Wade’s ﬁ ngers ﬂ icking my hard tits and the hairs on my chest
to bring me close to shooting oﬀ . When Wade’s uncovered phallus
began exploring the planes of my face, touching my nose and look-
ing for my mouth, I sucked in a huge, involuntary cloud of musk and
pushed his thick stub away with an appreciative squeeze.

I was on my back, not helpless but supine, submissive. Cock-suck-

ing was no more a part of my safe-sex repertoire than bareback fuck-
ing. Did I like to do it? Oh yeah. Did I want Wade’s piece in me, the
two of us lovingly locked together?

Oh fuck. Sure I did. Desperately—top and bottom, mouth and

ass, and right then and there, where Celeste could see us joined like
two horny snakes, following the yellow-brick path I thought nature
had paved for us.

Elliott Mackle

From what I’d read, and read way too often, sucking bare cock

wasn’t statistically safe. Th

e virus could live in pre-ejac ﬂ uid, could

survive a brief bath in saliva, might invade another person’s blood-
stream through raw places on a roughly rubbed penis or a set of re-
cently ﬂ ossed gums. It wasn’t safe. I loved it but couldn’t risk it.

Wrenching myself upright, I straddled Celeste’s legs, took her

shoulders in my hands, kissed her ears and mouth and began hunch-
ing my hard cock against her ﬁ rm tummy.

He went behind me, holding me close and pinching my tits,

scratching the hair on my butt, running his ﬁ ngers through my pu-
bes, stroking and pulling my balls. His cock was tucked up against the
crack of my ass. He was humping me and I could feel his wetness.

Celeste began handing my cock, petting it like a kitten, soothing

rather than further inﬂ aming it. She was beginning to breathe hard,
too. But after a moment, she stilled her hands, holding my erection
between her palms like a half-made tortilla. “God Jesus, Mr. Henry
Th

ompson,” she said. “Have you had an AIDS test lately?”

“All you want.” I leaned back against Wade and pushed against

his moving hips to allow him to nudge and slide himself into the hot
crevice between my legs. “Last one a month ago. Clean as a whistle.”

“I want you so bad,” Wade muttered in my ear. “I want you so

bad.”

Celeste had begun easing herself lower on the bed, opening her-

self and smiling, her eyes closed.

Let her boyfriend do it. Maybe it’ll be a kick to watch the two of

them go at it. What does his gorgeous body look like when he loses
conscious control?

But Wade had other ideas. Holding my cock, he guided it between

Celeste’s legs. When I asked for a condom, he snorted, surprised, as if
I was speaking Spanish. Th

en he nodded, pointed at a bedside chest,

and muttered, “In there.”

Reaching across the bed, he opened the drawer, pulled out a red

carton of Trojans, handed Celeste the paperboard box and lay back
across the king size bed. “She’ll put it on you,” he said.

She was quick and deft, opening the envelope without fuss, grasp-

ing the base of my hard cock with one hand and rolling and smooth-
ing the dry condom with the other.

Hot off the Presses

Wade moved fast, drawing my cock into his mouth, sucking hard,

wetting the rubber, butting my stomach with his head and exciting
me more with each movement. Celeste lay back, humming, knees
apart, as Wade drew me forward and guided my cock inside her.

“Ee-yeah, ee-yeah, ooo-eeyeah,” she cried as I began rolling my

hips. Wade meanwhile kissed her face and the tender ends of her
breasts. Th

ough I kept at it, and kept getting harder as I worked, it

wasn’t what I wanted. Hell, the sensation wasn’t bad, especially when
Wade moved to caress the curly hair on my stomach and crotch. But
the act felt loose and incomplete, like fucking a feather pillow.

“Go easy,” he warned me. “You’re not allowed to come yet.”
I shook my head. I was starting to sweat. “With you,” I said. “Not

this way.”

He lay back, close beside us, his phallus rigidly horizontal as he

watched me pushing deeper and deeper into Celeste.

I reached down and tugged his balls. He reacted as if I’d thrown a

switch, slapping my hand away and muttering, “Careful, man.”

Within seconds, Celeste cried, “Not yet, Wade. Me ﬁ rst.” Slipping

out from under me, she climbed onto Wade’s chest and straddled his
face, taking her own breasts in her hands, squeezing them and hump-
ing the air. Wade’s tongue and lips rose up to meet her.

ere was enough light in the room to see every hunch, twitch

and twist of their bodies. But watching didn’t feel right. Momentarily
touching neither of them, feeling embarrassed and lonelier than ever,
I started to lose my erection. Th

e sight of Wade under Celeste aroused

me about as much as an “I Love Lucy” rerun.

Wade must have noticed. “Man,” he said. “Get down here for me.”

Reaching around Celeste and roughly seizing my wrist, he placed my
right hand on his genitals. “Pull on me like you do. And kiss me down
there. Oh, yeah.”

When I reached for the Trojans, he slapped the box away. “I’m

clean, man. We don’t need those. Just do it for me. I need you.”

Horny enough to believe him and just desperate enough to take

half a chance, I began pulling his small, drawn-up ball pouch rough-
ly and licking his waving pole. Beginning at the hairy base, I moved
swiftly upward to the rim of the glans, then dragged the underside of
my tongue slowly back and forth.

Elliott Mackle

100

e moisture from the tip of his phallus was ﬂ owing fast, wetting

the entire head and drooling onto my hands and his heaving stomach.
Th

e taste of him kicked my heart rate up one hundred percent. Wade’s

juice was like a shot of gin mixed, a lightly aromatic, sweet-sour tonic
at the tip of my tongue followed by an oaky, button-mushroom after-
taste—in short, a better vintage than any Chardonnay I’d ever tried.

I’d been so goddamn safe for six years that I’d tasted no pre-come

but my own. I’d grown almost used to the ﬂ avor of unlubricated latex
and the feel of my Trojan-deadened cock entering other men.

Just this once. Do it for him. She won’t. Didn’t he say that?
Where’s the Zen in that? Just pull on him. Th

ere, there, his cock

is moving up, down, his hips up and down, for me. Breathe, breathe.
Inhale, exhale. Inhale, exhale.

Cantaloupes in a hot car on a summer day—that’s what the three

of us smelled like, a combination of Wade’s warm, leaf-moldy musk
faintly overlaid with ammonia, Celeste’s sharp tuna-salad perfume,
sweet soap, shampoo and the winy afterburn from my own armpits,
crotch and throat.

Raising my head, I kissed the tender skin covering Celeste’s spine,

touched her hip with one hand and then bent again to kiss Wade’s
shaft.

Celeste was beginning to whimper and cry out. “Ee-ya. Ee-ya.

Waaay, waaay.”

Is this my Zen? Or just with Wade? Male energy only? She—Ce-

leste—she can’t match it, she’s nowhere, she’s oﬀ above us, riding her
own clit, like I’m—

I was hunching the air, my dick a wet, hard sausage that repeated-

ly and fruitlessly slapped my stomach and Celeste’s leg. My attention
was centered on Wade’s musk and wetness, his need, on connecting
our male energy, moving up and down, up and down along his out-
side surface, hoping to fuse us—without quite being able to do so.

I sucked his balls into my mouth, ﬁ guring this ought to ﬁ nish the

session for him. I could hear him groaning; he sounded almost hurt,
in pain, fearful. His hips were trembling, his legs and knees moving
restlessly on each side of my head and shoulders.

At that point, Celeste’s orgasm must have begun. Crying “Ahhh,

ahhh,” she fell back, bracing herself with her hands on my shoulders.

101

Hot off the Presses

“Help me with him, Sweetie,” I heard Wade shout. “He isn’t on it.”
Writhing and sobbing, she reached back, seized my head and

pulled me close.

I took another breath. My mouth was open. Th

e liquid cherry at

the end of Wade’s sopping cock rose up and plowed along the surface
of my tongue.

“I’m inside you man, I’m inside you. And pull, pull harder,” he said,

reaching down to press my pumping hand tighter around his scro-
tum.

I wanted him so bad. I closed my eyes, yielded to the pressure of

their hands and did as he asked. He unloaded in two more strokes.

As he came, he started to yell, though not at me. No, he reached up,

grabbed Celeste’s shoulders, pulled her face close to his and shouted.
“Look at me, woman. Just look at me. Look here.”

I took his ﬁ rst shot, swallowing the stuﬀ before the words regis-

tered. He’d demanded the same thing from me in the steam room and
twice later on—to look into his eyes while he came.

Zen this was not. He was using us both, and would probably use

anyone who happened to be handy. I felt like a dirty towel on a locker
room ﬂ oor.

I spit out his next shot and ﬁ nished him oﬀ with my hand, mostly

out of sexual reﬂ ex. As soon as I could push the moaning, groggy
Celeste aside, I headed for the bathroom, ﬂ icked on the light, pulled
the stinking rubber oﬀ my cock, grabbed toothpaste and somebody’s
toothbrush and began furiously brushing my tongue, gums, teeth and
the roof of my mouth.

Hacking and spitting every few seconds, I tried to puke but

couldn’t. Poking a ﬁ nger and then the blunt end of the toothbrush
down my throat, I found my gag reﬂ ex was working ﬁ ne. But my gut
wouldn’t cooperate and toss up Wade’s juice. So I hunted through
the storage cabinet and found a jug of Listerine mouthwash. After
gargling twice, I checked the label and emptied the bottle down my
throat. Almost thirty percent alcohol, plus eucalyptol and benzoic
acid. Th

at should pretty well handle any lurking virus cells.

Back in the bedroom, I couldn’t pull my clothes on fast enough. I

wasn’t actually even angry, except at myself. Hell, I hardly know these

Elliott Mackle

102

people. Wade and I are from diﬀ erent planets. He’s a user. A champion
manipulator. I’ve fallen for that type before.

“Fucking user,” I muttered.
Wade was trying to stop me from leaving, touching my arms,

helping me into my shirt, pleading, “Oh man. Don’t leave like this.
We’ve all got to talk.”

“User, fucking user,” I repeated, before stupidly saying, “Call me at

the oﬃ

ce tomorrow. Maybe we can work something out.”

His face crumpled. I thought he was going to cry, standing there

naked, his thick arms almost limp, semen drooling down his six-pack
belly.

“I’m no loser,” he said, misunderstanding. “I just wanted us to be

together. Th

ought this could work. Oh man, I’m learning so much

from you.”

Behind him, the bathroom door clicked shut.
“Like what?” I asked.
“About how you write and edit and do good things for gay At-

lanta,” he said unconvincingly. “About gay-movement activities that I
don’t know anything about. And, hey, I got with your friend Skip, the
one you introduced me to at Zocalo? When we ate lunch? He gave me
one of those Body Magic massages you told me about. With music
and candles. Th

at was why I didn’t call you back right away—I was so

looped out. But now I’ve got some of your-all’s erotic strokes down
pat, to try out on you next time.”

I ﬁ gured there would be no next time, but I didn’t say so. And

Skip! How could he betray me like this?

So I didn’t say anything at all. Wade and I stood there for perhaps

thirty seconds before he grabbed me with his eyes, all two thousand
kilowatts’ worth. “You don’t treat me like the next face on the cereal
box,” he whispered. “You don’t want something.”

en he pulled me close and kissed me, keeping his tongue inside

his mouth, kissing me like he meant it. I kissed him back. My dick was
half hard again, shameless as ever. When my pulse started pumping,
I knew I needed to get out of there fast.

We broke apart. Glancing at my shirt, he playfully grabbed his

penis and said, “Bad pony. No donut. Hey, look, Henry, I got a bunch
of cream on your shirt. And those buttons are oﬀ , too.”

103

Hot off the Presses

I said it didn’t matter. He said I couldn’t drive home like that and

to wait just a second. Kneeling down, he tore into a pile of cartons
stacked near the door. Pulling a leather bomber jacket out of its plas-
tic-and-tissue-paper wrapper, he helped me into it. Th

e jacket was

decorated with ﬂ ags, interlocked rings and the words Centennial
Olympic Games. Th

e silk lining was stamped with IOC-sponsors’

trademark logos.

“Medium ﬁ ts you ﬁ ne,” he said, stepping back. “Dockers sent

matching cotton pants, too. I’ll dig out your size when I ﬁ nd the
box.”

“I can’t take this,” I said, reverting to my untouchable-journalist

persona. “It’s worth a lot of money.”

An angry look ﬂ ashed across Wade’s face and ﬂ amed out just as

quickly. “Didn’t cost me nothing,” he said, looking away. “Companies
drop-ship this stuﬀ to athletes like mama sends Christmas cards.”

“Fine.” I zipped up the jacket, already half sorry that Wade and I

weren’t snuggled up naked in bed like the week before, glued together
and laughing. “Th

anks.”

“Okay, goodnight,” he said, touching my arm but still not looking

at me. “I’ll call you tomorrow, for sure.”

I headed downstairs. As I opened the street door, he shouted,

“Okay, leave me here, you shit head. Call you? Like hell I will!” And he
slammed the apartment door shut.

CHAPTER 10

THE BRIAR PATCH

ade disappeared from my life. I stashed the leather jacket in a
closet and forgot about it.

Steven, my buddy at St. John’s House, steadily lost ground.

By Christmas, his T-cells numbered in the low hundreds. AZT had
done him no good. Th

e experimental drug Ganciclovir slowed but

didn’t cure his CMV retinitis, and he went completely blind. Kaposi’s
Sarcoma lesions dotted his legs, back and face. He had no appetite.
Taller than I am, he weighed less than one hundred pounds when he
ﬁ nally died.

He cried only once in my presence, when I read him a cold, judg-

mental, Get-Well-with-Jesus note from an aunt in Savannah. Usually
he was upbeat and loose, smiling when he heard me knock, always
ready to listen to whatever news story, poem or rumor I brought to
entertain him. He drank it all in: selected details of my safe-but-lust-
ful encounters with strangers at the club, the nuns-on-roller skates
section from Tales of the City, celebrity gossip from the daily paper’s
Peach Buzz column, Whitman’s sexier lines, light verse and Greek
poetry, tailored to ﬁ t, such as this:

e boy is lovely and even his name, Steven, is charming and

sweet to me. I have to love him; he is perfect. And, if he gives me
pain, well, that’s love—honey mixed with vinegar.

Elliott Mackle

106

Steven laughed and then quickly covered his mouth. “Henry, do

I give you pain? You must be sick of coming here and feeding me
by hand and smelling my shit. I’m sick of being sick; I just don’t talk
about it, it seems so selﬁ sh.”

I threw the book aside and took him in my arms. “Steven, this is

the best part of my day. Th

e poet is talking about the good pain, love

pain. Everything you give me is good. No vinegar.”

He stroked my head with his thin hand. “Wish I’d met you ten

years ago, honey. We’d of had us a time.”

Steven’s dementia kicked in a few weeks later, and he gradually

withdrew from everything but demons and terror and pain.

Ann Kaplan and I compiled a list of PR goals and procedures

while sitting up with Steven those last futile weeks. I shelved the idea
of taking a paid job with the house. At that point, we were averaging
one dead resident a month. I found I couldn’t stand to be around so
much dying. After Steven, I took a leave of absence from the buddy
program, consulted with Ann by phone and sent a monthly check.

I didn’t take the ACOG job, either. Th

e last thing I wanted to do

was hook up with an organization dedicated to the gloriﬁ cation of
professional athletes like Wade. Instead, I went back to assigning and
editing stories on gay Atlanta. McClellands or no McClellands, I was
determined to make Outlines a force in the community.

It looked like I might do just that when, on a Monday morning a

few weeks later, what seemed like a real scoop dropped in my lap. It
happened like this. Ibo Williams stuck his head in my oﬃ

ce, asked if I

had a minute, stepped inside when invited and quietly shut the door.

“You be needing to know about a story that be’s going around,” he

said. “But we need to be oﬀ the record. So to speak. Because I have a
true conﬂ ict here. Like: I’m involved minorly. Just minorly. See, it’s a
friend of mine is in trouble.”

When I asked him to sit, he said he’d rather pace. “I didn’t want to

be telling nobody about this,” he said. “Ain’t supposed to be. But, like
they say, the stink is already out the bathroom door. So you be need-
ing to know what you be needing to know.”

I sat tight. He was verbally circling, hesitating before breaking

some sort of conﬁ dence. He glanced out the window to the street,
turned again, shoved his hands in his back pockets and said, “Th

107

Hot off the Presses

bro—my old fratty brother—he gets stupid sometime. Last Saturday
night, my bro he got real, real stupid. What I’m saying is, from what
I understand, he smoked a little too much crystal meth on top of too
much brandy-and-soda in too short a time. At a party. Where he didn’t
know all the personalities involved. So along about midnight, he left,
and was heading home with a certain person on the MARTA train.
Only he lost it, turned violent in the Candler Park Station parking lot,
started hitting the person he was with and kicking people’s cars.”

“Bad scene,” I said. “Presumably, you were not the person he was

following home?”

Ibo shook his head sharply, as if avoiding a buzzing insect. “No,

no. Th

at’s in the past. But from what I can piece together, a pair of

MARTA rent-a-cops was present on the scene. Th

ey called Atlanta

City, the bro was arrested on a drunk-and-disorderly charge and held
in the Atlanta Detention Center overnight.”

I inquired how Ibo had gotten involved.
He was pacing again. “Th

ey let the bro make a call on Sunday

morning. By then he was at the Rape Crisis Center at Grady Hospital.
He was ’fraid to phone his mother. I came into his mind because of—”
Ibo gestured at the oﬃ

ce, the framed photo of the naked Body Magi-

cians, the pinned-up Outlines layouts. “Because of this.”

“Th

e gay connection. Okay, sure. And, Jesus, I’m sorry about your

friend. Was he hurt bad? Is he going to press charges?”

Ibo gave me a look that said clearly, as if rape could ever not hurt

bad. “Against who?”

“Whoever raped him. Whoever put him in mortal danger when

he couldn’t protect himself.”

Ibo stared down at me, a wily heron to my gaping tadpole. He’d

been checking me for signals. Even if I appeared suﬃ

ciently sympa-

thetic, I must also have sounded pitifully out of touch with mean-
streets realities. Still, he turned away when he spoke. “My friend is
small. Has kind of a girly voice. And he could of still been acting crazy
at the jailhouse. He says a bunch of do-rag thugs from the projects
held him down and took their turns with him.”

I shut my eyes, feeling half sick. Th

is was a part of male-on-male

life I knew little about, the ugly part that creates tabloid headlines and
gives the Falwells and Pat Buchanans of the world their ammunition.

Elliott Mackle

108

“Boss, listen. Th

at can happen to any delicate black man who gets

thrown in the hole. Happens all the time.”

“Th

ere must be a record of who was thrown in with him,” I said,

still shocked but already beginning to mentally compose a news re-
port. “Can I talk to him? You think he has something to gain by keep-
ing it quiet?”

“Stay with me, boss. Bro had no I.D. on him. He didn’t give his real

name. When I got over to the Gradys, he was cleaned up and talking
to one of the rape volunteers. I’d brought my checkbook and some
cash, anticipating I’d have to bond him out. But the cop that was there
let me carry him with me—on condition.”

“On condition that?”
“Th

e uniform said the bro agreed to not press charges against the

rapists or anybody else, as long as they let him go.”

“So they don’t have his ID. Th

ere’s no record. What’s the story you

say’s going around, then?”

Ibo pulled a clip from the daily newspaper out of his pocket. Th

two-inch brief was headed “Overnight Assault.” It carried no byline.
Th

e squib cited anonymous sources in reporting that an unnamed

black male had been physically abused on Sunday morning in the
detention facility and taken to Grady for treatment. Th

e sheriﬀ was

quoted as refusing to conﬁ rm or deny the story, claiming that a rape
victim’s privacy shouldn’t be compromised or even reported.

I slipped the clipping into the “deadline” box on my desk.
“Couple of the African-American radio stations mentioned it in

their news reports Sunday night,” Ibo said. “I heard something about
it on one talk show this morning. Chance is good it’ll turn up on the
TV noon-news next. So people be talking. Be only a matter of time
until you have to give it some consideration. Only a matter of time.”

Okay, so I’m not the fastest-thinking editor on the planet. It took

me that long—minutes—to click onto what Ibo was not saying.

“Only a matter of time until his name gets out?” I asked, al-

ready knowing the answer. “Because this is the friend whose home
you treated like your own, whose dad has a thing for churchwomen,
whose name is—hell, I don’t know the son’s name. Th

ere’s two chil-

dren, right, a boy and a girl?”

Ibo nodded. “Martin and Cassandra.”

109

Hot off the Presses

“You went to school together?”
“Morehouse and high school both. We haven’t hung particularly

close these past few years.”

“But close enough so his daddy the mayor feels safe in chewing

you a new butt hole over the phone?”

Ibo smiled for the ﬁ rst time that morning. “And close enough

so I feel safe recording the bastard doing it—because he is a fucking
bastard. And ﬁ ghting him with my pen and your paper might be a
conﬂ ict—as well as me being Martin’s friend. I just don’t want to see
Martin hurt no more. He’s already been through Hell in that jailhouse
and in his own daddy’s house. He ain’t involved in none of this.”

“You’re right,” I said. “You’ve got conﬂ icts from here to Chatta-

nooga. I’m sorry about your friend Martin. By the way, he’s not gay?”

Ibo dropped the smile. “He says not. I know he dates women. We

used to play around but…not in a long time now. Not in a long time.”

“Okay,” I said, counting on my ﬁ ngers. “Maybe this is not techni-

cally a case of gay bashing—though the thugs could have assumed he
was queer for one reason or another, like you say. But it’s homosexual
rape and probably criminal negligence leading to male-on-male vio-
lence. In other words it’s still our beat. Outlines needs to cover it. And
the squib in the daily opens the door. I wonder if there’s a way to
check whether their city desk is planning a follow-up? Maybe I can
make a call. Anyhow, Martin’s name and your name don’t need to
come up. Not as far as I’m concerned. But somebody else could blow
his cover.”

Looking relieved, Ibo handed me a slip of paper on which he’d

jotted the Rape Crisis Center’s phone number and a name. After I
thanked him for the tip, he returned to his desk to continue laying out
the next edition.

Being a good employee, at least for the time being, I called the Mc-

Clellands ﬁ rst, alerting them in general terms to the story I proposed
to report on deadline. Next I dialed the police chief ’s oﬃ

ce and was

put through a maze of desk sergeants, associate-assistant deputies
and public information ﬂ acks before reaching the chief ’s secretary,
who said the chief was out on the street. When I pushed, using the
words “jailhouse assault,” she put me on hold. After about a minute,

Elliott Mackle

110

she came back to say that nobody in the oﬃ

ce knew a thing about any

such incident but she would certainly inform the chief I had called.

Ellen Inman, the mayor’s community aﬀ airs contact, phoned an

hour later. “You just won’t quit, will you, dear one,” she said, sounding
bright and in control.

e unexpected upgrade from Miss-ter Th

ompson to dear one

felt signiﬁ cant. In traditional ﬂ ack-to-hack terms, she’d decided to
treat me as an old hand, a fellow veteran of the politico-journalistic
wars.

“Th

e chief ’s not the man you want to talk to, anyway.” Inman

paused and sucked in what was presumably tobacco smoke. “Ahhh!
Th

e chief ’s just a little too evangelical to go one-on-one with the gay

press. We have yet to bring him up to speed on some of the city’s
more ﬂ amboyant minorities.”

“Sinners all,” I replied, mock-joking in response to her relatively

light tone. “All one hundred thousand of us—and that’s just the gay
and bisexual males within Atlanta city limits. When I talk to him, I
won’t even mention the statistics on police harassment of gay men in
Midtown.”

“And we surely thank you for that, dear one. I wouldn’t either. It’s

much too early in the day to go there. However, I’ve put in a call for
the watch commander over at the detention center. He’s supposed to
call me back.”

“I’ll tell you where I’d like to go with this, Ms. Inman. I’d like facts

on the sexual assault at the ADC over the weekend. Names, charges
and disposition, for starters. Could you check into what might be a
certain lack of supervision of prisoners who were being held with-
out formal charges overnight? We’re also wondering what kind of in-
vestigation the police chief plans—or the watch commander—or the
mayor. And what kind of charges might result if and when any such
investigation goes forward?”

Ellen Inman sucked in smoke, exhaled and coughed. “You’re going

way, way too fast for me, dear one. If you’re saying assault and mean-
ing rape, I can’t even talk to you. Th

e city and county have procedures

that are designed to protect rape victims and bring rapists to justice.
Truly, it’s not in my job description.”

111

Hot off the Presses

“Th

e Mayor has a policy on shielding the victims of criminal as-

sault, I take it?”

“Yes, absolutely. Even if the victim asked for it.”
As usual, Inman was talking too much for her boss’s good. I re-

gretted not having switched on the recorder. But I wrote down every
word.

“Do we know the name of the victim?” I asked, hoping she didn’t

and deciding to push her a little harder. “What about rap sheets on
the alleged perps? Do I remember correctly that TV-sweeps month
is coming up? I’m ﬁ guring on juicy TV coverage of lamentable jail
conditions on all three local stations.”

Inman said she’d have to get back to me on all that. Meanwhile,

she vowed, justice would deﬁ nitely be done—and the less notice the
incident attracted, the better for all concerned.

“Just give me until after lunch,” she said. “End of the day at the

latest.”

’d talked with an ACLU lawyer, a Lambda Legal Defense intern, a
Rape Crisis Center volunteer, a desk editor at the daily paper and
the assistant to the Detention Center’s watch commander before

the McClellands arrived at the oﬃ

ce. Nobody I’d interviewed seemed

to know the victim’s name or guess how high he was connected.

Marguerite bustled into my oﬃ

ce clucking like a mussed guinea

hen. “A boy, a violated boy. Henry! We can’t not report this, we can’t
not. It’s unspeakable. Will you tell me how this could happen in Atlan-
ta’s brand new jail? Isn’t it supposed to be state of the art? Don’t they
have guards and television monitors and—cells to lock up dangerous
people? We do hope you’ll write one of your strongest editorials on
this aﬀ air. You certainly have our backing.”

“One hundred percent,” said Pope, following her into the oﬃ

ce.

“Nail the bastards that did this, nail their you-know-whats to the wall.
Must be some real oﬃ

cial laxity down at that jail, you think?

“Baah-studs,” he said. “Lax-a-teh.”
“Just criminal,” Marguerite echoed. “Crim-null.”
“Our Mr. Ibo looks a bit under the weather, by the way,” Pope

said, seeming to change the subject. “Minute ago, coming in here, I
stopped at his desk. He about bit my head oﬀ .”

Elliott Mackle

112

“It’s just not his day, okay? Sorry, I’m being rude. Now about this

gang rape we have to deal with?”

Marguerite ﬂ inched. “Was it actually, uh, the boy didn’t somehow,

you know?”

“Bring it on himself?” Pope supplied. “Ask for it? Imagine it?”
“He’s not a boy. He’s Ibo’s age. Yes, he’s African-American. Near as

we can tell, the young man was heavily drugged when the rapes hap-
pened. But that doesn’t excuse an unprovoked attack. He’s a More-
house grad, by the way. He has a girlfriend, or dates girls. Th

ere’s no

suggestion he asked for it.”

“Poor baby,” Marguerite wailed. “And his poor parents. Such a

shame for the family.”

“You’re sure this is going to come out,” Pope asked.
I handed him the clipping from the morning daily. “It’s out,” I

said.

“It always gets out,” Marguerite whispered. “Doesn’t matter what

they print in the paper. People always know something, know who it
is.”

“What do we know?” Pope asked. “Do we know why there weren’t

any guards on duty? Why wasn’t it broken up?”

e conversation felt like a card game. I’d been holding the joker

close to my chest. Now I played it. “We know the victim’s name. But
we only know it oﬀ the record. We can’t print it.”

“Well, of course not,” Pope huﬀ ed. “As you said. Privacy and all.”
I played the king. “It’s going to get out. Like Marguerite said. Peo-

ple do know.”

“You mean,” Pope said, “that if the editor of Outlines knows, then

other people must know, already?”

Playing the ace was a guilty pleasure. “I mean that the victim’s

name is Martin Ramble.”

“Like hell,” Pope said.
“Not Rawson’s son,” Marguerite gasped, looking quickly away.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“I’d barely heard of him,” I said. “Except to know that he existed,

like Bill Clinton’s brother. Now we may hear plenty.”

“Why didn’t he have a guard?” Marguerite asked. “Didn’t some-

body recognize him at the jail? And protect him?”

113

Hot off the Presses

“One of the planks on the mayor’s platform,” Pope said, “was do-

ing something about our poorly paid police and ﬁ remen and prison
guards. Anyhow, isn’t the jail the responsibility of Fulton County? It
wouldn’t be the administration’s fault.”

“Th

ere’s plenty of fault to go around,” I said. “You’re right, though.

We can’t not report it.”

“You hadn’t told us the whole story when I said that,” Marguerite

snapped. “I feel tricked.”

“Male-male sexual violence is a gay issue,” I shot back. “Right now

I have Martin Ramble’s name on background. But I’ll try to conﬁ rm it
before I leave here tonight. My source is not the only one who knows
something.”

“Give me the name,” Pope said. “Th

e name of your source.”

“You’ll have to trust me,” I answered. “Like I said, it’s on back-

ground. I can’t give you the name.”

“Young man!” Pope said. “Don’t push me too far.”
Marguerite stood up, turned and stiﬀ ened when her eyes regis-

tered on the photo of me and my naked brothers on the California
mountaintop. “We can just drop it,” she said. “Th

e story has appeared

in the paper, as you say. Let those people embarrass the Mayor and
his poor wife and children. We don’t need to do this.”

She looked to her husband for support. “Chad would have under-

stood what I mean.”

I gave up a card, discarding a two. “I don’t say we have to play up

family connections, or even mention Martin Ramble’s name, not be
the ﬁ rst to do so, anyhow. But this story is a bomb that’s ready to go
oﬀ . It’s about lack of oﬃ

cial protection for a helpless victim. We need

to cover the sexual violence aspect and we need to ask city and county
oﬃ

cials for their response. If that means facing oﬀ with the mayor or

the sheriﬀ , I can handle it.”

“How can you be so mean?” Marguerite asked, standing at the

door.

Pope glanced at her, then back at me. “Let’s do this, son,” he said.

“You may be right, that the dog’s already dirtied the rug. But we don’t
have to step in it. Your deadline’s when? Tomorrow night? Let’s leave
the boy’s name out for now. How’s that? We can talk tomorrow, after
you do more reporting.”

Elliott Mackle

114

“But call earlier if you ﬁ nd something out,” Marguerite sniﬀ ed.

“Th

ose poor people. Heaven knows how I’ll be able to look Mrs. Ram-

ble in the face.”

After the McClellands left, I called Ibo into the oﬃ

ce again. “I’ve

asked for an oﬃ

cial reaction from the Mayor’s oﬃ

ce,” I said. “Th

ey’re

supposed to call me back. I’ll make more calls when I see where we
can go with this. But I don’t want any shit sticking to you. How much
do you think Big Daddy knows?”

“Mayor Rabble? As of this morning, nothing, nada, zit. Is what

Martin told me.”

“Is it gonna hit the Reverend Mayor hard?”
“Personally? I doubt it. Th

e Rev’s so self-centered he makes Mama

McClelland look like Mother Teresa.”

Bringing his big hands up, framing his face, Bette Midler-like, Ibo

gushed, “‘Heaven knows how I’ll be able to look Mrs. Ramble in the
face.’”

“You were listening?”
“I was listening. And it’s a good thing. Because we got to clear up

one other misperception.”

Ibo was serious now. He’d dropped the cutesy homeboy jive. “You

don’t have the whole story on Martin,” he continued. “I was doing a
little editing myself.”

I picked up a pen and reporter’s notebook, ﬂ ipped to a clean page

and looked up at him. “He did ask for it?”

“Martin’s done more than just play around with his old jerk-oﬀ

buddy, Brother Ibo. I didn’t lie. Martin does not consider himself gay.
Not per se. He does go with men, though. Every so often.”

“But he’s not gay? Just…bi-curious? Horny but undecided?”
Ibo crossed his long arms across his chest. “Happens in the best

of families, so I hear.”

“Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy than Mayor Ramble, you mean?

e homophobe birds come home to roost?”

Ibo snapped his ﬁ ngers. “Boss, you might look in your own nest.

You got some homophobe-slash-racist eggs cooking. And that deﬁ -
nitely could aﬀ ect how we cover the news. Or maybe you know—only
I don’t know that you know.” He snapped again. “Th

ere’s a lot of Atlan-

ta brothers that gets it on with other brothers. Th

ey calls it going on

115

Hot off the Presses

the down low, being on the down low. And, in general, none of them
considers themselves gay. Th

ey date women, some of them are mar-

ried, or ﬁ xing to be—one day. Th

ey don’t read Outlines or Southern

Boys or David or the Advocate. Th

ey don’t hang out at Brushstrokes.

And when they go to gay clubs they take some girls with them. Th

socialize with each other and they talk on the phone and do drugs
together. Everybody knows but nobody’s supposed to mention it.”

“Th

is is the kind of party Martin Ramble was at on Saturday

night?”

Snap. “You got it. Only there was too much drugs on the table.

And some people that didn’t belong there.” Snap. “And Martin left
there with somebody that wasn’t prepared to protect him.”

“Is this the ﬂ ip side of the church people who won’t accept the

AIDS statistics? Th

e black elite who won’t admit that black gays exist

and who claim that AIDS and crack cocaine are all part of a CIA plot?
Just like the astronauts on the Moon?”

Snap. “Th

at’s what I’m saying. Th

e Morehouse, Spelman College,

Niskey Lake, Ebenezer Church elite—that’s how they operate. No-
body mentions what’s right in front of their faces. Not if it was riding
a white horse and calling itself Lady Godiva. A lot of the bros already
have AIDS. Th

ey’ve lost weight, had their teeth turn brown, look like

hell. Some just up and disappear all of a sudden, get on back home to
their mothers in whatever mill village or one-mule crossroads they
came from.” Snap. “To die.”

“But they’re not gay? Were never gay. Did not consider themselves

in any way, shape or form—gay.”

“Which is why they are so at risk. Th

ey set themselves up to be

above the gay cancer.” Tears had formed in Ibo’s eyes. He wiped them
away with both hands. “No danger that way.”

“Which is why we need minority outreach.”
Snap. “You got it right, boss. But the churches and Mayor Rabble,

they be like Brer Rabbit. Th

ey be bein’ real, real quiet in they briar

patch.”

“Th

e sons of bitches.” Snap.

“Yes, boss.” Snap, snap. “Th

e sons of bitches.”

Elliott Mackle

116

ou need to look at this message slip,” Bambi said two hours later.
“Th

e Rev wants you to call him back on his private line. Th

at’s the

number. He said he’ll pick right up.”
“Th

e Rev?”

“Big daddy. Th

e Mayor.”

“Holy shit.”
“Turn on the tape recorder before you punch in the numbers,”

Bambi added. “So there’s no tell-tale click.”

e conversation with Rawson Ramble lasted only four minutes.

“Young maaan,” the mayor began, drawing out the second word, as
usual. “Th

ey didn’t inform me that the editor of the publication him-

self had called for a clariﬁ cation. I do most certainly apologize. Es-
pecially since we have not been formally introduced. Being in your
position, you must know how it is, having to depend on assistants for
the information that comes before you.”

Before I could say more than “Well, sir…” he was oﬀ , explaining

that, as the mayor of our brave and beautiful city, he must always
keep in mind the views of various factions. To be frank, he told me,
the homosexual view on acceptable behavior and sexual safety—he
pronounced it “Ho-me-oh-sex-shul”—while important in certain
precincts of the city, was far from a majority view. Th

e mayor’s dif-

ﬁ cult job, he allowed, was to try to fairly balance all claims, moral as
well as ﬁ nancial.

“To take but one illustration,” he said, pausing for eﬀ ect. “As an

elected oﬃ

cial, it behooves me to consider the feelings of church lead-

ers in approaching sensitive topics such as AIDS funding. Our city’s
African-American churches and other faith-based, eleemosynary in-
stitutions, because of their long history of care for the community’s
downtrodden, do sincerely believe that such monies should be fun-
neled through or controlled by the faith-based agencies themselves.”

It sounded as if he was reading a prepared statement.
“Excuse me, Mayor. But are you saying that this is just a diﬀ erent

set of masters running the same old plantation? Smells like Tara to
me.”

He laughed. “Paternalism does have a bad connotation to it, Mis-

ter Th

ompson. Th

ese days, anyhow. But our churches, they do do

some good. You wouldn’t dispute that?”

117

Hot off the Presses

“Well, it could be argued, Mayor, that being a preacher as well as

a public oﬃ

cial is a built-in conﬂ ict.”

“Life is conﬂ ict, young man. We do what we can. When once a

man accepts the truth of Jesus Christ, the shingles fall from his eyes,
and all doubts are cast away.”

“With all due respect, Mayor, there’s no doubt in my mind that Je-

sus would not turn his back on AIDS education for poor people who
are dying in the projects and on the streets.”

Ramble paused. “Th

ey tell me that your homosexually based or-

ganizations, such as Positive Impact and Project Open Hand, are also
ﬁ ghting to get a-hold of bigger slices of the federal pie, to increase as
well as control the funds available. Perhaps you see only one side of
the equation.”

“Where money’s concerned, maybe there’s always more than two

sides, Mayor.”

He snorted and laughed again. Young man, have you considered

political administration as a career? You have a certain, ah, hmm, tes-
ticular style. I don’t doubt that a place could be found for you some-
where at City Hall.”

I wanted to answer that my mama had strangled all her stupid

children and that I wasn’t falling for complimentary pats on the scro-
tum. Instead, I said, “Mayor, that’s darned nice to hear. I’m ﬂ attered.
But today I really do need a reaction to the weekend incident at the
Atlanta Detention Center.”

Ramble immediately returned to the script. “Th

e sheriﬀ and chief

of police,” he said, “are under orders to quickly identify, isolate and
interrogate any and all alleged detainee assailants. Recently released
prisoners will be picked up for questioning at the earliest opportunity.
Plans and procedures at the jail are being reviewed. Prosecutors will
determine what charges can and should be ﬁ led, presenting evidence
to the grand jury if need be.”

He didn’t mention questioning or prosecuting any of the guards

in charge of the unit, nor their oﬃ

cers. So I asked.

“Everything that can be done, will be done,” Ramble answered,

dodging the bullet but giving me an opening the size of a jail cell.

Elliott Mackle

118

“What about the victim?” I asked, trying to sound businesslike

and matter-of-fact. “What’s being done for him? We understand he
was transported to the Rape Crisis Center at Grady.”

“We don’t have details. We are checking into that, ah, that series

of events and incidents. Such things take time.”

“But you know his identity?”
“Young man, consider carefully what you are asking.” Ramble’s

voice had an angry, irritated tone. But it sounded practiced, an orator-
ical trick. I could detect no raw edge of sorrow or paternal pain. “Ask
yourself what you might do with such information. Print it? Shame an
innocent young man, perhaps ruin his life forever? Or protect him?
Identities in such cases are traditionally none of the public’s business
nor the media’s concern.”

“Nor yours, Mayor?”
“Nor mine,” he said without missing a beat. “While my heart goes

out to him, my overriding concern is preparing our great city to wel-
come the world on the nineteenth of July.”

It crossed my mind that maybe the mayor really was still in the

dark, that his son Martin had so far avoided being identiﬁ ed as the
rape victim. Otherwise, how could the father sound so cold and im-
personal?

What could I do? For the moment, I took what he said at face

value. He’d changed topics by then, so I followed up with, “Yes sir and,
from all indications the gays and lesbians of Atlanta will welcome the
world next summer. Th

ere’s going to be a gay-and-lesbian hospitality

center, an after-hours music festival for gay, lesbian and bisexual ath-
letes, plus of course T-shirts, baseball caps and rainbow pins. Here at
Outlines, we’re hoping to publish and distribute a guide to the city’s
top gay venues. We think it could turn into an annual type of thing.
Of course, we’d want to include a welcoming letter from you. But my
people can go through your administrative assistant for that. What
would you think of an oﬃ

cial proclamation?”

I was making this up as I spoke. But the guidebook and rainbow

pins sounded worth discussing with our advertising manager, and I
was glad to have it on tape as a reminder.

“Citizens,” the mayor answered, “are always free to do what they

like, within the law. But other citizens might argue that any such, ah,

119

Hot off the Presses

questionable behavior would have a deadening eﬀ ect on all of our ef-
forts to present Atlanta in the best possible light during the Games.
Any such controversy would not be in the city’s best interests. And I
doubt that the International Olympic Committee would approve.”

“Controversy? Sir? T-shirts and a hospitality center?”
“It was nice to talk to you, Mister Th

ompson. We’ll have to do it

again. And perhaps I’ll be blessed to see you in my church one day.”

He hung up before I could answer. I almost laughed. Th

e bastard

was either the coldest hypocrite I’d ever encountered or a far more
gifted politician than most white Atlantans realized. But I’d clearly
hit a nerve.

We’ll send him a T-shirt, I thought, switching oﬀ the tape record-

er. Pink, extra-large. And we’ll send his closeted, druggy son a Gay-A
rainbow pin.

Hold it, Henry. Martin Ramble isn’t the enemy. And you may have

outsmarted yourself by talking too much. Th

e mayor or Ellen Inman is

probably already calling the McClellands to sidetrack everything you’ve
just mentioned. Will you never learn to keep your big trap shut?

CHAPTER 11

OUR NAMES, OUR GAMES

ockstrappers morph into network commentators. Politicians and
racecar drivers take up erectile-dysfunction counseling. Celebri-
ties grow older but never die. Each star’s turn is endlessly replayed

and remade.

Hooking up with a celebrity, even a micro-celeb like Wade Tarp-

ley, means that you’re stuck to the ex-squeeze for life. You can’t help
but see him again and again. It’s particularly bad when the former
lover’s rep is rising faster than the Space Shuttle. Especially if you
both live in the same town and share close friends and fuck buddies.

Luckily, I had a lot to think about that fall: reporting on the jail-

house scandal, assigning decent stories that wouldn’t alarm the Mc-
Clellands, halfway hoping that a new man would walk into my life.

I’d fallen for Wade Tarpley fast and hard. But at least I got out

early. Not only was I glad to be rid of the guy, I felt extremely edgy
when he and Skip Roberts began scheduling massage sessions. Hell,
I’d introduced them. When the appointments turned into dates, it
felt like we were becoming a lesbian extended family. Skip was a Body
Magic brother and my regular playmate. I was his friend and he told
me everything.

“I ﬁ nally met Celeste,” he’d conﬁ ded over dinner at the Carillon a

few days earlier. “Actually, I bumped into the two of them at the Ans-

Elliott Mackle

122

ley Mall Kroger. In the health-food aisle. She was comparing bags of
fat-free Cheetos and taco chips. Some kind of health food, huh?”

“Fat free is good,” I said, buttering a corn muﬃ

“Wade hasn’t told Celeste how often he and I get together. I don’t

know what she actually knows.”

“You haven’t been to their apartment?”
Okay, I was keeping score—a nasty journalistic habit—and I was

one-upping my best friend. Maybe I should have been a sports writer.
It’s a weakness I try to keep in check.

“Hey, no,” Skip replied. “We use my studio. He likes the massage

table, the Body Magic strokes. He’s gotten into the music I use for
sessions. Funny, he knew about Th

e B-52s but he’d never heard of

Michael Stipe. And he went to UGA!”

I was going to ask if Wade demanded that Skip pull on his balls

and stare into his eyes during the ﬁ nale. But it was none of my busi-
ness. I was deﬁ nitely not reporting a story. “How much is Wade in
town?” I asked instead. “I thought he was on the road a lot.”

“He’s been tr-tr-training hard at Tech the last month. He’s got a

lot of meets coming up. I drove to Athens for a big tournament last
week. Watching him on the rings, it’s like watching a ballet dancer,
only his moves are, like, a lot more deﬁ nite, clean, more masculine.
Next up, there’s a big meet in Charlotte.”

“To which Celeste is not going?”
“She works ﬁ ve days a week. Anyway, I’ve been seeing Wade, like,

every chance we can ﬁ t it in. And we, you know, talk on the phone like
four times a day. One time I called the apartment and she answered.
I just hung up.”

“Back-street romance, huh?”
Picking up a chicken leg, Skip drew it across his mouth sugges-

tively and then tongued it. “You know, Henry—you do too know, so
don’t shake your head at me—he’s a dream to get naked with. Th

ose

arms, that big, thick—” He kissed the chicken leg delicately, laughed,
and then bit into it. “I’ve never felt like this about anybody, ever.”

“Like CNN on speed, huh? All hot, all the time, out of control.”
“You’re the only one I can tell. Wade doesn’t want me to mention

us to anybody. And, like, I know you don’t want to hear all the gory
details. But still.”

123

Hot off the Presses

Actually, I did want details. So I could feel morally superior in

having walked away. At least that’s what I told myself. But I wasn’t
going to admit it, even to Skip. Fantasies about what the two men did
together were as toxic as street drugs. I knew that, too. I also ﬁ gured
Skip and Wade’s rocket ride couldn’t last much longer than mine had
with either of them.

Boy, was I wrong. Th

ey kept at it for months. And, during all that

time, nobody knew what was happening except me and Wade’s coach.
And neither one of us did anything about it.

ousands, probably millions of other people had started talking

about Wade by January, though—seeing his face and name on game
cards in every town in America with a Home Expo store and, even-
tually, as a ﬁ gure in Home Expo television ads, newspaper inserts,
targeted mailings, catalogs and on billboards all over Georgia.

Skip, Wade and I had formed our oﬀ -balance trio just as Wade’s

coach and USOC handlers began ratcheting up a promotional cam-
paign designed to make him:

a) world-wide spokesman for Home Expo;
b) a warm, fuzzy broadcast personality, replacing Bob Costas at the

earliest possible moment; and

c) a legitimate contender for appearances on Breakfast-of-Champi-

ons cereal boxes and the covers of Time, Newsweek, Sports Illus-
trated and People.

Who could ask for anything more? Yeah, right. I could, of course—

because I wanted more in a man than muscles, notoriety and narcis-
sism. True, it never crossed my mind to ask Wade to give up any of
his jockstrapper goals for me. (Nor did I even momentarily consider
suspending my precious career to help him pursue the sporting life.)

Sure, yes, I was still hacked oﬀ at the way he’d used me like some

kind of android groupie. But insofar as Skip was concerned, and be-
yond general warnings about going slow and staying safe, I avoided
spelling out my misgivings. To me, Wade wasn’t worthwhile partner
material for anyone, much less my best buddy. And I should have said
so. Instead, I waﬄ

ed, answering, “Uh-huh,” and “Is that right?” and

“Wow, like minks, huh?”

Elliott Mackle

124

It wasn’t as if Wade could be ignored, not in Atlanta, not even

if you never shopped for paint or plywood. He was the only Geor-
gia white boy favored to win gold at the summer Games. He and his
Tech-based gymnastics coach were regularly featured on CNN and
all the local TV aﬃ

liates. Th

e daily Peach Buzz column slotted Wade’s

appearances at celebrity and promotional events just a rung below
the doings of Jane Fonda, Atlanta Braves pitcher Tom Glavin and El-
ton John’s latest boyfriend.

Topping oﬀ the promotional campaign, Wade was a focal point of

Atlanta-based Home Expo’s yearlong Olympics promotion, a lottery
entitled “Our Names, Our Games.” At the retail level, the company
handed out numbered cards decorated with photos of Wade and its
other athlete-employees. Reproduced by the millions, the giveaway
cards were used as tokens that, when combined in certain sequences,
earned free tickets to the particular competitor’s Olympic events,
plus hotel rooms, airfare and Home Expo-logo clothing. Gold, silver
and bronze medals won by a Home Expo athlete-employee, in turn,
earned 1,000, 500 and 250 store coupons for fans who attended
the winning event on one of Home Expo’s tickets.

Jocks were most heavily promoted in their hometown districts.

Presumably the aim was to bond local fans to the chain. In Atlanta,
Home Expo’s marketing department chose to erect half a dozen build-
ing-size posters of Wade plus numerous slightly smaller billboards in
Fulton, DeKalb, Cobb and Gwinnett counties.

e daily newspaper’s art critic compared the gloriﬁ ed, half-na-

ked image of Wade to the notorious Bruce Weber underwear mural
in New York’s Times Square. But Big Wade wasn’t caught lounging
like a drugged-out model in Calvin Klein briefs. Instead, dressed in
USA gym shorts, carrying an Olympic torch and bounding over a
pommel horse, he seemed to leap forward into space. He was iden-
tiﬁ ed in small letters—Wade Tarpley, USA Gymnast—and the “Our
Names, Our Games” motto spelled out. Th

ough the sponsor’s name

wasn’t given, Home Expo’s unmistakable livery, safety-orange block
letters on a tan ground, gave the game away.

I ﬁ rst encountered Wade’s “Our Names, Our Games” image near

Piedmont Park. Hiking up the hill toward my oﬃ

ce on Monroe Drive,

passing Grady High School’s football stadium, I glanced up and,

125

Hot off the Presses

boom, there he was on a ten-story condominium wall, a modern god
made ﬂ esh. Th

e billboard gave me a momentary jolt. But it also gave

me an idea.

“Have we got a press kit on Home Expo’s “Our Names, Our Games”

campaign?” I asked as soon as I walked into the newsroom. Bambi the
receptionist and Ibo the designer both shook their heads.

Tracy Gunn, my last new hire and lead reporter, waved one mani-

cured hand in my direction and pointed at her headset with the other.
“Got a Homie Daddy ﬂ ack pack under my desk,” she answered. “And
a real shy source on the line. Can you wait just a sec until I ﬁ nish this
call?”

I answered with a thumbs-up, “Terriﬁ c. Just when you have a

minute.”

Tracy’s background was much like Ibo’s and mine. She’d played

ﬁ eld hockey and edited the yearbook at a prep school in Birming-
ham, majored in English at Vanderbilt, interned at the Nashville Ban-
ner, clerked for Southern Living back in Birmingham, and refused to
marry the racquetball-playing stockbroker her parents chose for her.
Rather than doing Junior League charity work, she applied for the
Outlines writer’s job when I posted it, and moved to Atlanta when
she got it.

She attended every lesbian event she could. She’d established ties

with a handful of key women in the community: a city councilwom-
an, the owner of the Nissan franchise in Decatur, the semi-closeted
granddaughter of the founder of Delta Air Lines. She nailed facts,
wrote fast and wasn’t much aﬀ ected when friends and high-powered
ﬂ acks leaned on her to slant stories.

Her salary was roughly the same as mine. I feared that some daily

paper would soon lure her away. So while she worked for me, I kept
her busy.

Within ﬁ ve minutes she was standing beside my desk, dealing out

Home Expo clips and press releases, one after the other. “Good thing
I never toss out any paper, Henry. You remember when I pitched an
exposé on Expo Daddies? How these older guys cruise the hardware
aisles and the men’s johns? Looking for younger troopers that turn
out to be handy with their hands and other common tools? And you
put me oﬀ ?”

Elliott Mackle

126

“Everybody already knows about it,” I’d said at the time.
“Horny men know,” she’d replied with a wink. “Th

at’s not every-

body.”

When I described the “Our Names, Our Games” billboard, Tracy

nodded and opened a press package that had arrived the previous
week. Within an hour we’d roughed out plans for a short, sassy col-
or feature titled “Rainbow Names, Honest Games.” Th

e theme? En-

couraging closeted athletes to come out before the Games. I quickly
assigned photos of Wade’s billboards to a freelancer, an editorial
drawing to Ibo and a short, hopefully snappy news brief to Tracy. Af-
ter I’d looked over her notes, I suggested that she phone Home Expo
for a quote ﬁ rst, before she built up much spin in her head.

“Th

e jocks work part time but get paid full time,” Tracy explained,

pulling the latest press kit apart and dealing potentially useful pages
into stacks on my desk. “Our U.S. Olympic Committee actually ad-
ministers the athletes’ gigs. Formally, it’s USOC’s Olympic Job Op-
portunity Program. Some other big companies are involved. Like
Anheuser-Busch and Allstate Insurance.

“Must be hard for a Clydesdale to carry a torch,” Ibo quipped,

verbally sketching, casting around for ideas.

“Th

e mare that got away,” Tracy answered, deadpan. “Doesn’t Judy

Garland have a song that goes something like that?”

“Yeah, she sings it in ‘A Queer is Born’,” I said.
“Is that before or after her has-been husband swims the ﬁ ve thou-

sand meters to Hawaii?” Ibo said, still sketching. “Or is that ‘A Queer
to Remember’?”

“Th

e billboard art with this Atlanta dude, Wade Whatever,” Tracy

continued, “they had a Sports Illustrated ﬁ rst-stringer, Erik some-
thing, do the shots on assignment. Th

e signs were color printed in

Rochester by Kodak. Directly onto canvas, not paper. Some kind of
way new process they developed. Probably they’re gonna ﬂ og it to
death during the Games.”

“I saw the billboard,” Bambi said, leaning over Tracy’s shoulder as

he handed me a phone message. “Th

e jock could ﬂ og me anytime with

whatever he’s got under those plastic boxer shorts he’s wearing.”

127

Hot off the Presses

“I hear they’re all hung like squirrels,” Ibo said. “From the steroids

and shit they shoot up. Shrinks their parts back to where they’re like
little boys.”

“Good queer theory, Ibo dude,” I said, hoping to avoid further

speculation on Wade’s hidden assets. “Deconstruct the eroticization
of athletes so as to view them as whole, well-rounded persons.”

“And fuck you very much, boss,” Ibo laughed, holding up a quick

sketch of a Clydesdale with a rainbow tail.

“Or what about an athlete with a rainbow ﬂ ag?” I asked. “Not

Wade. Maybe a woman? Black? But universal and culturally inclu-
sive.”

Ibo turned the page and began a new sketch. “Wade, huh? You

know the dude? He be a rainbow man? One of us?”

“He has a girlfriend,” I said, not lying exactly but deﬁ nitely cov-

ering Wade’s muddy tracks, not to mention my own. A good editor
ought to be square with his people, and I wasn’t doing that.

“Got it.”
“Let’s not make this about Wade Tarpley,” I said.
“Got it. How long have you been tight with the dude?”
“He’s a world-class gymnast. He grew up in Atlanta—Cobb Coun-

ty, actually.”

“Ooohhh! Conservative Cobb,” Tracy squealed. “No queers up

there. But a lot of lonesome Expo Daddies that drive into town on
weekends. Th

ey cruise the Buckhead store on Sidney Marcus Boule-

vard. I’ve seen them—checked license plates, actually.”

“Wade Tarpley lives in Buckhead,” I said, ﬁ guring, what the hell.

“With his girlfriend. He trains at Georgia Tech.”

“Stick to your story, boss,” Ibo said. “Cover for him. It’s nothing to

us, your humble employees. Except”—he sang—“What’s it all about,
Henry?” Returning to his regular homeboy voice, he said, “Don’t we
be doin’ this story to lure all our fearful, closeted brothers and sisters
out of they hidey holes? Don’t we be the gay-lesbian-fairy pied pip-
ers inviting them to follow us in the march to truth, freedom and the
American way? Don’t we want them to become openly gay, out-and-
proud, rainbow ﬂ ag-toting jocks? Free at last, free at last?”

“It does sound as if we’re trying to out Mr. Tarpley,” Tracy said.

Elliott Mackle

128

“It’s not our function to out anybody,” I answered. “Th

ey need to

out themselves. Our role is to encourage and praise. We don’t use
blackmail.”

“I’ll draw him black, then,” Ibo said. “Or beige. With every color,

sex and size following on behind. On a yellow brick road maybe.”

“Work on it,” I said. “Cartoon needs to light some ﬁ res.”
Editorially, the “Rainbow Names, Honest Games” package was

conceived as a beginning of coverage, not an isolated report on an ad-
vertising campaign. It was possible that Pope and Marguerite might
cancel even the “Rainbow Names” package once they saw the layouts.
Th

at was something I couldn’t prevent. Th

e thought made me angry.

But the anger gave me another idea, one that ultimately aﬀ ected the
newspaper, my buddies and me.

Rainbow Names, Honest Reporting. Th

e motto popped into my

mind, bang, like a neon sign ﬂ ashing on, connecting the dots between
my talk and my walk—what I was advocating and what I should be
prepared to do. I realized that I needed to put myself on the starting
line, get ready to take oﬀ . I needed to sniﬀ out, dig up and report on
gay aspects of Atlanta’s Games, not simply sit back and wait for stories
to drop into my lap. And, starting now, I needed to assign stories that
connected other dots—the links between the persistent ugly rumors
that some gays and lesbians feed on their own kind, for instance.

Connections determine everything in Atlanta—the job you get,

the club you join, the political oﬃ

ces you’re allowed to seek, even the

size and position of your obituary in the daily paper. So I used my
best connection for what I needed done. I called Ted Brown, my old
fraternity big brother, ACOG’s local press rep.

Ted took my call. A brief chat. I told him I wanted a reporter’s card

for the Games. He readily agreed and later, after I ﬁ lled out the forms
and mailed them back, he expedited my request. Within a month, my
application for ACOG press credentials had been approved.

Meanwhile, with the approval of the McClellands, Tracy Gunn

and two free-lancers began reporting and writing a groundbreaking
series on the misdeeds of some of the city’s notable gay-power cen-
ters. I backed these up with cartoons by Ibo and editorials and snappy
headlines by myself.

129

Hot off the Presses

e ﬁ rst concerned a gay-owned restaurant chain. We’d heard the

rumors about waiters who’d come down with HIV-related illnesses
and been summarily ﬁ red. After Tracy contacted half a dozen former
employees of Heaping Helpings, the stories turned out to be worse
than that. Th

e company had also cancelled their health insurance pol-

icies. Th

e formerly gay, currently married corporate chief explained

that these actions were simply business decisions—better to lay oﬀ
employees who might give popular watering holes a bad name than
to pay their salaries and insurance—and risk bankrupting the entire
chain.

CNN, the AP, Atlanta Business Chronicle and the local daily

picked this one up after we ran it on our front page.

Tracy’s lesbian contacts helped her expose the story of a promi-

nent lawyer’s technically legal misappropriation of gay pride-festival
receipts. (Th

e woman, a member of the festival board, rented a Mer-

cedes Benz roadster using funds earmarked for emergency transpor-
tation.)

Right after that, following undercover talks with a disaﬀ ected

nun at St. Joseph’s Hospital, Tracy documented two successive Ro-
man Catholic bishops’ uncharitable treatment of gay priests dying of
AIDS. Th

e picture wasn’t pretty. Th

e clerics were given a choice: si-

lence and one-way tickets home or abandonment and humiliation if
they revealed their plight to the press or public. One celibate, activist
priest talked quite a lot. Th

e current bishop denied everything. A few

elderly parishioners believed the bishop.

Readers responded. During the winter, we increased pages and

press run. We added distribution boxes in predominantly-straight
neighborhoods on the south and northwest sides of town and in sub-
urban Cobb and Gwinnett Counties.

Outlines’ sales and promotions manager recommended that we

add another ad-sales rep to the staﬀ . Advertising receipts, she said,
were running seventeen percent above projections. On my recom-
mendation, the McClellands approved the new hire.

We ran a couple of want ads and resumes started to pile up. In

early January I sat down with sales manager Robin Fairchild to sift
through them. Robin, a tall, broad white woman who looked like Ja-
net Reno’s baby sister, mentioned in passing that she’d played golf

Elliott Mackle

130

with three other women the previous weekend and that the conver-
sation had come around to Rawson Ramble’s alleged homophobia.
Robin had mentioned his disinclination to apply for federal AIDS
funds. Another woman politely cursed him for refusing to publicly
discuss AIDS and for supporting the harsh treatment of AIDS victims
by Atlanta’s black churches.

“One old gal said it’s just pure meanness and foot-washing-Bap-

tist ignorance,” Robin said. “But you know what this other one said,
a Lipstick-Lucy whose daddy works for Coke? She said it’s because
of somebody close to him. Said that that’s why he avoids the subject.
Well, I took her aside later and asked her who it is? But she swore she
didn’t know.”

I nodded my head and picked up a ballpoint pen. “You want to

give me her name? She got a phone number? We could have Tracy
get in touch.”

“No dice, Henry. I asked her if I could have a reporter call. She

practically rammed her ﬁ ve iron down my throat.”

e Martin Ramble story seemed to be going nowhere. Ellen In-

man had not been forthcoming about disciplinary measures at the
detention center. No one was ever charged in the rape. Ibo Williams
was unwilling to further betray his friend, or even mention cover-
age to him. When I sent Tracy Gunn to talk to him at the African-
French restaurant where he served as business manager, he rebuﬀ ed
her, claiming that he’d never set foot in either the ADC or the rape
crisis center.

Finally, I called Ellen Inman again. When I asked her to speak

on the record, she belittled me for repeatedly raising such a sensitive
subject.

“Henry, you just won’t quit. We can chew on this wormy corn-

cob till the cows come home. But there is no link. Th

e mayor has

nothing—and no one—to be ashamed of. Proper measures have been
taken. Trust me.”

When she paused to suck in tobacco smoke, I ﬁ gured she was

stonewalling and that I might as well play a last card.

“How about this, then, Ellen?” (We were on ﬁ rst-name terms by

then.) “How about passing the word to the mayor that Outlines knows

131

Hot off the Presses

the identity of the victim, and that we have a pretty good account of
everything that happened in the tank that Saturday night.”

She paused, sucked in more smoke, exhaled, and said, in that case,

Outlines knew a lot more than she did.

“We believe our story will ﬂ y, Ellen. So maybe the mayor and I

should talk again.”

“I do believe you’re ﬁ shing in a rain barrel, dear one. But I’ve talk-

ed myself blue. So I’ll tell him.”

PART II

CHAPTER 12

CHICKEN

rouble-free rehearsals often foreshadow disastrous opening
nights. Yet nobody seemed worried when the Atlanta Grand
Prix, the initial track-and-ﬁ eld event at Olympic Stadium went

oﬀ without a hitch. Atlanta is famously a city of optimists and boost-
ers. Hosting the summer games was widely viewed as an obligatory
upward step toward becoming (drum roll, please) Th

e Next Great In-

ternational City.

As if being hometown to CNN, Martin Luther King Jr., Coca-Cola,

UPS and the world’s busiest airport somehow didn’t count.

e mood on shakedown day, like the weather, was sunny and

mild. When the gates swung open on Saturday, May 18, 1996, just two
months prior to the start of the Games, the new structure, a block
south of the once-futuristic Fulton County Stadium (“Home of the
Braves”) and within hiking distance of downtown, smelled strongly of
wet paint, raw concrete, turpentine and disinfectant. Th

ough baptized

Centennial Olympic Stadium, the ﬁ eld would soon be downsized into
a commercial baseball park. Th

e city’s long-range plan to rename the

stadium for Ted Turner and present it to him as a post-Games gift got
little or no play that day.

Flags, bands, grinning politicians, television cameras and com-

memorative souvenirs were in predictably long supply. As I type these
words into my laptop, I’m wearing a white cotton souvenir T-shirt
and drinking beer from the ﬁ rst in a series of collectable plastic Coca-

Elliott Mackle

136

Cola cups celebrating the Games. I mention them together because
the shirt and cup oﬀ er diametrically opposing perspectives on the
meaning of the stadium.

e T-shirt features a red oval seen from the start line of the sta-

dium’s freshly laid, ten-lane running track. A sleek, gray-silver grand-
stand rises like a titanium spacecraft behind it. Th

e words “Centennial

Olympic Stadium” are printed below, over the modernist pattern of
laurel leaves used for banners during the Games.

Coca-Cola’s thirty-two-ounce entry features a soft-focus, Roman-

Coliseum-style stadium. Th

e image, viewed from Goodyear Blimp

level, suggests a ruined temple, seemingly hallowed with age, and with
a red-and-white “Always Coca-Cola” moon shining above. I treasure
the cup over the shirt. It’s right in line with the mongrelization of
classic tradition employed by both the International Olympics Com-
mittee and Coke to sell themselves to a gullible, middlebrow public.

Like most successful operations, the city of Atlanta, the IOC and

their principal sponsor Coca-Cola prefer to have everything both
ways. No doubt that’s why, at least at the beginning, the three seemed
such a good ﬁ t as Games managers.

Ibo Williams and I rode the MARTA train from Midtown to Geor-

gia State Station the morning of the meet, arriving at the stadium a
couple of hours before start time. Suppliers’ tents, jockstrapper-orga-
nization booths, refreshment stands and hospitality areas were set up
on sidewalks and grassy areas between the two stadiums and along
Piedmont Avenue from the state capitol to the stadium.

Once inside the gate, Ibo and I fanned out to scour the crowd,

he with Nikon and sketchpad, me with pen, notebook and the bland,
curious half-frown-half-smile of a reporter seeking information.

At ﬁ rst I looked for men and women who signaled their gayness in

some obvious way—rainbow jewelry, pink triangles on caps, T-shirts
advertising attendance at the Gay Games or an AIDS walk. Besides
a large press badge on a lanyard, I was wearing a Body Magic T-shirt
with a Walt Whitman quote on the back (“Touch me, touch the palm
of your hand to my body as I pass. Be not afraid of my body”), faded
Duke gym shorts, running shoes and a pink Outlines-logo cap. I was
as easy to spot as a straight policeman at the Dinah Shore golf tourna-
ment.

137

Hot off the Presses

Two men in faded jeans, grungy Nikes and black T-shirts from

the Eagle, an Atlanta leather bar, did a double take when they spotted
me, one nudging the other and audibly commenting, “Th

at our kind

of jock sniﬀ er, or what?”

“Fuckin’ A!” his buddy grunted, sticking out his hand. “Yo, dude,”

he called.

Once I introduced myself, they told me that Atlanta hosting the

Games was a dream they’d shared. One worked for Wachovia Bank,
the other coached soccer and debate in a DeKalb County high school.
Th

ey’d bought Olympics tickets for the men’s freestyle wrestling ﬁ -

nals, men’s gymnastics, a couple of women’s softball games and the
last three days of track-and-ﬁ eld competition. Th

e Wachovia guy was

on a company waiting list for Opening Ceremonies tickets. Both men
planned to hang out in Centennial Olympic Park between events.
When I asked if they themselves were involved in competitive sports,
they broke into broad grins. Th

ey’d met playing bar-league softball,

the schoolteacher said, and they’d been together—at home and on the
diamond—for almost eight years. Both were Outlines readers. Both
gave good quote.

ree women shopping for ACOG-logo hats and sunshades

caught my eye next. All three looked trim and in shape. One sported
a Candler Park golf shirt, the giveaway detail. Candler Park is a heav-
ily lesbianized neighborhood between Downtown and Decatur. Th

public golf course is its focal point. When I introduced myself, the
golfer immediately jumped in, politely demanding that Outlines hire
a woman sportswriter, somebody who at least knew the diﬀ erence
between soccer and ﬁ eld hockey. When I asked if she had a candidate
in mind, she replied that indeed she did, going on to describe the
qualiﬁ cations of her ex-girlfriend’s running partner, a legal secretary.
I said I’d be glad to look at her clips. We exchanged cards.

e best interview was a research librarian from the University

of Kentucky. Tall, black and wearing wraparound shades and a one-
piece, skin-tight bodysuit, he walked right up to me, touched my
back, said, “Sacred Brother, I did my ﬁ rst stroke-and-gasp weekend
two years ago in Cincinnati. What about you?”

Having identiﬁ ed each other as Body Magicians, we were oﬀ .

Elliott Mackle

138

“I drove down here strictly to check out the merchandise,” he said.

“Have you seen those real, real spandex track suits a lot of the men
athletes are wearing? With their big ole parts sticking out in front like
Pontiac hood ornaments. Flapping, ﬂ apping, ﬂ apping back and forth
with every stride they take. From what I’ve already seen on the TV, it
doesn’t look like there’s such as thing as a decent athletic supporter
among the lot of them. Won’t be winning by any nose in those suits.”

Harold—the librarian’s name was Harold Jeﬀ erson—waved his

hand and added, “Young man, are you old enough to remember when
spectators could check out a little raw butt at track meets, back when
runners still wore little swimmer’s jocks and loose shorts like you’ve
got on?”

“Check it out, Bro,” I said, lowering the waist of my Duke shorts to

reveal the wide-elastic waistband of my old supporter.

Harold glanced down, rolled his eyebrow appreciatively, then

knelt beside me to make a full inspection. “Umm um. Bike No. 10
jockstrap on you—classic red, white and blue stripe. You got the time,
young man?”

“You’re looking pretty good yourself. But this is a work day for

me.”

“Have to catch you later, then.” He glanced left, then right. Th

he slipped his hand under the hem of my shorts and squeezed my na-
ked butt. “Mighty good shape, I’d say. Do you ever get up to Kentucky,
honey? I say we ought to trade massages one day. Or maybe during
the Games in August? I expect to be down here the last four days.”

I said I thought we ought to get together, too. And maybe sooner

than August. We exchanged phone numbers.

At 11:30, Ibo and I met near the Olympic Torch to reconnoiter.

He’d gotten some great shots, he said, including a roll of ﬁ lm captur-
ing a uniformed ACOG volunteer chatting with the pair of bar-league
softball players I’d interviewed.

I suggested a backstage walkthrough next. Because Ibo seldom

worked the street he didn’t have an oﬃ

cial press card. But getting

him through security was no problem. Both of us spotted a familiar
face among the ticket takers and automatically joined his line. A well
known drag queen as well as a volunteer for Project Open Hand, the

139

Hot off the Presses

man gave us both high ﬁ ves and held up progress while explaining
which portal to use in order to reach the physical therapy area.

e rent-a-cop checking credentials at the press portal was an-

other gay brother. A longtime bouncer at the Armory, a popular gay
bar and disco on Juniper Street, he waved us through, explaining that
my own press card entitled me to escort employee-assistants into the
restricted athletes’ area during pre-Olympics events.

I’d already had two guided stadium tours, so we found the male

athletes’ massage studio easily. It was midway down a long, curving
hall under the grandstand. Lit by ﬂ orescent tubes and slightly damp
and musty, the hall felt like a cave or subway tunnel.

When we entered the physical therapy area, Skip Roberts and

a dozen or so other masseurs, all clad in ACOG shorts and shirts,
were standing outside several massage cubicles, deeply disappointed
at the lack of business on opening day. Th

e stark, chilly rooms had

tan walls, white ceilings, blue ﬂ orescent lighting and pebble-gray li-
noleum ﬂ oors. Towels and sheets were stacked on overturned card-
board cartons. Containers of massage and aromatherapy oils were
stashed under tables.

“Th

e Herman Miller equipment cabinets walked out of the build-

ing last weekend,” somebody later explained.

Skip squealed “Hey, what’s happening” when he saw me, hugged

us both and introduced his colleagues. Ibo stepped back and started
shooting ﬁ lm while Skip and I caught up.

He was still scheduled to lead a team of masseur volunteers at

the Georgia Dome during the Games, he explained. Each of the mas-
seurs working today was a team leader assigned to a diﬀ erent Olym-
pic venue.

Yes, local people involved with the Games fell into IOC-speak

easily, most of us without a second thought: Venue, of course, but
also Start List, Olympiad and United States of America—rather than
just America or the USA.

e head masseur, spotting my badge and notebook, crossed

the room and took charge. “We want to oﬀ er the athletes a seam-
less product,” he said, speaking slowly so I could get his words down.
“Each venue’s physical therapy staﬀ will oﬀ er the best, most beneﬁ cial
services to the competitors. Th

ey deserve it.”

Elliott Mackle

140

When I asked for his name, he handed me a business card. When

I asked if I could quote him in Outlines, he stiﬀ ened and then an-
swered, in a somewhat higher voice, that I could “As long as your
story don’t imply anything funny. We maintain a professional image,
you know.”

Skip nodded and grinned. “Right,” he said. “None of us actually

likes putting our bare hands on naked, sw-sw-sweaty men for a living.
Too gross.”

Skip and I laughed. Th

e other man didn’t. Ibo was shooting the

three of us with a telephoto lens. Th

e reticent masseur grimaced and

stalked away.

“He’s maaa-ried,” Skip whispered. “Whatever the fuck that means.

He told me he does image counseling on the side. Helps people choose
the right clothes, makeup, hairstyle and jewelry for their skin tone
and profession.”

“I could use some of that,” I said.
“He only works with women, I think. But hey, big brother, you’re

perfect just the way you are. Your image gets me going just ﬁ ne. I’ve
got your naked image on my sacred altar. Just like you’ve got that big
photo of us on your oﬃ

ce wall.”

“Touch me, touch the palm of your hand to my image. Be not

afraid of my image.”

Skip looked down, momentarily confused. Th

en he laughed. “Oh,

yeah. Th

e Whitman shirt from Wildﬁ re Ranch. Okay. I missed that.”

Moving behind me, he touched my back with both hands and be-
gan squeezing my shoulders. His strong ﬁ ngers worked like electric
switches on the succession of pleasure points running along my neck
and spine. I wanted to throw myself on a table, settle in for a session
and start deep-breathing. Instead, I pushed back, sucking in short
breaths, momentarily shutting out the other people in the room.

“I’m feeling more tension than I like right here,” Skip said, putting

pressure on a rib. “And here,” he said, poking another. “Do you want to
get together and trade massages? Like, early next week?”

“God, yes. Fuck. Th

at feels so good. What about Tuesday after

work?”

“Works for me, big brother.”

141

Hot off the Presses

Skip and I had stayed fairly close over the winter, unwilling to let

Wade Tarpley get between us yet not inclined to discuss the situation
over and over. From a comment Skip made during our session the
previous week, I knew he and Wade were still seeing each other.

“Awesome, just beautiful,” he’d said as he oiled my cock halfway

through the massage. “You’re actually harder than Wade usually gets.
And he’s like a teenager, gets so aroused he’s crazy. I do worship the
guy. Is that me being crazy?”

I’d carefully avoided voicing my misgivings about Wade as a lover,

and I was wrong in keeping quiet now. Skip had said little more than
that Wade was terriﬁ cally busy with training, competitions and per-
sonal appearances, and that they were looking forward to more time
together after the Games.

“Okay, you two, break it up,” Ibo called, shooting oﬀ a last series

of pictures. “Or we’ll have to run these shots on the last inside page,
along with the escort service listings.”

“Anybody hungry?” Skip asked, putting the ﬁ nal touches on my

neck and moving away. “Th

e Aramark people gave us free-lunch cou-

pons.”

Ibo, two other masseurs and I said, Yeah, let’s go and eat free. So

the ﬁ ve of us headed out, rode a slow elevator (“almost doesn’t move,”
my notes read) up to a south-facing terrace several levels above
ground and got in line at a booth labeled “Taste of the South.” We
ordered ﬁ ve of pretty much everything: barbecue pork sandwiches,
combination barbecue plate, corn dogs, pecan pie, Diet and Classic
Coke, packaged slaw and chips.

e pre-wrapped sandwiches came out of the microwave steam-

ing hot and soaking wet. Th

e pork tasted like Byron’s frozen barbe-

cue, one of my mother’s standard shortcut meals. Th

e factory-made

pie got ﬁ ve “yes” votes. Few Southern men ever met a slice of pecan
pie they didn’t like.

We were sitting in a circle beneath a thick steel-and-concrete col-

umn, enjoying the fresh air and shade, listening to music from the
stands and watching people. I kept my notebook open, jotting down
the T-shirt messages passing by—“USA Championships, Knoxville,
TN,” “Alabama Wrestling,” “Atlanta Track Club,” “Black Hills Mara-
thon,” “Mount Union Track,” “Atlanta Braves.”

Elliott Mackle

142

Skip pointed down at two buildings below us, both ugly, insti-

tutional structures hunkered along the Interstate. “Like, it’s war and
peace or something, you know? See that big house in the trees? With
the woman pushing a man in a wheel chair? Th

at’s the cancer home,

Our Lady of Perpetual Help. When I was in massage school, we vol-
unteered there as part of our course work. Th

e patients are all dying.

We couldn’t do much for them, really. Th

e nuns always gave us lunch

or dinner. Th

ey make great fried chicken and biscuits.”

“Better than the Carillon?” I said.
“Hope it’s better than this garbage,” one of the other masseurs

groused, holding up a limp, half-eaten sandwich. “Reminds me of
smoke-ﬂ avored toilet paper left out in the rain.”

e other masseur gagged. “Th

anks for sharing, dude.”

“Th

at other building, right down there, closer,” Skip continued, ig-

noring us, “that’s Red Dog headquarters, the police precinct that they
run the drug busts and sting operations out of. Testosterone City—
body armor and machine guns, ﬁ tness machines instead of desks,
they tell me. It’s going to be a security check point and”—he pointed
his half-eaten corn dog at me—“press oﬃ

ce during the Games.”

“Isn’t there a Red Dog beer?” Ibo asked.
“I have this lady cop that comes in for massages,” Cotton Balls

said. “Muscles out to here. Atlanta Police oﬃ

cer. After the ﬁ rst ses-

sion, I asked her to leave her weapon in the car. She said she feels
naked without it. I said I wasn’t going to work on any pistol-packing
mama. What if I hit a nerve and she was so blissed out she reached for
her weapon and pumped me full of APD lead?”

We all laughed. And then, coming from the direction of the stands,

we heard a high school band strike up the “Wide World of Sports”
theme followed by “Fanfare for the Common Man.”

“Show time,” Ibo said.
“Back to work,” Skip said.
“If there is any work,” Cotton Balls said.
“Tuesday,” I said, mock-saluting Skip. “I’ll call you before I leave

the oﬃ

ce,” I added, gathering up my sandwich wrapper, pie container

and the plastic cup decorated with the shadowy Coliseum and the
Coca-Cola moon.

143

Hot off the Presses

remember little about the formal ceremonies or the track-and-
ﬁ eld competition that followed. ACOG-meister Billy Payne oﬀ ered
brief, slightly self-conscious remarks about volunteerism and pub-

lic-spirited selﬂ essness. He was practicing, I imagine, for welcoming
the world on July nineteenth. Mayor Ramble, decked out in a dark
preacher’s suit and wide-brimmed hat, invoked the deity, the weather
and the proud people of a brave and beautiful city in considerably
more detail. With a wave of his hand he introduced various notables,
including the chairman of the city council, the Fulton County police
chief and the superintendent of stadium construction. In closing, he
praised his own dear wife and family, seated nearby, “who have lov-
ingly given up so much that I might give myself up to a noble cause.”

It struck me as signiﬁ cant that he didn’t actually name his spouse

or either of his children.

Rebecca, Martin and Cassandra Ramble stood, waved to the

crowd, quickly reseated themselves and turned their adoring glances
back on the mayor. None of the Rambles was more than middling
height but Martin was the shortest of all. He had a pencil moustache,
buzzed hair and wore smoked Ben Franklin spectacles and a black,
glove-leather jacket. Th

e jacket did little to disguise his square, un-

athletic frame.

“Th

at be Marty,” Ibo said, slipping into A-town irony. “See how

he looks at his daddy? Th

ey’re all of ’em trained politicians. But see

how Mama and sister they be gazing at the Rev with what looks to be
total adoration. Hanging on his every word and gesture—like he be a
sanctiﬁ ed Hershey bar. Hmmm, well now it just could be, they be ac-
tually going over their grocery lists in their heads. But that’s not what
we see. Marty, now, he’s looking at his daddy’s hands, not his face.
You know why? Martin’s heard it all before, and he don’t care. But the
hands—there’s no telling where they might go, or what they could do.
When somebody’s not expecting it.”

“You going over and say hello?” I asked, assuming that Ibo would

do as I might if Skip or another close friend was on display, and feel-
ing uncomfortable.

“No, boss. Th

ey’re working. I’ll probably see him later on this

weekend, ﬁ ll him in.”

Elliott Mackle

144

bo’s words came back like whips when he phoned late Sunday night
and woke me up. He was angry, sobbing, near-hysterical. He didn’t
say hello or identify himself. His tone was demanding, curt—and

yet he sounded as if he was hurting in a way I couldn’t have imag-
ined.

“You told big daddy you knew who got punked in that jail, didn’t

you, Henry? Well, goddamn it, you might as well have sent him a fax
about how I was talking out of school.”

“Ibo? Did Ramble get on you again? Jesus.”
“I haven’t seen him. I saw a police report. One of the mayor’s se-

curity guards had a Xerox. Came down today.”

“Xerox of what? Th

e night sheet from when Martin was raped?”

“Let me tell this, Mister goddamn fucking editor. From last night!

e Fulton County jail last night.”

When I didn’t say anything else, Ibo started crying again. “I’m

sorry, I’m sorry. See, me and my Number One, we carried Martin
to an alumni gathering today. Over at—well, doesn’t matter whose
house. Martin’s not living at home these days. On the way back, he
said he wanted to stop by there, though, said he needed to pick up
some laundry and he knew they’d still be at fellowship. We weren’t in
any hurry.”

ough I couldn’t guess quite what was coming, I’d already ﬁ g-

ured there must have been another rape or a cutting. And I’d grabbed
a pad and ballpoint and started taking notes.

“I know this uniform in the driveway from hanging around with

Martin. He’s been on the mayoral detail since day one. He’s a little,
well—one or two cards short of a deck. Like, why did he show me the
Xerox? And grin real big, like he was showing me kiddy porn when
he handed it over?”

“Did Martin see it? Whatever it was?”
“He’d gone inside the house at that time. Was an incident re-

port.”

I waited.
“A brother got pulled over out on Bolton Road on Saturday night.

e bro run a red light. Car turned out to be stolen. Plates matched

right oﬀ . Th

e brother had a four-page rap sheet. Th

e street cops called

for an evidence team to go over the hot vehicle. Th

ey found crack

145

Hot off the Presses

cocaine, pills, six thousand dollars in small bills, two Rolex watches
and some other jewelry. Th

e brother was charged with possession of

narcotics and stolen property, operating a stolen vehicle—more than
enough to hold him for a court appearance, without bail.”

“Yeah?”
“Th

ey took him to the Atlanta Detention Center. Put him in a sin-

gle cell, not the tank. Th

is was big time crime, see? Put the perp away

for safe keeping, you might say. And then, a little before dawn, this
guard on the graveyard shift looked in and found the brother hanging
from a bed sheet. Th

e bed sheet it was strung up through the win-

dow frame somehow. Th

e brother was not breathing. Had not been

breathing for some time. Was gagged with a towel.”

“Jesus.”
“His pants were around his ankles. He’d messed himself. And he’d

bled a lot—there was a lot of blood, according to the incident sheet.
Because somebody jammed a—fuck Christ—jammed a chicken bone,
a leg bone, up his ass before he died. Twisted it around. Broke it oﬀ in
there and kept twisting.”

I kept writing so as not to feel anything. “How long did he—did it

take for him to die? How come nobody heard anything?”

“You might just want to ask about that, boss. When you phone

up the Mayor’s spokes-bitch. Th

e incident report didn’t address that

detail.”

“You sure you’re not jumping to conclusions? Th

is guy was deﬁ -

nitely one of the ones that did Martin?”

“No problem. I checked it out. Leader of the band, you know what

I’m saying?”

“You checked with Martin?”
“Big daddy never mentioned the incident to him, he says. Not the

arrest, not the rape center, nothing. He’s pretty upset, and he’s ﬁ xing
to move in with us, sleeping on the couch tonight, maybe a few nights,
instead of his apartment. We gave him an Ambien pill to knock him
out. I’m in the basement now, on the private line.”

“Th

is scares me. Who else knows?”

“Beats me. But word’ll get around. Th

ere must be a couple more

thugs pissing in their Air Jordans after this. Martin’s not going to talk,
though. Or us. Are we?”

Elliott Mackle

146

“Th

e daily paper’s bound to pick it up. Some stringer will see the

report. Stands to reason.”

Ibo paused about ten seconds then said, “Not this report, boss.”
“Bound to.”
“Th

is was a copy of a draft that didn’t ﬂ y. Th

e original and two

went down a toilet at City Hall. My guard friend said this Xerox was
just a souvenir of a whitewash, got left in the copy machine some way.
He say that. Something else actually got ﬁ led. Cleaner oﬃ

cial version,

I’d bet. Anyhow, the cop wasn’t getting to keep the souvenir. He was
just the messenger boy. Was just supposed to hand it over to the Rev
when he and Rebecca got home.”

“And you don’t have a copy of the copy?”
“You wish.”
“Do I? Th

is is horrible, scary, police-state stuﬀ . Th

e connection is

there.”

“Th

e connection. Yes.”

“Do you want to take tomorrow oﬀ ? I mean, you worked Satur-

day.”

“Goes with the job. I may come in late. We’ve got pages to paste

up.”

“I can call in a sub.”
“Let me phone you tomorrow when I see where I am with Mar-

tin. And Henry—boss. I shouldn’t have swore at you. Because you’re
the one going to be eating the guilt sandwich here. I was just—I am,
angry.”

“I am too. Not at you. I don’t know where we’ll go with this.”
“Or if?”
“Probably where, not if. We’re part of the connection.”
“We are the connection, boss.”
“Let’s not go there. Not yet.”
“Cool.”
“Tomorrow?”
“No problem.”

CHAPTER 13

KODAK MOMENT

he jailhouse death of Ebonyzer (“Do Rag”) Brown, a professional
car thief and drug runner, drew minimal news coverage. Th

e dai-

ly paper gave it two inches and no follow-up. A couple of radio

stations attempted without success to drum up interest in the inci-
dent as a racially motivated hate crime. (Th

e guard who discovered

the body happened to be white.) Local television news departments
wouldn’t touch it, not without a reportorial blueprint to follow.

Outlines ignored it as well. We knew the connections—the why,

where, when, what and some of the whos. But Martin Ramble, out of
both fear and shame, wasn’t about to point a ﬁ nger at his principal at-
tacker. Ibo, a minor actor in the drama, was unwilling to further harm
his friend. Asking Ellen Inman to discuss the mayor’s role in the case
seemed out of the question. Th

ere was no point in parading my own

frustration and guilt as a conduit by publishing a speculative edito-
rial. With nothing on paper, we had to let the story ride, at least for
the moment. And so I settled into day-to-day editorial direction.

In early June, Outlines covered the grand opening weekend of the

Gay and Lesbian Welcome Center. Th

ree weeks later, Tracy’s front-

page story reported that approximately seven thousand dollars in
cash and checks had disappeared from the executive director’s locked
oﬃ

ce following a weekend fundraiser. When the director was arrest-

ed at a hotel in Miami Beach a week later, Tracy was interviewed on
CNN and Channel Two.

Elliott Mackle

148

We covered the Gay Pride parade from downtown to Piedmont

Park—in which, despite numerous invitations, not one world-class
athlete chose to appear. We ran celebratory portraits of out-and-proud
locals such as Indigo Girls, the folk-rock duo; drag queen superstar
Ru Paul, and gay-rights supporter Coretta Scott King. In the spirit of
pre-Olympics comity, without pointing ﬁ ngers, we editorially opined
that other prominent friends and members of the gay-lesbian family
ought to kick open their closet doors the way feminists had burned
their bras a generation earlier.

At one point, needing background for an editorial marking the

June 15-16 Team USA track-and-ﬁ eld trials at Olympic Stadium, and
hoping to bounce ideas around, I phoned Wade Tarpley. Maybe, just
maybe, I hoped, his ongoing sessions with Skip had softened his at-
titudes. Big mistake. He listened for perhaps twenty seconds, said in a
strained voice that all his press contacts had to go through either the
Home Expo PR oﬃ

ce or USA Gymnastics, and hung up.

Still ﬁ guring we’d do best to tack against the celebrity headwind

created by Peach Buzz, USA Today, People, Vanity Fair, GQ and the
Advocate, I set staﬀ er Tracy Gunn to reporting a series on relatively
unknown community ﬁ gures and locals who didn’t depend on public-
ity to exist. Ann Kaplan, executive director and coordinator of nurs-
ing at St. John’s House, was ﬁ rst up. We gave Ann’s story the two-page
color centerfold treatment, allowing us to explain how an AIDS hos-
pice works and why Kaplan and others often spent sleepless weeks—
not just nights—tending to the shelter’s dying men and women.

Ann, a Jewish woman working in a facility founded by members

of the Episcopal Church, was followed by Father Ronnie McCloud,
a celibate priest, wine connoisseur and part-time hospital chaplain.
Defying the coded instructions of the Roman Catholic bishop (which
were basically, “Ignore the sin and let the sinners die somewhere
else”), Father McCloud took as his ministry the care and feeding of
destitute street gays and people with AIDS. He instituted Tuesday
night suppers at a downtown church, started a hotline for seriously
ill men and women and organized a volunteer taxi service for pa-
tients needing transportation to the Grady AIDS Clinic or various
treatment centers around town. Th

e Father McCloud proﬁ le (“Move

Over, Mother Teresa”) drew a temporizing, veiled rebuke from the

149

Hot off the Presses

archdiocesan secretary and enthusiastic follow-ups in Southern Boys,
Atlanta magazine and the morning edition of the daily.

AIDS-heroes made for hot copy, sure. But we covered other kinds

of valor in the every-other-week series. My favorite installment cen-
tered on Hoke (“Th

e Hook”) Jones and Terry (“Big Sarge”) Fletcher,

a Decatur couple who’d paired-up in Vietnam, returned home to
Georgia and started wearing pony tails when pony tails weren’t cool.
Working at odd mechanical jobs while sorting out their peacetime
feelings, the boys eventually opened an automotive repair shop, Jeep-
ers. Th

ey made enough money ﬁ xing and selling vintage Jeeps and

other Willys-type vehicles to ﬁ nance a statewide dog-rescue chap-
ter for Dalmatians, German Shepherds and other large breeds. Th

men also ran busses to three gay-lesbian marches on Washington,
helped organized sit-ins during the Cracker Barrel boycott and were
big-check contributors to Human Rights Campaign Fund, Olympics
Out of Cobb, Georgia Vietnam Veterans and Actors Express.

My least favorite personality? Bill Leach, a wiry, energetic climb-

er who hung around with Elton John and Jane Fonda, served on the
board of the High Museum and chaired the board of Atlanta Cares/
Atlanta Delivers, a now defunct charity formed to provide free pre-
scription drugs for people living with AIDS. Leach began his rise as a
derivatives salesman for McClelland & Co. He’d successfully courted
a former Driving Club debutante when the girl was right out of col-
lege and drawing no proposals from boys of her class. Socking away a
lot of money fast, he burned out equally fast and retreated to a shack
on Cumberland Island for a year. Returning to town in the early nine-
teen-eighties, he repped wholesale oﬃ

ce supplies for Ivan Allen Co.,

invested in Hayes, Intel and other tech stocks, sired a son and seemed
to have successfully bounced back from his breakdown. But at the
beginning of the Nineties, Leach’s bachelor uncle conveniently died,
Leach inherited the income from seven million dollars in Coca-Cola
and Trust Company stock and promptly divorced his wife. (In the
settlement, she unwisely accepted a portfolio composed mostly of
soon-to-be-worthless Lucent Technologies, Hayes and Texas Instru-
ments stocks.) Leach signaled his emergence from the closet by host-
ing an Act Up masquerade party at his mansion on Peachtree Circle.
His hundred-thousand-dollar gift of Turner Broadcasting stock to St.

Elliott Mackle

150

John’s House in 1993 was said to be the largest donation ever received
by a local AIDS-related charity. He was also—and I have to admit this
played a part in our decision to include him—a close friend of Out-
lines’ advertising and promotions manager, Robin Fairchild, as well as
the McClellands.

We’ll return to Bill Leach, Ann Kaplan, Hoke Jones, Big Sarge

Fletcher and Father McCloud soon enough. For the moment, let’s just
assume that they all stayed in town during the summer, enjoyed the
ﬁ rst days of the Olympics and continued their work uninterrupted.

utlines, like almost every business in Atlanta, was deﬁ nitely on a
roll in the spring and early summer of 1996. Readership increased
monthly. Ad sales continued to climb. Robin Fairchild relent-

lessly rode herd on agencies and on Ibo’s layouts, restricting overtly
suggestive ads to the last two inside pages of the paper. Consequently,
at least in Pope and Marguerite McClellands’ eyes, she could do no
wrong. Robin, Tracy Gunn, Ibo and I were given hefty raises. By May,
Robin was urging the creation of a separate insert section, to be called
“Out of Bounds,” dedicated to advertisers in the skin, phone-sex and
escort-service trades. With so much happening, however, we put oﬀ
a decision until after the Games.

ough I was working sixty hours a week, pumping the weight

machines at the club most afternoons, trading erotic massages with
Skip every Tuesday or Wednesday and covering pre-Olympics events,
I still found time to date once or twice a week. Frank Cochran, a Bell
South quality control techie based in Norcross, typiﬁ es the men I
went out with. We ﬁ rst said hello over the shrimp bowl at an Atlanta
Executive Network reception. Before leaving, we’d exchanged phone
numbers and preferences in movies and gay-friendly restaurants. A
couple of weekends later, he started spending Friday and Saturday
nights at my apartment.

Frank was tall, dark, trim but unmuscular, with a craggy-hand-

some face, baby-seal eyes and a master’s degree in theoretical physics
from Georgia Tech. He didn’t read novels (or, thank God, self-im-
provement books). He got his news and opinions from CNN. In bed,
he did whatever I suggested. He wasn’t inexperienced. He’d had a two-
year relationship in grad school that ended, he claimed, with respect

151

Hot off the Presses

on both sides. Rather, he seemed to be somehow uninvolved in love-
making. He once compared the act to sightseeing or eating dinner:
part of life, great while it lasts but unquantiﬁ able and thus essentially
meaningless. When he climaxed, his face screwed up in what looked
like painful embarrassment. Later he always assured me that shoot-
ing oﬀ , especially with me topping him, felt great. Th

e grimace was

just a facial tic, he explained, an unconscious habit. He only wanted
to please me in bed, he said, and why was I staring at his face rather
than enjoying my own pleasure anyhow?

I was hardly fooling even myself. Frank was convenient, present-

able and easy to be with. I took him to public events such as the open-
ing of Coke City, a temporary amusement park adjacent to Centennial
Olympic Park; to a press party at Mumbo Jumbo, a determinedly
hip new downtown restaurant; and—even Frank found quantiﬁ able
meaning in this—to the opening of “Rings,” the High Museum’s all-
stops-out exhibition of ﬁ rst class art drawn from collections around
the world. Who knew painters such as Caspar David Friedreich and
Th

omas Eakins could be so Olympian? Who knew that really well-

painted, bare male skin could be so arousing? Th

e sex session later

that night was the best of our several dozen.

Dates were not allowed at the press party jointly hosted by IOC

chief Juan Antonio Samaranch and ACOG president Billy Paine the
Th

ursday before Opening Ceremonies. Entry was restricted to jour-

nalists with ACOG badges marked “E,” the magic, electronically veri-
ﬁ able, go-everywhere credential secured for me by Ted Brown.

As instructed, I presented my printed invitation at the Swatch

Pavilion in Centennial Olympic Park just after ﬁ ve pm. At check-
in, guests were handed, and instructed to wear, a commemorative
Swatch watch as an additional security pass. Specially printed plastic
rings strung along the clear plastic watchband spelled out the night’s
exclusivity code in ﬁ ve Olympic colors: Swatch Access (in blue), At-
lanta (yellow), July 18 1996 (black), Olympic Games (green), Press
Gala (red).

A kicky souvenir, easily the best freebie I copped during the games.

And that’s counting the oﬃ

cial “Press” overnight bag, the bronze

participant’s medal (both from ACOG) and a deluxe, Atlanta-edition
Monopoly set promoting McDonald’s hamburgers, fries and shakes.

Elliott Mackle

152

McBurgers could have been no worse than the mass-market swill

set out in the Swatch pavilion: Lay’s chips, Pepperidge Farm goldﬁ sh,
Bud Lite, Fetzer jug with the fee-paid-to-ACOG label and bottled
Crystal Springs water at room temperature. Wearing a shirt and tie
and feeling like a fool, I fought my way through the cattle-call crowd
of sweaty journalists in giveaway T-shirts. A bartender handing out
open bottles of wine kindly supplied me with ice to cool the mineral
water. I tipped him a dollar.

I’d been to better parties in college. Still, the pavilion itself was a

wristwatch fetishist’s fantasy—glass-fronted case after case display-
ing, what else, Swiss watches of every conceivable design, size, ma-
terial and age. After twenty-ﬁ ve minutes of seeing no one I knew, I
moved next door to the larger, even less-well-air conditioned AT&T
facility, a combination broadcasting studio, athletes’ message center
and jock-sniﬀ ers’ animal house.

Refreshments dumped on tables in the main hall ranged from

scary-bad chem experiments (creamy bean salad, limp fried shrimp,
processed cheese melting in the heat, Korbell champagne, a blue
sports beverage called PowerAde) to barely acceptable (trays of choc-
olate chip cookies and brownies, cold Cokes and icy bottled water).

“Another lorry-load of delicious Southern specialties,” a sun-

burned Brit in Birkenstocks and mud-stained shorts complained.

“Ya see any peanut pie here?” his associate, an overweight Nige-

rian woman inquired.

At one point, “Dream Team” basketball players Hakeem Olaju-

won and David Robinson stalked through the room trailing securi-
ty guards and a camera crew. Th

ey didn’t stop. A sweating teenager

dressed as Izzie, the shmoo-like mascot of the Games, did stop—right
in front of me—and squeaked, “Welcome to Atlanta, welcome to the
Games.”

“I live here,” I answered, asking how long she could last inside the

furry, all-enveloping costume. About ﬁ fteen minutes, she answered.
I handed her an ACOG collectable pin decorated with a rainbow and
my Outlines business card. She thanked me without looking at either
and moved on to her next target.

An emaciated Charles Addams character worked the room dem-

onstrating ﬂ ip-top pin cases. A rockabilly band called Th

e Shadows

153

Hot off the Presses

played enthusiastically and much too loud for thirty minutes before
shutting down. Billy Payne and Juan Antonio Samaranch material-
ized, stepped up to the band’s abandoned microphones, welcomed us
brieﬂ y, introduced Izzie and a couple of prominent athletes, posed for
grip-and-grin photos and spoke to nobody.

A sextet of scowling, uniformed bodyguards surrounding the pair

never broke ranks. You’d have thought they were guarding Kennedy
and Nixon. Samaranch—chestnut-colored tailored suit, silver hair, icy
eyes, lift heels that brought the crown of his head level with Payne’s
armpits—looked more like a Fascist Brownshirt in person than he did
in photographs.

Billy looked like exactly what he was: a Georgia lawyer with a

good haircut, spit-shined shoes and a worried grin. I ﬁ gure he’d al-
ready guessed he was in way, way over his head.

In an alcove, a trim, serious-looking young man was demonstrat-

ing Kodak’s new Photoshop-like computer system. He’d nailed a
sports-jacketed journalist with big shoulders and thick dark hair and
he was talking fast.

“Editing and cropping photos electronically is a piece of cake with

our new program,” the Kodak rep explained, his corporate ardor ei-
ther dead serious or perfectly fabricated. “See the ears on the boy in
the picture? Get this.” Punching a couple of buttons on a keyboard, he
slid a mouse across a Kodak-logo pad, clicked twice and the ears grew
to Dumbo size. When he clicked again, the ears became gold rings.
He clicked again, and they returned to their original shape.

“You want purple hair, black hair, crew cut hair—you got it,” the

rep said, rapidly right-clicking and instantly altering the image each
time.

“You, sir,” the rep called to me. “You want to please stand right

over here by your colleague please?”

I moved in next to Sports Coat. We bumped elbows, shifted again

and settled ourselves. I checked him out brieﬂ y. His wide shoulders
ﬁ lled every inch of the cotton jacket. Th

ough he was roughly my

height, his muscular neck looked to be about a size eighteen.

“You gents are among the ﬁ rst journalists to test out our system,”

the rep assured us as he ﬁ ddled with buttons. “We are introducing it
during the Games. We plan to move fast this fall. Company’s going to

Elliott Mackle

154

set up these photo centers in malls, airports, sports arenas, highway
rest-stops, anyplace Kodak planners ﬁ gure they can attract people
with a dollar’s worth of spare change.”

Reaching out to gently prod my arm, the rep moved me even clos-

er to the big-shouldered man. “Initially you’ll be seeing them in our
biggest dealerships, of course. Like Wolfe Camera here in Atlanta.
You guys know it? Huge operation. Where you from, by the way?”

“Right here,” I said, holding up my Crystal Springs bottle.
“From Illinois originally,” my picture partner answered, his accent

Midwestern but neither broad nor ﬂ at. “Th

ese days I just go where

they pay me to go.”

“Say cheese.”
“Cheese,” I said.
“Maytag blue,” the muscular man said. “Cheddar. Chevre. Jarls-

berg.”

e Kodak rep punched a few buttons. “Hold it,” he said, punch-

ing another set of buttons. “Again.”

“Gorgonzola, Parmesan, fromage de cottage.”
Th

e machine clicked and whirred. “Gentlemen,” he continued af-

ter perhaps twenty seconds and more whirring and clicking, “we have
lift-oﬀ .”

Sport Coat and I moved forward to view the screen. And there

we were, grinning tentatively, E-badges strung around our necks on
lanyards, drinks in hand, elbows touching.

“Don’t like the color of that coat?” the Kodak rep asked brightly.

Not waiting for an answer, he touched several buttons. Th

e sports

coat on the computer screen transformed itself into gray tweed. Suc-
ceeding taps recast it in ﬂ amingo-pink linen, blue serge, hunter green
wool and tuxedo black, complete with silk lapels.

“Crew cut?” the rep asked me. “A little more nose? Groucho’s eye-

brows?” And I was transformed—younger, older, better looking, gro-
tesque, crazed, jug-eared, bald—and just as suddenly returned to my
normal self.

e whole process made me nervous. But Sport Coat seemed to

enjoy the demonstration. “You going to print us up some samples?”
he said. “Can you do that? Only be sure you make us look like movie
stars. Huh?”

155

Hot off the Presses

e Kodak rep laughed, tapped several keys and hit enter. Th

computer screen went black, then, in rapid succession, produced im-
ages in which our faces were superimposed on the costumed bod-
ies of the Tin Woodsman and the Scarecrow, Amos and Andy, Rock
Hudson and James Dean (with Elizabeth Taylor in between) and
Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis arm-in-arm with a hideously grinning
chimpanzee.

“Sold,” said Sport Coat. “Two of each. Bill the magazine. Can you

do that?”

“No charge for you gents. Th

is is good practice for me and good

PR for the company. Be just a minute. And I have some press kits
here. Kodak put a CD right inside, so you might want to pass the
whole ﬁ le on to your photo editor when you get home.” He massaged
the keyboard and color photos on heavy stock began dropping into a
tray at the bottom of the machine.

“Or if you gents have business cards we can drop-ship the kits and

CDs right to your oﬃ

ces. Less trouble for you, all the media informa-

tion they must give you to haul around anyhow.”

Digging cards out of our pockets, we handed them over. Th

e rep

palmed and checked them over before ﬁ ling them away. “Sports Il-
lustrated, wow, big time, yes sir. You ever get to work on the swimsuit
issue? And Outlines, hey, you must cover athletes that get out of line,
that right? Here we are,” he said, slipping the photos into see-through
jackets marked Kodak Phenometron.

While the rep ﬁ nished packing our souvenirs, the thick-haired

man and I shook hands and exchanged ﬁ rst names and cards. His
card read:

Brian D. Murphy
Bureau Chief, Atlanta-Southeast
Sports Illustrated
404-636-5665 direct

Murphy glanced quickly at my card before slipping it into his

jacket’s inside pocket. “So you live in Atlanta, Henry? You like it?”

As he withdrew his hand, I checked out the woven Sports Illus-

trated logo on the left breast of his white polo shirt. He noticed me

Elliott Mackle

156

looking. Tossing his head like a horse, he said, “Ordinarily I’m a one-
man bureau, plus a secretary and a bunch of machines. New York
sends me a summer intern when they’re feeling ﬂ ush. What I mostly
do is assign stories to stringers and correspondents. Don’t be too im-
pressed.”

He had deep-set, Irish eyes under bushy brows. His nose was an

eagle’s beak—long and curved, with oval nostrils and an oﬀ -center
dimple near the tip. His lips were thin, expressive and questioning.

“But Atlanta’s home base?”
He looked me square in the face for the ﬁ rst time. Th

e sensation

was like a squeeze of both arms, the unspoken message being, Listen,
young man. I’m listening to you as closely as I can. We are communi-
cating, Stay with me, I hear you.

What he said in fact was, “Out in the country, outside Marietta,

oﬀ Austell Road, I wanted some running room, and a place to have a
dog.”

Marietta, Fucking Cobb County. Homophobic white-supremacy

city out there. Nice. He’s probably got two-point-ﬁ ve statistical kids
enrolled in a Christian Heritage academy, a soccer mom that drives a
Dodge van, he coaches little league in his spare…

“Suburbs,” I said. “You got kids, family?”
He ﬂ exed his big shoulders inside his jacket. “I’m not currently

married, no. No downtown oﬃ

ce. Th

e regional bureau’s located in

my spare bedroom. Small deal. Like I told you. Except for this month
and next.”

“Doesn’t Sports Illustrated have daily street editions here during

the Games? You’re not doing that out of your house?”

He ﬂ exed again, smiled, said, “We’re set up on four ﬂ oors over

on Piedmont near the ACOG bus station. I’m heading up a couple
of special projects. Mostly it’s grunt-work, by-the-numbers coordi-
nation. New York shipped in a gazillion reporters and an editor for
practically every sport, a photo team, drivers, runners, gofers, com-
fort women—wait, forget I said that last part. Let’s go ﬁ nd a drink and
something to eat. You with me, Henry?”

When I said I’d already checked out the chow, and found deﬁ nite-

ly slim pickings, he pointed at a door to the right of the Kodak kiosk
marked “Emergency Only.”

157

Hot off the Presses

“Did you happen to look downstairs, Henry? No? Well, follow me.

I’m practically starving. So this is an emergency for sure.”

A shadowy ﬂ ight of stairs lay just beyond the door. No alarm

sounded when Brian pushed it open. Instead, one ﬂ oor down, we
passed through a second door, this one marked “Operations,” and
discovered where the good stuﬀ was hidden.

Eight or ten men, three or four well-dressed women and a couple

of athletes in summer-weight warm-ups were gathered around a table
loaded with silver trays and crystal bowls containing cold shrimp and
crab claws on ice, California rolls, lobster canapés, Mexican papaya,
turkey tacos with mole sauce, country ham with angel biscuits, fried
squid rings and raw vegetables with aioli, iced coﬀ ee mousse, Key
lime tarts and peanut butter cookies.

Beyond the buﬀ et, a bar was set up staﬀ ed by two uniformed bar-

tenders wearing Ritz-Carlton nametags. Bottles’ labels were promi-
nently displayed: Wild Turkey, Famous Grouse, Jack Daniel’s, Macallan,
Laphroaig, Hennessy, Bacardi Añejo, ZD Chardonnay, Mondavi Re-
serve Cabernet, Sierra Nevada, Anchor Steam and Singha.

“Don’t ever accept the standard crap they put out for the gentle-

men of the press box,” Brian explained, leading me past the food to
the bar. “Th

ere’s always better. It’s reserved for people who know to

look for it. Now what will you have to drink?”

I pointed to the Jack Daniel’s. “Short,” I said. “With a splash. I’m

working tomorrow.”

“Black Jack for my friend here,” Brian instructed the bartender.

“Short, splash of Saratoga, if you please.” He paused, inspecting the
bottles. “Make it two while you’re at it,” he added. “Make the second a
double.” Palming a ﬁ ver, he slipped it into the tip glass.

He nudged me, his sharp eyes locking mine when I turned toward

him. “We’ll be working every tomorrow for the next two and a half
weeks, my friend. We have to treat ourselves with respect when the
opportunity arises.”

e bartender handed us drinks and paper napkins stamped

ACOG-AT&T.

“Only the best,” Brian said, holding up his glass to me.
“But only for people who know to look for it,” I answered, feeling

slightly reckless.

Elliott Mackle

158

“Very, very good,” he answered. “You heard that.”
I smiled and sucked down half my drink. Th

e liquor burned my

throat. I was also feeling a little angry that this straight, attractive
man was so unavailable, so corporate, so fucking like the worldly edi-
tor I hoped to become. Why the hell does fate keep dealing me small
cards and jokers like Frank Cochran and Wade Tarpley?

“I’ve never been to one of these,” I said instead.
“You mean a conglomerated dog-and-pony show?”
“I mean the Olympics. I’m just reporting local angles. You already

know I don’t know which doors to open. Didn’t even know the door
was there.”

“No time like the present to start learning.”
I checked my souvenir Swatch watch. Brian checked his. It was

ﬁ ve before seven. Th

e party upstairs was supposed to shut down at

seven. But more people entered the room as we looked up. Moving
toward the buﬀ et, Brian paused, waved to one of the newcomers, sur-
veyed the table and picked up a glass plate, silver fork and linen din-
ner napkin. “So tell me, Henry,” he said, beginning to pile shrimp onto
his plate, “you’re not a sports writer, I take it. How did you get into
this game? I’m assuming you or your paper has connections. Good
connections. Help yourself to shrimp. Cocktail sauce? Lemon?”

I loaded up on the shrimp, just as Brian had, followed by baby

ﬁ eld greens with crumbled Roquefort and balsamic vinaigrette, lob-
ster, sushi and one cookie. “We had to edit a sports page in J-school,” I
answered, dodging his question. “I don’t remember much about it.”

Brian laughed and asked another question.
Over coﬀ ee an hour later, he said sports writing was the last ca-

reer he’d have chosen. “It happened. I’m pleased that the gig’s gone
on as long as it has. I try to do the best I can. Covering sports doesn’t
give a man much range—or hope. I try to avoid interviewing old pros.
Somebody once said that covering politicians is like walking behind
the elephant in the circus parade. Well, jockstrappers’ shit smells even
worse. You know any?”

When I said I’d covered more politicians and preachers than sports

stars, Brian laughed. “What do you really want to write?” he asked.

“I edit Atlanta’s gay and lesbian weekly,” I answered, looking

straight at him, feeling even more reckless after a second Black Jack.

159

Hot off the Presses

“I’d initially hoped to build up the paper, make it the best in the coun-
try. I want to change things, convert haters and homophobes. We’ve
been covering people in the community who aren’t famous, who do
good stuﬀ —gay men and lesbians that are regular guys, non-gays who
are part of the community. What I mean is, I’m an editor. Most of the
time when I write, it’s either editorials—which is part of my job—or
just to ﬁ ll a space. I encourage my people to give Outlines a real alter-
native edge. Th

e owners are after me to tone it down, though. I don’t

know where the paper’s going.”

Brian raised his coﬀ ee cup in another toast. “Actually, I’ve seen

your paper a time or two. It’s well put together. Your owners are, ah,
homosexual conservatives?”

“No. Th

ey’re the parents of a gay man who died. Well-meaning

but the opposite of radical revolutionaries.”

Brian smiled. “Owners and good editors seldom see eye to eye.

ey haven’t ﬁ red you.”

I touched my ACOG badge. “I’m still here, right.”
“Storm the barricades, my friend. Vive La France! Climb every

mountain, ford every stream. Whatever ﬂ oats the old boat.”

“Only the best.”
Touching his brow, he winked. “But only for people who know to

look for it.

I nodded. “What about you? You want to write anything else, or

diﬀ erent?”

“Th

e best I can. Th

e truth. Words that people can easily under-

stand, maybe admire. Beautiful words, I guess. Words and message
that are strung together beautifully, I mean. When I can work sports
ﬁ gures into it, that’s when I ﬁ le copy, earn my check.”

e guy sounded real. I had to like him. “What’s the worst story

you ever had to cover?”

He laughed and rolled his eyes. “Oh, easy. I’d just started on the

Southeastern college beat. Didn’t know the territory. Got a tip that
some drunken, numb-nuts football jocks at the University of Florida
in Gainesville—the Gators, right?—they’d cut the tail oﬀ a pet alli-
gator the school kept in a tank. Huh? Th

e school mascot? I ran the

crummy bastards to earth in their dorms, they were animals, that was
bad enough. Th

ey talked, I got quotes. But you know what was worse?

Elliott Mackle

160

One of their coaches, he tried to take up for them, said his boys had
had a hard season and anyway, he said, it was only a itty-bitty gator.
And the alumni club was ﬁ xing to buy another critter to replace the
dead one.”

“Jesus. Real Southern gentleman.”
“Quote-unquote: ‘Fixing to buy another critter to replace the dead

one.’ Th

e bastard got those words thrown back in his sorry face two

weeks later, times two million copies. My editor didn’t even question
it. Appalling.”

Brian set his cup down, brushed a crumb oﬀ his sleeve and added,

“Oﬀ the record, I always secretly cheer for Miami or the Seminoles or
Ole Miss or whoever Florida plays. Just appalling.”

He stood. “You don’t know any pro jockers at all? Man, have you

got two educational weeks in front of you. Bring a basket.”

“One, actually,” I admitted. “I know one. I guess he’s kind of a big

name.”

As soon as I spoke, I wanted to snatch back the words. Braggart, I

whispered to myself. Name-dropper. Big talker. “He’s more a friend of
a friend,” I added, backtracking as best I could.

“Pro ballplayer? Golfer? Tennis?”
“Gymnast. We work out at the same club sometimes. Wade Tar-

pley.”

“Big name,” Brian answered right away. “Going for the gold. And I

expect to see him Saturday morning, when Gymnastics compulsories
start, over at the Georgia Dome.”

“Maybe we’ll cross paths then,” I said. “I’m hoping to get over

there that morning myself. I’ll be reporting on local volunteers work-
ing backstage.”

“Dome’s humongous. But if you miss me, I’ll be spending any

free time I have over at wrestling, in the World Congress Center.” He
touched his neck. “Th

at was my sport, what I did in high school and

college.”

“Where you got the shoulders?”
He took a breath. “Yes, and why my ex-wife called me a gorilla the

ﬁ rst time I took my shirt oﬀ . And how I got a bum knee that keeps my
orthopedic surgeon in Volvos. But hey, it was a start in life.”

161

Hot off the Presses

We laughed. I told him I needed to go home and sleep. We shook

hands and started moving toward the door. When we got outside,
drawing big breaths of hot sunset air, standing and watching happy
crowds of people enjoying the fountains and music in Centennial
Olympic Park, Brian looked at me hard again and asked for his busi-
ness card. Pulling it out of my pocket, surprised but not questioning
him, I handed it back. He took it, turned it over, pulled out a pen and
wrote something down. “Enjoyed the hell out of this,” he said. “Call
this number any time. Th

ey’ll ﬁ nd me. Can you do that?”

I told him I had a private line plus a phone in the car. And an un-

listed number at the apartment. He ﬁ shed my card out and handed it
back along with the pen. I wrote the numbers down.

Before I went to sleep that night, I opened the Kodak folder and

examined the set of souvenir pictures. Th

ough the computer-edited

shots were amusing keepers, I liked the straight-on, full-length, unal-
tered photos best. In one, Brian and I stood with our feet just behind
a white chalk line, he with his thick hair, New Balance shoes and cot-
ton jacket; me with my gray-on-white shirt, quilt-of-leaves necktie
and black Dockers; both of us with our matching wristwatches and
“E” credentials, elbows just touching, grinning like hell.

Propping the photo against a stack of books on my bedside table,

I gave it one more glance, smiled and switched oﬀ the light.

Gorilla, my ass. And what the hell? He could be a good friend

to make. Even if he is straight. Minutes later, I dropped into a deep,
dreamless sleep that lasted until the radio switched on at ﬁ ve the next
morning.

CHAPTER 14

SUMMON THE HEROES

y seven on Saturday morning, I’d ridden a crowded train and an
ice-cold press bus, passed through four layers of security, wolfed
down two cups of bad coﬀ ee and a New Zealand apple and sta-

tioned myself on the west loading dock of the gigantic Georgia Dome.
Competitors, coaches, oﬃ

cials and journalists entered and exited the

stadium through a hanger-size door at ground level just below me.
Th

is was the post parade I’d come to see.

Groups of gymnasts arrived on busses every few minutes, ac-

companied by coaches, bodyguards and trainers. Credentials were
rechecked by guards inside the building and, depending upon desti-
nation, participants were directed to various locker rooms, holding
rooms, green rooms, clinics, cafeterias and bleachers.

e male gymnasts set to compete resembled miniature race-

horses, nervous and alert, determined and focused, tossing their
heads. Handlers and oﬃ

cials, the sport’s mules and stable ponies,

plodded after their charges, falling into familiar routine, greeting
each other with amiable scowls and elaborate handshakes, calling out
to friends.

I’d never seen Wade Tarpley in competition so I almost didn’t rec-

ognize him when he halted at a checkpoint twenty feet away. A moth-
erly guard with an upraised hand and an electronic wand blocked his
path. Wade ﬂ ashed his computerized ID badge without a glance or

Elliott Mackle

164

smile at the woman. He seemed insulated inside his red, white and
blue uniform and Home Expo painter’s cap turned backwards. Th

USA Gymnastics equipment bag slung over his shoulder was plas-
tered with patches and logos: Ford, Delta Air Lines, Hanes, Ball Park
Franks, Barcelona, Moscow, Goodwill Games, UGA Invitational,
Stanford Invitational, NCAA, USOC.

He didn’t see me. Once the computer chip mated with his IBM

bar-code and ﬂ ashed green-green, a Team USA coach stepped for-
ward, followed by a private security guard and a credentialed suit—
Home Expo’s pinstriped publicity ﬂ ack. Th

ey greeted Wade without

touching him, hustled him through the crowd and led him down a
green-swathed hall marked “Athletes Only.”

Most of the vertical surfaces in the Dome, as at every Olympic

property during the Games, were wrapped in forest-green fabric
decorated with rings, white lettering, multicolor ﬂ ames and ACOG’s
stylized pattern of laurel leaves. Th

e distinctive “quilt of leaves” mo-

tif, combined with symbols and words in several languages, served
to identify Olympic buildings, interior and exterior spaces, entrances
and exits, individual sports venues, transportation stops, ticket out-
lets, toilets, ﬁ rst-aid stations and a million souvenirs.

Only top-dollar concessionaires like Coca-Cola, Minute Maid,

McDonald’s and Aramark were permitted to celebrate their corpo-
rate identity unhindered. Local and second-tier suppliers, those who
craved visibility for their juice and nacho stands and who hoped to
win it by greasing low-level IOC palms, were disappointed. Just days
before the Games, the concessionaires’ signs and logos were summar-
ily swathed in dull green cloth, their artful menu boards replaced with
generic Coke boards, their workers ordered to either buy nine-dollar
Atlanta Games polo shirts or don neutral, prisoner-like uniforms.

Temperatures topped out at a humid ninety or higher on most

days that week. Sports-page reporters, a scruﬀ y bunch in the best
of circumstances, dressed for July in Atlanta. Ragged Aussie-style
shorts, freebie-shirts, sweat-stained baseball caps, cheap necklaces
and shoulder bags from previous Olympiads were standard gear.

I dressed down that ﬁ rst day: Black-on-gray Outlines polo, chinos,

thick cotton socks and clean hightops. No sexy quotes from Whitman
on my back, no rainbow pin, no airing my ass in public. It turned out

165

Hot off the Presses

to be a good decision. Dressed as a radical gay activist, I’d have drawn
suspicion that might’ve hindered my work later. Instead, I was practi-
cally a poster boy for journalistic neutrality.

Press and observer bleachers in the gymnastics half of the domed

football stadium (the other side hosted basketball and handball at dif-
ferent hours) were located on the playing ﬂ oor, directly adjacent to
the raised exercise podiums. During Saturday’s morning, afternoon
and evening sessions, ﬁ ve members of each six-man national team
leaped, groaned, grinned and sweated through six sets of compulsory
exercises. Th

e four best scores counted.

“Like watching a six-ring circus ballet,” my notes read, “without

the music.”

Wade and the favored American, Russian and Japanese men were

scheduled to perform toward the end of the ﬁ rst session. Th

ey were

preceded by unfavored teams from South America, the Paciﬁ c Is-
lands and India. When a Brazilian spun oﬀ the parallel bars and fell,
a twenty-minute break was called while all equipment was rechecked
and medical attention sought. I’d seen enough by then anyway, and
was getting itchy.

When I tried to investigate the lack of action on the other side

of the Dome’s central curtain, an armed, teenage guard shooed me
away. “Yo, my man, oﬀ limits. Badge don’t get you there.” So I decided
to go backstage and say hello to Skip.

Knowing that Skip led the Dome’s band of volunteer massage ther-

apists, I’d speciﬁ cally asked Ted Brown to include athletes’ physical-
therapy areas in my access pass. Th

e day we talked, Ted was swamped

with a Bolivian journalist’s visa crisis. He approved the request with
a shrug and a nod.

I found the four-cubicle men’s massage studio without trouble.

Tucked between a locker room and a shower, both marked “M-
Coaches And Officials Only-M,” the studio door was marked
“M-Therapy-Therapeutics-M Only.” Th

e door was open so I

stepped inside.

Except for an Olympic banner and three men in ACOG uniforms,

the studio was empty. Skip was seated on a massage table in one of
the cubicles, hunched over, his arms hugging the front of his red-
and-white volunteer medic’s shirt. His mouth hung open. His chest

Elliott Mackle

166

heaved. He glanced up, recognized me, clutched his sides tighter and
sobbed. “We hadn’t seen each other in a month. Wade w-w-was al-
ways oﬀ somewhere training. Since then, he’s been locked up in the
Village.”

Two oﬃ

cials in blue, green and white ACOG shirts stood guard at

Skip’s elbows. Th

ey turned on me before he ﬁ nished.

“Outta here,” the short, nerdy one said, moving forward.
“Athletes only,” his tall, fat colleague called, stepping in front of

Skip to block my view. “Didn’ ya see the sign?”

“Press,” I said, holding up my “E” credential with a Superman

ﬂ ourish. “And this man is my best friend. What’s going on?”

“No press,” Fatso barked. “Closed to da’ press.”
“Out, Mister! Get the fuck out,” Nerdster shouted, palming a bat-

tery phone and hitting buttons with a blunt foreﬁ nger. “Out now!
We’re calling security now.”

“Security passed me through,” I answered. “I have go-everywhere

access.” Dodging Nerdster, I grabbed Skip by the shoulders. “Little
brother,” I said. “Baby. What happened? Are you okay?”

Skip fell forward on my shoulder. “Wade said he needed extra en-

ergy today. Th

at I could give it to him—like, g-g-give him the gold

with my hands.”

Nerdster ran out the door shouting, “Security breach! Security

breach!”

“It worked in Charlotte,” Skip wailed. “Nobody said a thing. He

won. It worked over in Athens.”

A few seconds later, Cotton Balls, one of the masseurs I’d met at

Olympic Stadium in May, rushed into the room, ﬂ ung a red, white
and blue windbreaker at Skip and hissed, “Put on this cover-up and
get out of here. We were afraid something funny might happen. But
on our ﬁ rst day? Sex ﬁ end! Can’t keep your hands where they belong.
You’ll lose your license, you will!”

Skip caught the windbreaker and threw it back. Cotton Balls

squealed, “Ooooooh, you bitch,” and Skip went after him with both
hands. Fatso and I waded in to separate them. When the closeted
masseur ﬂ ed, Fatso stepped back and laughed. My role in breaking
up the short ﬁ ght, not to mention my “E” credential, must have made
him think twice about ejecting me from the room.

167

Hot off the Presses

“Dere’s strict rules,” Fatso explained, dusting oﬀ his hands, “about

how masseurs and therapists can handle athletes before a sanctioned
competition. Da jock’s gotta be covered, da groin area, I mean. And
da body worker’s gotta be fully dressed.”

“I’ve massaged Wade Tarpley a dozen times,” Skip said huﬃ

ly. “He

was bracing himself against my hip. Th

e coach that busted in here got

the wrong idea.” He glanced at me hopefully. “Tell him, Henry.”

I’d already ﬁ gured out that Skip and Wade must have been ex-

tremely indiscreet. “It’s a new, experimental technique,” I fudged.
“Th

ey call it Asiatic Tantra. Lots of California coaches see it as a com-

pletely legal energy booster. Skip’s right.”

I spoke before the rest of Skip’s explanation registered. “What

coach busted in here?” I asked, staring at Skip. “What did he see?”

“Da Republic a Poland coach carried in a injured girl-jock with

a trick knee, she took a tumble gettin’ oﬀ da shuttle, scraped herself,
he had her in his arms,” Fatso explained. “He pulled da curtain on
da cube. Da male American athlete was on da table, on his back, na-
ked, not even a sheet to cover him. Just the wraps on his wrists and
ankles.”

“Jesus,” I said. “Th

is is the men’s lockers. What’d somebody bring

a girl in here for anyway? What’s the rule on that?”

“Women scheduled from tomorrow. Wasn’t no medic on the

women’s side today. He ﬁ gured he ﬁ nd over here.”

“And didn’t even call out?”
“Da injured girl-jock took one look and put up a fuss, screamed.

See, dis volunteer here was touching da athlete’s groin area. An’ da
athlete was touching this volunteer’s groin area pretty good, too, had
his hand inside this volunteer’s shorts. At least so Coach Domnovsko
claims.”

Skip picked up a towel, wet it in the sink and began swabbing his

face and neck. “Wade threw the hot-oil bottle at the Polish coach.
Said Domnov-whatever is a homophobic pedophile who’s been re-
peatedly charged with abuse of his girls. Wade jumped oﬀ the table
naked, k-k-kicked the coach out of the room, shouted at him, said he’s
always had it in for the American team, that that’s why he busted in.”

Skip tried a smile but couldn’t hold it. “Wade didn’t act too upset,

not once they left. Th

en, after his own coach came in and got him

Elliott Mackle

168

suited up, he was bouncing, said he was abso-fucking-lutely ready to
break a record a day, all week.” Skip waved a dispirited hand. “It’s just
these people.”

“Th

ese?” Fatso muttered.

By then Nerdster was back, followed by a couple of guards and

an ACOG babysitter with big hair. “Shut up, Skip,” Nerdster ordered.
“You, too, Walter.”

“Th

is is all oﬀ the record,” the female ﬂ ack said, heading for me

and reaching out as if to rip the credential from around my neck. “Let
me see that, sir. Outlines? Never heard of it. How’d you get in here?”

“Oﬀ the record, like hell,” I said. “Skip and Wade Tarpley are my

friends.”

“We have rules about coverage of non-public areas within the

Olympic family circle, Mr. ah, hmm, Henry Th

ompson. You under-

stand? Reporters sign a pledge to follow IOC rules. If you don’t follow
the rules, then you don’t stay in possession of the IOC credential. It’s
that simple.”

“Call Ted Brown,” I said.
“Don’t drop names at me.”
“Call him. I don’t know whether this is a big story or what. But

I’m here as a credentialed journalist and I know what I heard said.”
I turned back to Skip. “You okay? You want to go have coﬀ ee some-
place and settle down?”

Nerdster spoke right up. “He’s not going anywhere. We need to ﬁ ll

out an incident report.”

“I’d like a copy,” I said.
“In your dreams,” Nerdster replied.
Babysitter seemed to be having second thoughts now. “Mr.

ompson, Henry, that is,” she said, her voice much lower, mellow.

“I’m Gloria Millrose. Why don’t we go out and just watch the com-
petition for ourselves. We can ﬁ nd out how your, ah, friend Tarpley
performs. I know there’s a lot of talk about gold for him. We can do
that while, ah, Mr. Skip here takes care of business.” She handed me
an ACOG business card with her name and fancy title.

“Works for me,” I answered, turning back to Skip. ”We need to

hook up sooner rather than later,” I said, jauntily patting my buddy on

169

Hot off the Presses

the back, feeling a little bouncy myself. “No later than tonight. Mean-
while, stay cool, bro.”

Babysitter and I headed down the hall, ducked through a set of

green curtains and emerged near the security checkpoint at the en-
trance to the observers’ section. Oﬀ to the left, a muscular man with
a pockmarked face, a walrus mustache and long, greased hair was
speaking rapidly to a reporter wearing an “E” credential. Th

e report-

er’s T-shirt announced that he represented Der Stern, the German
news magazine. Neither man was speaking English. Th

e reporter was

taking notes.

“Do you speak German or Polish?” I asked Gloria.
“Nyet.”
Coach Bol Domnovsko’s deep voice rose in volume and pitch as

he warmed to his subjective complaint. For emphasis, he pumped his
arms suggestively back and forth, near his crotch. It didn’t take a UN
translator to interpret the English words “cocksuckering fags,” “boy
ﬁ gure skaters” and “homos ’n’ should be thrown out of the Games.”

“Look, Henry,” Gloria said brightly, ﬂ ipping open her hand phone,

punching in numbers and glaring at Domnovsko. “I see two seats in
the third row. Next to the vault horse. I think men’s compulsories are
about to resume.”

Domnovsko had switched back to Polish so I followed her onto

the observation deck.

o you know Th

omas Eakins’ painting Salutat, one of the artist’s

most persuasive studies of the male body? In it, a prize ﬁ ghter
is pictured leaving an arena in triumph, his right arm raised to

acknowledge the applause of the crowd. Like a modern-day movie
star who possesses an inner spotlight, the wiry, nearly naked athlete
inhabits a beam of warm, intense light. In stark contrast to the shad-
owed, all-male audience, the champion’s white-hot muscles seem to
reﬂ ect and intensify everything around him.

When Wade stepped onto the green-carpeted ﬂ oor of the Dome

for team compulsories, he became that athlete’s great-grandson.
Leading the parade of American gymnasts, his upraised arm was a
lightning rod for the crowd’s cheers. His half-jubilant, half-serious
glances around the hall matched his determined, manly, celebratory

Elliott Mackle

170

appearance. Like Eakins’ boxer, for just those few moments, Wade
personiﬁ ed the American ideal: self-conﬁ dent masculinity combined
with manly beauty and athletic grace.

By comparison, the other members of the American team—Blaine

Wilson, Jair Lynch and the rest—looked like over-muscled boys and
slightly feminized thugs with razor haircuts. Marching like toy sol-
diers, they might as well have been reporting for work as guards at a
Las Vegas casino.

By the luck of the draw, Wade began with the ﬂ oor exercise, not

his best event. Th

is time he ﬂ ew, bounced, skipped and wheeled high

enough and precisely enough to draw whistles from the crowd and a
score of 9.80 from the judges, his highest-ever marks in the exercise.

I’d never seen a world-class gymnast—hell, any kind of athlete,

in any competition—ride an erotic energy charge like Wade did that
morning.

Maybe we are actually onto something, I thought. Can he stay

ahead of it, cut the edge of the wave? Can he ﬂ y like a trapeze artist,
bounce higher than a rubber ball, soar on wings of man-to-man sex on
every exercise? Maybe Body Magic will win Wade his gold medal.

“You know this guy?” Babysitter asked when Wade’s total was

posted.

“Not that well,” I aw-shuxed. “He lives here in Atlanta. We belong

to the same athletic club.” Th

en I peered around the observers’ area

and added another coat of camouﬂ age paint. “His ﬁ ancée Celeste’s a
nurse at Piedmont Hospital. I hope she’s here today. But I don’t see
her.”

“Well she ought to be,” Gloria murmured, returning her attention

to the athletes. “What a thrill.”

Wade’s workout on the rings was almost as spectacular as his

ﬂ oor exercise, right up until the last moment. For the ﬁ rst twenty
seconds, the rings in Wade’s hand seemed nailed to the air. When he
extended his arms, pointed his toes, took a breath and held the cru-
ciﬁ xion pose—and held it and held it—sharp applause erupted in the
stands and several fans began unfurling American ﬂ ags. One of the
television cameras turned toward the demonstration as the applause
built.

171

Hot off the Presses

But just before his ﬂ ip-turn dismount, Wade released the ring in

his left hand a split second too soon, fumbled, instantly clutched it
again but at a slightly diﬀ erent angle, then released the ring half a
second too late. Th

e adjustment knocked his timing oﬀ . He tucked,

spun, ﬂ ew through the air, uncoiled, extended his arms and threw
back his head in what must have been intended as a triumphant ges-
ture—and landed on one foot. Th

ough he quickly recovered, forcing

the opposite foot forward and down, the visible bobble subtracted
points from his score. Still, Wade was one of the best rings-men in
the world, and his score of 9.75 was respectable enough. He waved at
the crowd again, turned and blew kisses to the rafters and picked up
his tribute—several Izzie dolls thrown by fans—before trotting down
the stairs to the ﬂ oor and burying himself in his coach’s congratula-
tory hug.

Next up for Wade, his best event, the vault. Poised at the end of

the runway he looked like a modern god, his skin taut over his mus-
cles, his powerful hands loose at his sides, his bare legs and shoulders
bathed in television lights. He worked a cloud of chalk into his hands,
took a series of small breaths, sighted the stationary horse that was
his target, bobbed and took oﬀ down the track like a sprinter.

Later, when Brian Murphy and I watched tape of the event, Bri-

an remarked that Wade’s strides were much longer than usual, that
he started oﬀ too fast and that it looked as if he tried to shorten his
stride in the last two meters. Putting on the brakes threw his timing
oﬀ again. He overshot the takeoﬀ board, touched down on the outer
ﬂ ank of the horse, lurched sideways as he tucked, rolled and ﬂ ipped,
and landed on his ass, completely missing the dismount.

His second try was worse. He took oﬀ at a high-jumper’s uneven

lope, picked up the pace halfway down the track, realized he couldn’t
make the vault, veered to the right and narrowly missed crash-land-
ing on a couple of Russian oﬃ

cials seated nearby.

In an instant, Wade’s coach and two oﬃ

cials were beside him,

waving the roving television camera away, checking him for injuries
and wrapping him up in Team USA jacket and pants.

Wade looked up at the crowd, raw horror on his face, as if he’d

just witnessed a particularly vicious rape. Th

en he waved to the oﬃ

cials and the audience, turned, waved to the other side of the hall and

Elliott Mackle

172

returned to his seat. By then, nobody was cheering. Having failed to
complete a compulsory exercise, Wade became the team’s ﬁ fth wheel.
His higher, earlier high scores wouldn’t count. Team USA would stand
or fall on the performances of four other men.

Looks like the Body Magic Method for Energizing Athletes needs

ﬁ ne tuning, I thought. What a disaster. Poor Wade. I wonder who he’s
going to blame?

I pulled out my reporter’s notebook. It was clear that I needed to

jot down every word, name and detail about the events and alleged
events in the massage studio. But when I started to make notes, I
didn’t like what I was writing, not at all.

“It worked in Charlotte,” I’d written, quoting Skip. “And in Athens.

Nobody said a thing.”

“Dere’s strict rules,” Fatso had explained, “about how masseurs

and therapists can handle athletes before a sanctioned competition.”

Hey, I didn’t come here to document my friends’ missteps. Wade is

a narcissistic asshole but he’s not the enemy. Skip’s involved with the
guy. He should know the right buttons to push. It’s nobody’s business
how they build energy for an event. Wade’s a pro. He just had a bad
day.

ink again, Henry. Th

is gamey aspect of the Games concerns your

friends, your fuck buddies and Body Magic. So maybe you should just
spike the story? Act like it never happened?

is is your beat, the Outlines beat. Th

is is why you’re here: To

report on Olympian men who have sex with men; to nail ham-handed
Olympic oﬃ

cials who act as if they’ve never heard of a massage table

hard-on; to document bullies and homophobic coaches. Yeah, this is
what you got a ticket to write about.

But, but, but…remember Ethics 101? A reporter cannot treat friends

diﬀ erently from the way he treats total strangers, not if it’s newsworthy.
A reporter is always selling somebody out.

And, little man, the story behind a poor Olympic performance by

a hometown favorite is deﬁ nitely newsworthy, maybe even a scoop.
Right?

So what about the Polish coach? What’d he say to the German re-

porter? Is the story already out?

What a fucking mess.

173

Hot off the Presses

I ﬂ ipped a page and kept writing.

fter the rotation ended, I stationed myself between the green-
draped “athletes only” hallway and the checkpoint on the way to
the shuttle busses. Wade emerged in a crowd of American and

Russian men ten minutes later. Th

e Home Expo suit guarded his right

arm. A middle-aged line-backer in a USA Gymnastics starter’s jacket
was pinned to his left.

“Wade,” I called, stepping in front of him. “Good to see you. Sorry

about the vault. How do you feel?”

Wade stopped short. Th

e men on either side of him kept going a

step or two, then halted and looked back.

“Can you give me a quote about your day for Outlines?”
Wade’s eyes were red. He had a spot of chalk on his forehead. “I’m

in a hurry. Excuse me.”

ere’s just no excuse for what I said next. But it sure got his at-

tention.

“Look at me, Wade. Just look at me. It’s Henry. I introduced you

to Skip, remember?”

e Home Expo ﬂ ack grabbed my arm and snarled. “Get out of

his face. We’re not taking questions.”

“He’s an old friend. Get your hands oﬀ me.”
Th

e USA goon meanwhile tried to hoist Wade on to his shoulder

and carry him toward the checkpoint. Th

e security guard with the

wand was processing a long line of departing athletes. She held up her
light brown palm and pointed behind us. “Line forms back there, sir,
thank you very kindly. Next?”

Wade wrenched away from the guard and came four inches from

my nose. “You walked out on me, you fucking prick,” he whispered.
“And now you want a quote? Here’s a quote. You mention me or any-
thing connected to me, including Skip Roberts, in your ﬁ lthy bar rag
and I’ll have your yellow, faggotty dick on a plate. My people will ruin
you, they’ll put your paper out of business, you’ll have to sell your
useless butt on Cypress Street to earn bus money out of town.”

“Lemme see that credential,” the goon growled, reaching for the

lanyard around my neck. “How’d you get back here? Area’s oﬀ lim-
its.”

Elliott Mackle

174

“Touch me again and I’ll yell for an IOC steward,” I answered. “I

am fully accredited by ACOG and I’m working an interview. Back
oﬀ .”

e guard turned and headed for a phone. Wade tried to follow.

“Th

e vault is your best event, Wade,” I continued, catching his

arm, hoping to sound upbeat but determined. “Your Atlanta fans will
be worried and want to know what happened. Did the unconvention-
al massage have anything to do with—?”

“I hope you die of AIDS, you ﬁ lthy faggot. I hope you cease to ex-

ist.”

“—or was it because the Polish coach busted in with the girl when

Skip was raising your—?”

“God’s my witness, Henry, you print any of this pack of lies and

you’ll never see Skip or me again.” Wade’s ﬁ sts were raised and ready.

“Wade, I’m only asking a question. As a reporter. My employ-

ers won’t allow me to ignore a story just because my friends are in-
volved.”

“Friends? You wish. And those racist Nazis you work for, blood-

sucking Driving Club parasites, never done a decent day’s work, ei-
ther one of them, so people tell me.” He grabbed my shirt and pulled
me even closer. “I’m warning you, Henry. Your stinking little dick on
a plate.”

e goon and the suit were shouting by then. “We have a confer-

ence room set up,” Goonster yelled. “Let’s chill. Ted Brown is on his
way over. We can iron this situation out, no problem.”

“Big misunderstanding,” the suit added. “IOC authorities are

speaking to the Polish team manager now. A lot of confusion on all
sides. First day of competition, tension’s high. Probably the girl didn’t
know what she saw, you know what I mean?”

Wade laughed nastily. “Th

e other Lolitas call her the Sword Swal-

lower. She’s gone down on every Pollack with a dick this side of the
Pope. Her fucking coach, he’s a tit-fondler from way back, just greasy
Euro-trash toilet paper not worth wiping my lily-white Southern ass
with.”

“Enough,” said the Home Expo suit. “We’re outta here.”
“Henry,” a man behind me called. “Brother Hennn-ree. What

seems to be the pro-blay-maa?” It was Ted Brown. He looked like

175

Hot off the Presses

he’d gained ten pounds in the last month. His blue, green and white
ACOG polo shirt must have been a size extra-extra large. He smiled
like a teddy bear, arms open, as if meeting an old chum at a college
reunion

Pulling me close, he whispered in my ear, “We’ve got Bol Dom-

novsko in a green room, but I can’t keep him there forever. Help me,
Henry.”

“Is he in there with the girl?”
“Th

e girl, an IOC chaperone and a medic. With a tape recorder

running. Domnovsko’s a loose cannon. He’s a big name with a mouth
the size of Alaska. He’s joined to the NBC correspondents’ pool at the
hip. Th

ey call him colorful, always good for a quote, a real character.”

“Colorful as day-old pig shit,” Wade spat.
“Dom-whatsis opened the wrong door,” I said. “Entered the men’s

locker area, which was clearly marked, and brought a girl in.”

“Th

at’s a start, Henry. Keep talking.”

“You probably ought to interview the masseur, Skip Roberts.”
“Th

ey say he’s a friend of yours.”

“Real close, yes. And a good man, professional. But young. Same

for Wade Tarpley here.”

Ted glanced at Wade, gave me an I-don’t-want-to-know shake of

the head and said, “Let me see if we can’t tie everything up between
ourselves. Five-minute confab, no more. Green-Room time. Ready,
guys?”

“Wade’s pretty upset,” I explained. “Faster the better.”
“Fuck you, Henry,” Wade said, as he tried to break for the exit. Th

Home Expo ﬂ ack blocked his path. He shrugged, temporarily outma-
neuvered.

“You know I’m going to have to report this incident in Outlines,” I

said, my voice just loud enough for Ted and Wade to hear. “No matter
what the Polish team does. Even though my friends are involved. It’s
already out in the open. Dom-whatsis spilled to the European press
big-time.”

“I ﬁ gured you’d have to,” Ted replied. “We can live with that. Right

now, I just want us to get our rubber ducks in a row. Juan Samaranch
and Billy P. will be on us before we know it, kicking ass.” He pulled the
collar of his shirt open and tried to fan cool air onto his chest. “Maybe

Elliott Mackle

176

I’ll have a heart attack over dinner. Good thing my death beneﬁ t from
Coke will kick in. My family’s protected.”

“Wade claims Domnovsko’s a homophobe and anti-American,” I

answered. “I don’t speak any Polish or German. But the words ‘homo’
and ‘cocksuckering’ are pretty easy to translate.”

“Fuckin’ world-class tit-fondler, too,” Wade said. “And the girl’s

a—”

“Keep talking, gentlemen,” Ted said. “Rubber duckies lining right

up. But in the Green Room, if you please.”

CHAPTER 15

A QUILT OF LEAVES

kip ﬂ ed the Georgia Dome before Ted Brown or anyone from
Volunteer Services could question him. By ten pm, I’d called his
apartment and his studio ﬁ ve times each. Th

e message boxes at

both numbers were full.

Worried, I got in the car and drove to his apartment. When I

knocked on the front door, nobody answered. Th

e lights were out.

e place was quieter than a fur salon in July.

As usual, the back door was unlocked. Th

e security chain was up

but I knew how to unlatch it. Once inside, I called out Skip’s name.
Th

ere was no answer.

I found him in the bathtub. His legs and feet were propped against

the far wall, crossed at the ankles. A ﬂ uﬀ y pink towel was wadded
behind his head. He had the latest Advocate Men in one hand and
a home-rolled smoke in the other. Th

e room stunk sweetly of grass,

aromatherapy candles and Yves Saint Laurent bubble bath.

“You scared me to death, Sacred Brother,” I whispered. “Th

ank

God you’re okay.”

“Well, I wouldn’t say I’m, like, okay-okay. But I’m better now, a

little more relaxed than this morning.”

“Th

e dope helps? Can I do anything else for you? Food or…hold

you a little?”

“I’m ﬁ ne, Henry. Really, really. I g-g-got in the car and drove for

about six hours. Sort of just turned oﬀ the world. Didn’t even notice

Elliott Mackle

178

where I was until I was almost at the Tennessee line. Th

en I had to

make a choice between Memphis, Nashville, Knoxville or Chattanoo-
ga. And I couldn’t decide. So I stopped for a bite to eat. Th

en I turned

around, drove home, meditated a little and…ran a t-t-tub.”

“You’re amazing.”
“Just tell me what happened after I left the Dome.”
“Wade fouled out.”
“I knew that. Heard on the car radio.”
“He threatened me. Got real vicious. Said he’d keep you from ever

seeing me again. Have my stinking prick on a plate.”

“When pigs ﬂ y, Sacred Brother. He worries so much about his

quote-unquote image. As if there was never an athlete who liked to
have his cock stroked. One of my former clients, this big-name At-
lanta Falcons back ﬁ elder, he—”

“Hold that thought,” I said. “We got the Polish coach calmed down,

or Ted Brown did, I mean.”

“Your PR buddy?”
“And I can push my deadline to Tuesday noon if necessary. Right

now, I have notes but no story.”

“You wouldn’t, like, actually write a story about Wade and me?”
“Domnovsko, the Polish coach, already talked to a German re-

porter. Near as I can tell, he told him you and Wade were both naked
and jerking each other oﬀ . Says the sight of it traumatized his pre-
cious little girl-jock. I have to write something. I was on the scene.”

“Shit, Henry. Th

at’s…he’s making half of it up. Yeah, Wade was

touching me through my shorts. Sure, he was naked, and he was hard
at some point, I don’t remember exactly when. But I had him tranced
out. We were leading up to a Big Draw. Only instead of the draw,
he was going to continue the breathing while he dressed, ﬁ nish his
warm-up routine and go out and beat the world with the charge of
erotic energy. It worked in Charlotte and Athens.”

“You said that before. Something backﬁ red this time.”
“You’re telling me? Like, the Polish bozo didn’t even knock on

the outside door. Which was closed. Th

e curtain on the cubicle was

drawn.”

“Ted wants you to call him. I’ll give you the number. Th

e Polish

bozo is on ice until after the gymnastics ﬁ nals—as far as press contacts

179

Hot off the Presses

are concerned. Th

e European reporter he talked to was accredited for

basketball, soccer and ﬁ eld hockey, not gymnastics, so he’s been of-
ﬁ cially warned. All his calls and messages are being monitored.”

“Sounds like Russia or China.”
“Th

e IOC. Same thing.”

“Such a teeny weenie technicality.” Skip giggled, stood up, turned

on a French shower attachment, unplugged the tub’s drain and began
rinsing himself oﬀ .

“You got it. And Ted and Volunteer Services are prepared to

shift you to another assignment, for what they call ‘the good of the
Games.’”

“Like, massaging nags out at the Olympic horse park?” Skip turned

oﬀ the spray and stepped out of the tub.

I handed him a towel. “No, like shifting you over to the women

athletes’ side of the Dome.”

“Wunderbar. Women are half my clientele. Did you do this for me,

Henry? Out of the goodness of your heart?”

“You’ll call it my badness when you see my story.”
“I love your badness, Sacred Brother,” he said, dropping the towel

and pulling me into a damp but ferocious hug. “Your badness is, like,
so koo-uhl.”

Skip’s wet, smooth skin felt good in my hands. I’d missed him. I

took a breath, kissed his neck and hugged him back.

“Maybe we could just snuggle for a little while,” he whispered.

“Keep each other company.”

“Snuggle? Sure, I’d love to.” I massaged his sturdy butt with both

hands, then drew my ﬁ ngertips up and down his spine. “You got any
more of that weed? Been a bad day all around.”

“Yeah, sure. And do that some more please. I’ll call your friend

Ted in the morning. If you’ll, like, remind me.”

“Deal. But I have to be on the road by six.”
“No problem. I’ll set the alarm for ﬁ ve.”

he next afternoon, following two women’s preliminary basket-
ball games at Atlanta University and a press conference about
dope-testing at the Omni, I stopped by my oﬃ

ce. Ibo, Tracy and

Bambi were keeping Outlines’ editorial schedule on track. I’d already

Elliott Mackle

180

reserved a front-page slot for my Olympic coverage. Now I told Ibo
we might need to sub in a new editorial cartoon on short notice. He
said he could wait as late as Tuesday morning.

Using the phones and working the streets, Tracy and Bambi had

assembled a dynamite package on opening weekend from a queer
perspective. Th

ey led with numerous sightings of rainbow pins, hats,

shirts and banners at sports venues, in Centennial Olympic Park and
at the Peachtree-International Boulevard Crossroads. In a sidebar,
they scooped everybody with amusing dirt from opening ceremo-
nies. Th

e “Greek” athletes posing in silhouette in a giant shadow box,

for instance, were muscular models recruited in local gay bars and
gyms. Assorted dancing catﬁ sh, tit-shaking cloggers and virtually-
naked marathon runners were also known to be family. And one of
thirty drivers in the pickup-truck square dance, a lesbian, became the
center of a short-lived fracas when she got manhandled by two male
performers backstage during Th

ursday night’s dress rehearsal.

Minutes before the trucks were scheduled to enter the stadium,

one of the sonny-bubba drivers grabbed the woman and tried to drag
her out of her assigned vehicle. She quoted him as saying, “Ain’t no
pussy-bumper gonna rep-er-zent the State a’ Jaw-juh in my Olym-
pics.”

“Jus’ grab ’er by ’er cooze and ’er duck-ass haircut,” a buddy had

counseled in front of three witnesses. “Gotta have men with real balls
to drive behind us tonight.”

Fortunately, the truck-driving woman had tucked a tube of pep-

per spray in her overalls. Th

e graduate of a self-defense course at a

community college, she wasn’t shy about using it. Once she put the
pair of bad boys on the ground, she summoned ACOG security and
suggested that her assailants be taken to Grady Hospital to cool oﬀ .
Understudies thus drove the pickups assigned to both men.

“You do have her picture?” I asked Tracy.
“Does Dolly Parton have tits? We sent the freelancer over soon as

we got the call. Shot the victim standing by her ACOG truck, spray
bottle on high.”

“Kool. Tease the story on the front page. Use all the ink you

need.”

181

Hot off the Presses

ed Brown had left two urgent messages. I caught him in his oﬃ

at the Inforum Building.

“Th

e Polish girl hit a bar on the ﬁ rst rotation of the morning,”

he said without preliminaries. “Shattered her ankle Th

ey took her to

Grady. She’s out of the Games.”

“You mean things just got worse?”
“Domnovsko wants to lodge an oﬃ

cial complaint with IOC. He’s

ﬁ xing to claim that immoral behavior by an ACOG volunteer and an
American gymnast resulted in serious injury to his athlete.”

“Th

at’s bullshit, Ted. We’ve been through that whole scenario.

Domnovsko busted into the men’s area without knocking. Shouldn’t
have brought the girl in there in the ﬁ rst place. Should have alerted
the medics.”

“Your friends ought to keep their circle jerks at home. Or get oﬀ

in the showers like the rest of the guys.”

“Can I quote you on that? Did they install any glory holes in the

Village men’s rooms? How many pregnancies reported on the girls’
side so far?”

“Goddamn it, Henry. Use your head. Don’t ﬁ ght me. I’m giving

you ﬁ rst crack at this. Ask me something I can answer. I’ve got to get
back to Bob Costas’ producer by eleven thirty.”

“I thought you were overseeing only local press.”
“I got promoted. As of this morning. Because of how I handled

Tarpley and Domnovsko yesterday. Shit, man. I’m really due for a
heart attack now. Bob Costas’ producer. Jesus.”

“Meaning I deﬁ nitely have to go with the story now. Did Skip Rob-

erts call you?”

“Th

is is not why I granted you ﬁ rst-class credentials. To write

about your queer buddies.”

“Better not say that where Wade can hear you.”
“Fuck, Henry, he as much as admits the volunteer was giving him

a hand job. And I take it they’re close pals outside the ﬁ eld house.”

“Ted, we been through this, too. It’s whole-body massage. Th

teach it in an accredited school in the Bay Area. Why are sports-in-
dustry people always ten years late on everything but designer drugs
and doping?”

Elliott Mackle

182

“You’re wasting my time, Henry. Whatever you want to call it, my

people say it’s a felony in this state. And it resulted in a questionable
performance by a marquee athlete.”

“Tomorrow’s another day, Rhett. Let’s hope Wade ﬂ ies through

the air with the greatest of ease. He can skip the vault in team option-
als, right?”

“You’ll be at the Dome? What about getting together with me and

Domnovsko and his manager in the Green Room at eleven-ﬁ fteen?
Even though the story may be all over the map by then. What’s your
deadline?”

“I’m cool. I have until Tuesday noon.”
“Th

ank heaven for weeklies. So I’ll see you tomorrow? I’ll order in

an early lunch.”

“Th

e Rubber Duckie Memorial Green Room it is.”

ade performed like a world champ in the team optional prelimi-
naries on Monday morning, posting the session’s highest scores
in rings and ﬂ oor exercise. He took a pass on the vault. Team

USA went into that night’s optional ﬁ nals as the favorites for gold.

e meeting with Domnovsko went almost as well. Skip was

present. He explained the Asia-California background of his train-
ing philosophy, forcefully argued the merits of Tantric massage as the
latest thing in building and storing energy, and handed out informa-
tional pamphlets. Domnovsko spat and swore but was overruled by
his manager. Th

e IOC representative declined to act independently

pending further developments.

I drafted my story knowing I’d have to revise it on deadline. I

was still under orders to submit potentially controversial material to
the McClellands. For good measure, I gave hard copies to Tracy and
Robin for overnight comment. Ibo also got a copy so he could sketch
a possible alternative to his “Summon the Catﬁ sh” cartoon. Th

e lat-

ter, which played oﬀ “Summon the Heroes,” John Williams’ Centen-
nial Olympics anthem that he premiered during opening ceremonies,
could be held a week if necessary.

Looking back, my initial headline and lead sentence both seem

way too journalistic, balanced and impersonal.

183

Hot off the Presses

TLANTA

AVORITE

OULS

THEN

LIES

Gymnast Wade Tarpley, a local favorite for multiple gold medals

at the Centennial Olympic Games, fouled out Saturday morning
after trading sexually charged insults with the coach of a rival team.
But two days later, he overcame his initial problem with the vaulting
horse and posted top preliminary scores in two gymnastic special-
ties.

On Saturday, in a backstage spat reminiscent of the Tanya Hard-

ing-Nancy Kerrigan skating wars, Tarpley accused Polish coach Bol
Domnovsko of ruining his chances for glory by escorting an injured
female athlete into the all-male physical therapy area. At the time,
Marietta-native Tarpley was receiving a controversial Tantric massage
from ACOG volunteer Skip Roberts.

Domnovsko, a past master of Olympic mind games, later charged

that he and gymnast Nadia Gadovskaya, for whom he was seeking
medical treatment, allegedly discovered Tarpley and Roberts nude
and in a highly compromising situation. Tarpley and Domnovsko
traded insults and almost came to blows before offi cials separated
the angry super-stars.

Domnovsko, in the presence of this reporter and ACOG and

IOC offi cials, characterized Tarpley and the ACOG masseur as “cock-
suckering fags.” Tarpley returned the compliment, charging that the
world-renowned “Bol-Bol” has been intimate with more than one
of the girls he’s successfully coached. Ms. Gadovskaya performed
badly on Sunday. She was reinjured and pulled out of the Games.

Tarpley, who has a girlfriend, denies any suggestion of impropriety

with Roberts. When asked for comment by this reporter, Tarpley
fi rst replied with threats of physical harm if the story was published.
Later, in the presence of a spokesman for his employer, Atlanta-
based Home Expo, he admitted that…

fter distributing hard copies of the draft and asking Bambi to type
it into the computer for copy editing, I drove home, switched oﬀ
the answering machine’s ringer, took a shower, fell into bed and

slept for ten hours.

Elliott Mackle

184

By the time the alarm went oﬀ at ﬁ ve-thirty, I’d already brewed

coﬀ ee and started a pot of oatmeal. When I checked the machine, the
message light was blinking and ﬁ ve new calls were logged. I drank a
second cup before facing not only the results of Wade’s performance
in the team ﬁ nal but also the reactions to the piece on him as draft-
ed.

I ﬂ ipped on the machine while I dressed. Th

e ﬁ rst call was a hang-

up. So was the second. Th

en Bill Leach came on. Remember Bill

Leach, the wealthy fund-raiser and would-be gay leader?

“Hi, Henry. Bill Leach, and it’s eleven pm. I’m in Billy Payne’s outer

oﬃ

ce. Listen, pal, I heard about the story you’re thinking about run-

ning in your, ah, little publication. Th

e story about our mutual friend,

Skip Roberts. Ah, you know, Henry, he’s not only a gay man but an
ACOG volunteer. Like most of our volunteers, he’s sacriﬁ ced his own
time, energy and privacy to help the city in our time of need. So I
just want you to think about something, just consider it for a mo-
ment, pal. Because, hey, I know you may not mean to suggest this. But
implicating Skip Roberts could hurt the reputations of many other
Atlanta gays and lesbians involved in the Games. And, of course, that
in turn—”

I cut to the next caller, Ted Brown:
“Brother Henry, here’s the latest. A.D. Frazier, Billy’s right-hand

man, was in here tonight. Home Expo and the UPS weenies are on
our backs, big time. So we actually did some war-gaming, just like
at Wharton. Th

is was, you know, as a result of the ﬁ nals over at the

Dome a little while ago? Upshot: We need to back oﬀ on the whole
Tarpley-Domnovsko scenario. Block it out, soft-peddle it down to
a crawl, rearrange the ducks one more time. You get what I mean?
Wade is still an Atlanta hero. Nailing him as some kind of abusive,
out-of-control, ah, homosexual, that’s gonna hurt the City and deﬁ -
nitely aﬀ ect the Games. You and I, we need to talk. Th

is is coming

from on high and—”

e last message was from Ibo:

“I’m thinking about two buﬀ white boys standing on an ACOG

massage table, like it was Huck Finn’s raft. Th

ey be naked but seen

from behind. One’s waving a rainbow ﬂ ag, the other’s fending oﬀ the
Polish coach, who has a bandaged-up Barbie Doll in one hand. Th

185

Hot off the Presses

coach is being helped along by Señor Juan Antonio Samaranch wear-
ing a Hitler suit. Maybe Billie Jean King and Martina are oﬀ to one
side, cheering and popping tennis balls at Juan’s Fascist butt. Is it a
go?”

I was almost out the door when the phone rang. It was Ellen In-

man, Mayor Ramble’s mouthpiece:

“You’re up early, too, dear one. But I thought you’d have called me

right away. When’s your deadline?”

“Called you about what?”
“For the Mayor’s reaction to the charges you’re making in your

next article. Th

e one you’re circulating—ﬂ oating, shall we say? And

also about what happened last night.”

“We must not be on the same page, Ellen. I haven’t turned on the

news yet and I—”

“Young mmaahhhn,” the Mayor’s voice tolled. He must have been

listening on an extension. “Listen to me, young mmaahhhn. I have
something I want to say. Th

is is a busy day for every soul in our fair

city so I’ll be brief. Ms. Inman will issue a full release later.” He cleared
his throat, dropped his voice a notch and switched to the High Black
Church accent. “We say this: It’s a tragedy. A tragedy for the city, a
tragedy for the man, a tragedy for the Games. And God will not be
mocked.”

What’s God got to do with it?
“God will not be mocked. We draw the line, today, now, against

sin and perversion. From this day, Mr. Th

ompson, I pray I will speak

to you no more. I’ve seen the trash you hope to print about our…our
volunteers and athletic representatives. I pray you to reconsider.”

“You mean Wade? I guess he didn’t win last night.”
“I am not ﬁ nished, young man. But to be fair, this once, I am giving

you the same courtesy I gave Berman Fisher at the Marietta Journal,
the same mark of oﬃ

cial civility that is appropriate even to television

sports reporters.”

“You don’t know how grateful I am, Mayor. But what tragedy?”
Ellen came back on the line and explained. “Mr. Tarpley scored an

eight-point-two on the horse. On the rings, he caught a foot on the
rope holding one ring and almost fell; score eight-point-four. During
the ﬂ oor exercise, he stepped out of bounds twice. When the line

Elliott Mackle

186

judge raised the black ﬂ ag the second time, Wade stopped his routine
and tried to argue with the judge.”

“Jesus,” I said. “A really bad night.”
“Team USA placed ﬁ fth,” Ellen continued. “Out of the medals.”
“You profane the Lord’s name at your peril,” Ramble warned.
Ellen paused, lit a cigarette, sucked smoke. “Mr. Tarpley spoke to

the NBC correspondent on the ﬂ oor last night. Ahhhh, there! Said
the homosexual masseur was to blame, putting his hands on him in
a dirty, perverted way. Th

en he went after the Polish coach, said he,

Wade Tarpley, is merely a pawn in some kind of international gay-lib
plot to embarrass the United States men’s team.”

“You militant ho-me-oh-sex-shuls will stop at nothing,” Ramble

said. “Nothing! I guess you’re satisﬁ ed now.”

CHAPTER 16

BROADCAST NEWS

rian Murphy stopped by my oﬃ

ce unannounced on Tuesday af-

ternoon. He had a Sports Illustrated car and driver assigned to
him, so getting around was no problem.

Bambi Fawne, costumed as a University of Georgia girl cheer-

leader, showed him in. Brian made no comment. His sharp eyes took
in the photo-mural of me and the other naked brothers on the wall
opposite my desk. But he didn’t ask about it.

We shook hands. He cocked his head and peered into my eyes, a

slightly ironic expression on his face. I wondered what was up, held
his gaze for ﬁ ve seconds, then invited him to sit.

“Looks like you’re busy as hell,” he said, waving a hand over pasted-

up ﬂ ats fanned across my desk. “Just want to run thing or two by you.”
He settled onto a chair, humped one leg over the other and pulled a
reporter’s notebook out of his Sports Illustrated starter’s jacket. “I’ll
be quick.”

“You know how it is. We’re on deadline. Flats go to the printer at

four. Assuming the UPS driver can get here.”

“Traﬃ

c’s outside’s like Paris in August. Th

ey’ve scared everybody

away. Except fools like us who toil for the ediﬁ cation of the couch
potatoes of the world.”

I laughed. “Th

at’s not quite our audience. So whatcha got? I’m glad

to see you, by the way.”

Elliott Mackle

188

“Glad to see you, too, even without the lobster and Jack Daniel’s.”

He ﬂ ipped the notebook open. “Th

ere was another corporate do at

the AT&T Pavilion this morning. Not, I’m afraid, with a Ritz-Carlton
buﬀ et and bartenders. Regular spread. Some kind of rolling tribute
to American athletes, honoring people who aren’t competing today,
throwing them to the press wolves. Your name came up. I’d appreci-
ate a response before I ﬁ le. I didn’t want to just phone you.”

“If you had, you’d have missed Bambi’s costume. Yesterday he was

Gail Devers, the sprinter.”

“Bambi, huh? I may suggest cheerleader costumes for all the re-

ceptionists at the New York oﬃ

ce.”

“But seriously, folks.”
He checked my eyes again. “But seriously. I ran into Wade Tarp-

ley, the gymnast? He said some pretty outrageous things.”

I’d been hoping it was my story, at least locally. Now it sounded

like Brian had something for SI’s overnight street edition.

“I heard he fucked up big time last night,” I said. “He must be out-

of-his-mind disappointed. Poor guy.”

“You didn’t see it? We have tape. I can courier a copy over. Fact

is, he sounded sane enough this morning. And there wasn’t a Home
Expo or USA Gymnastics ﬂ ack within miles.”

“Do you have tape of what he said last night? To NBC?”
“You got it. Same tape. But this morning he went farther. Let me

read it to you. Here we go, dum, dum, quote-quote, ‘Bol-Bol Dom-
novsko has had it in for the American gymnastics team ever since
we beat him to a pulp in Mexico City.’ Dum, dum, quote, quote, ‘He’s
Eurotrash, feels up his girls, not worth wiping my lily-white Southern
butt with.’ Dum, dum, oh, here.”

“Yeah, he said the same butt-wipe, tit-fondle thing to me. Must be

a standard line, maybe he picked it up from some of the nice folks at
USOC.”

“Only now he’s saying there’s a plot against not just him. And it’s

not just drugged-out Europeans but also Nazis and Blacks and some
kind of gay Maﬁ a all jealous of him and his teammates as A-OK,
white-bread, all-American guys.”

“Right. And Domnovsko’s a pawn in an international conspiracy.”

I glanced down at the front-page ﬂ at on my desk. I’d changed the

189

Hot off the Presses

headline to read: ‘Atlanta Favorite Fouls, Flies, Flops.’ “Th

at’s in my

story, too, I think and—”

“Good, good. Let me ﬁ nish. Here’s where you come in. Wade says

you’re part of it. Dum, dum, here we go, quote, quote, ‘I’ve lost focus
this week, Brian. And it’s no accident. See there’s this cock-hungry
homosexual reporter, he’s making up lies about me. He follows me
around, practically like a stalker. You know why? He’s got the idea that
I want to have sex with him. He even put the make on me in a steam
room one time. Tried to feel me up. And I had to punch him out.’”

My gut took a dive. Th

ere was just enough truth there to make

the tale plausible. Did I push Wade too hard when I questioned him
on Saturday? He was already half-crazy after he fucked up his vaults.
Had I asked for this?

“Wade and I did go to bed a few times,” I said ﬁ nally. “But I had to

step back from it. Too crazy, too confusing. By then, I’d already intro-
duced him to the masseur, Skip Roberts, who’s my best friend. Th

was a real mistake.”

Brian wrote something in his notebook and then turned the page.

“Bisexual. I should have guessed. Makes a certain kind of sense.”

“Don’t quote me, okay? It would be his word against mine. Doesn’t

matter who made the pass in the steam bath. Physically, he’s a beau-
tiful guy. I responded to what he laid out. We had our ﬁ fteen min-
utes.”

“Well, then,” Brian said. “I know you’re not part of any big plot

but—”

“I’m doing the best I can to keep Wade the athlete and Wade the

news story separated from Wade the ex-potential boyfriend.”

“And it looks like he’s mixing it all up?”
“You’d be the better judge of that. You talked to him last.”
“So what’s your reaction?”
“Don’t have any. I’m not going to drag Wade out of his closet. He

wants to become a bisexual conspiracy theorist, let him do it.”

“You’re serious?”
“I wish I hadn’t introduced Skip to him. In twenty-twenty hind-

sight, I deﬁ nitely regret that.” I laughed and dropped my voice. “Mis-
ter Th

ompson, may I oﬀ er you a big helping of guilt trip? No thanks,

none for me today.” I picked up the cartoon board of Skip and Wade

Elliott Mackle

190

fending oﬀ Dom-Dom and Samaranch the Nazi. “Actually, though, I
kind of like the way this story is moving. What Wade told you con-
ﬁ rms what I’m reporting. You print it, it’s more of the same poor piti-
ful Wade. He was in soooo much pain that he told me he hopes I
catch AIDS and die.”

“Jesus. Th

ere’s no excuse for that.”

“He was out of his head. Do you think he can still win a medal this

week? I mean, even with the shit he’s kicked up, he probably ought to.
He’s put in the time.”

Brian ﬂ ipped the notebook shut and stood up. “I’d say the judges

are still out on that. USOC has to decide whether he competes in in-
dividuals. And I still think Sports Illustrated has to go with the quotes
he gave me. Any chance you could tell me where to ﬁ nd Skip Roberts?
He might have a reaction.”

“Sure. No problem. He’s working the women’s side of the Georgia

Dome. I have the massage room number right here.”

“Th

ey’re hiding him in plain sight. I’ll be damned.”

“Yes, sir, he’s the masseur that didn’t bark.”

arguerite and Pope McClelland had no objection to the Olym-
pics package so the boards went to Birmingham for printing
right on schedule. Outlines hit the streets on Th

ursday morn-

ing. So did “Tarpley’s Tantrum,” Brian’s piece for Sports Illustrated. By
eleven am, the calls coming in told us that people were talking.

NBC, always alert for celebrity gossip to spice up midweek cover-

age, invited Wade to react to the reaction. Unfortunately for Wade,
he was paired with Bob Costas, a highly intelligent broadcaster with
a puppylike face and a manner so mild he’d probably seem loveable
even if caught stomping a whooping crane chick.

I watched the telecast over lunch at Mumbo Jumbo, the summer’s

new, hot restaurant near Five Points. Ellen Inman had suggested the
date days before, saying we ought to declare a truce during the Games,
just like they did in ancient Greece. Brian had couriered me a copy
of his magazine piece that morning so, when I called to say thanks,
I asked him to join us for burgers, salads and what promised to be
Tarpley on toast.

191

Hot off the Presses

We ate at the long bar, up close and personal with a thirty-six-inch

screen. Costas opened the interview with cotton-candy questions:
How are you feeling after the other night? Are you still disputing the
line call? Would you do anything diﬀ erent to keep from blowing up?
You’re still a champion so will you compete in the individual ﬁ nals
next weekend?

Wade gave scripted, evasive answers in a stunned, false-hearty

sort of voice.

Costas then picked up a copy of SI’s street edition and read a long

quote attributed to Wade. It concerned Domnovsko, Jews, Russians
and the gay vendetta. He followed with virtually the same quote from
my story in Outlines.

“Yes!” Ellen shouted. “Our boy Henry’s going national. You, too,

ah, Mr. Murphy.”

“Call me Brian, m’dear. More chips?”
“Ask him about the tit-fondling, Bob. ’Scuse me, Ellen.”
Wade nodded at Costas and then looked straight at the camera.

“Th

ey made it up. It’s just the kind of untruthful innuendo that’s been

completely blown out of proportion by the media. Sure, I became
upset when Bol-Bol and Ms. Gadovskaya barged in by mistake and
disturbed my meditation session on Saturday. Far as I’m concerned,
you’d have to ask the so-called journalists where those quotes came
from.”

Costas leaned forward and smiled, a hungry terrier contemplat-

ing an injured chipmunk.

“Bob’s good,” Ellen said. “A lot better than most of the newsread-

ers I have to deal with.”

“‘I became upset,’” I said, mimicking Wade. “He doesn’t talk that

way in real life.”

“Th

e Olympic Games,” Brian said, “are not real life. Pass the mus-

tard, will you, Henry?”

“Th

en are none of these quotes accurate?” Costas followed up.

“You don’t really hate black people or Polish people or—well, there’s a
long list here in today’s Sports Illustrated. And, excuse me for asking.
You aren’t gay yourself?”

Wade tried to stay on script but the twist of his neck told me he

was losing it. “My girlfriend Celeste, the girl that I live with, she would

Elliott Mackle

192

laugh, she would really laugh, at somebody calling me gay. I’m friends
with a few homosexuals, yes, but I’m not that way myself. I have a
black teammate, too. Don’t forget that.” Wade leaned back in his chair,
as if to separate himself from Costas. Th

e camera moved in, framing

his face. “And, Bob,” he continued, his voice a couple of notes higher,
the sweat now visible on his brow, “I just want to say it again, this is
the kind of insinuation and over-reaction that got me all unfocussed.
And that’s why I screwed up.”

“Was that a denial?” Brian muttered. “Didn’t anybody prep this

kid?”

“He’s digging his own grave with his mouth, dear one,” Ellen

agreed. “Do either one of you boys want to try some of this turnip-
green pasta salad? It’s delicious.”

Costas touched his earphone, nodded sympathetically and re-

turned to Brian’s article. “Your masseur is quoted as saying that you
speciﬁ cally asked for a Tantric massage just before you performed on
Saturday. Our sources tell me these types of treatments are always
done in the nude and I wonder if—”

Wade cut him oﬀ . “He isn’t my masseur! He’s a goddamn fag vol-

unteer that put one over on the United States Olympic Team. He’s a
star-fucker, you know what I mean, Bob? My girlfriend Celeste, she
just laughs when they come on to me! But I’m not gay, you know. I
don’t have anything against cocksuckers. It’s lies.”

“We’re going to a break,” Costas said smoothly as the camera cut

away from Wade to a tight shot of the broadcaster’s face—relaxed,
contemplative and smiling just ever so sympathetically. “When we
come back, we’ll have a taped interview with Harry and Louise Tarp-
ley, Wade’s parents, telling us all about Wade as a boy, and how he’s al-
ways been interested in just two things, gymnastics and pretty girls.”

“Skip and Wade have been glued together for months,” I said,

throwing a wadded-up napkin at the TV screen. “Lying bastard.”

“It’s lies, lies!” Ellen drawled, imitating Wade’s barely controlled

voice. She looked from Brian to me and back again. “Are you two boys
in hot water?”

“My interview is on a mini-cassette at the oﬃ

ce,” Brian answered.

“Guess I should courier a copy over to Costas’ people at NBC. Just to
be fair.” He picked up the dessert menu. “In all the excitement, I must

193

Hot off the Presses

have forgotten to tell Tarpley the machine was turned on. Hmm, yes.
Anybody care to split a chocolate crème brulée?”

“My girlfriend Celeste,” Ellen said, speaking slowly and broadly,

“she just laughs!” Resuming her normal voice, she added, “Umm, well,
I was actually thinking about the kiwi sorbet.”

he following Saturday morning, shortly after midnight, a pipe
bomb exploded near the AT&T Pavilion in Centennial Olympic
Park. A visitor was killed and more than one hundred people

injured. Rumors that the Games would be suspended or canceled
were ﬂ oated, repeatedly denied and ﬂ oated again, especially when the
combined forces of the Atlanta police, the Georgia Bureau of Inves-
tigation, the FBI, the Army and the Georgia National Guard failed to
identify, much less capture, a credible suspect.

In the confusion that followed, elaborate new security measures

were announced and scrapped, the start times of events altered, un-
realistic promises made. Television and newspaper commentators
speculated, conjectured and hypothesized endlessly, and with much
the same results as those racked up by the FBI and the GBI.

Radio talk-show hosts and producers had a ﬁ eld day, allowing

only the craziest callers on the air and interviewing the cream of po-
tentially wild, oﬀ -the-page nuts. A booking agent at WGST, “Atlanta’s
Oﬃ

cial Voice of the Games,” thus invited Wade to present his views

on Sunday morning. Here’s a partial transcript:

Sean Hannity: So you don’t think Atlanta’s Centennial Park bombing
had anything to do with the TWA tragedy, that’s the Boeing 747 that
may have been brought down off Long Island by friendly fi re?
Wade Tarpley: It was a rocket, Sean. Like a missile. That’s what some-
body told me. Somebody with close government connections. A
rocket from a Japanese Navy sub. It hit that airliner and…blamo!
Sean: I’ve heard that one, too. Interesting. The Nip Navy’s sub was on
maneuvers with our guys and made a little mistake, right? Bad tim-
ing, would you say, Wade? Like the bomb that went off right outside
our studios?
Wade: Especially the week before the Olympic Games, when so
many athletes’ futures are at stake. America is the center of the

Elliott Mackle

194

world for two weeks, you know, Sean. A lot of nations are jeal-
ous that the US got the Games again. The Greeks, for example. You
know, Athens doesn’t even have a subway system. Another connec-
tion, the bomb was a lot closer to that Greek statue they put up in
the park than it was to any real athletic venue.
Sean: That’s right. And way fewer victims here than in the Atlantic
Ocean, right, Wade?
Wade: You said it. Just one little old colored lady got killed. And a
Jew writer had a heart attack later on. So that’s two, tops.
Sean: We have a caller on the line.
Wade: No athletes even got scratched. We were lucky there. I said
to my girlfriend Celeste, that’s the girl I live with, I said it really would
have messed things up if they’d taken out, like, Dan O’Brien or Amy
Van Dyken. A real tragedy.
Sean: You’re on the air, Lisa. We have Lisa, in Snellville.
Lisa: Well Hi, Sean, thanks for having me on. I love the show. But I just
want to ask Mr. Tarpley how he can be a Christian and let another
man put his hands on his private area—a man that’s not a doctor?
The Bible is very specifi c about that. Our pastor thinks even a gold
medal wouldn’t justify such immoral perversion.
Sean: Wade?
Wade: We’re talking about the park bombing, right? I heard they
were looking closely at some redneck night-shift guard that allegedly
did it. It was off the record but—
Lisa: Wade? Bob Costas said you let this man feel you up because
it would make you perform better in the gymnastics. Do you think
Jesus would allow somebody do that to Him so He could preach
better?
Sean: How about that, Wade? My notes here say you follow some
kind of New Age religion called Body Ecstatic. Also that there’s a
lot of gays and bisexuals involved in it. Is Body Ecstatic anything like
Scientology? Or more like aerobics?
Lisa: That’s horrible. I bet Home Expo doesn’t know about you.
Wade: I’m outta here. [A crash.] Fucking microphone in my face.

PART III

CHAPTER 17

ONLY THE BEST

asy,” Skip said. “Go easy on the head. Th

at’s too much pressure.”

I slid my right hand down to the base of his cock, made a ring

with my thumb and middle ﬁ nger, positioned the last two ﬁ ngers

around his balls and gently squeezed. “Move your butt around on the
table. Breathe with me. Circulate the energy throughout your entire
body. Breath, Sacred Brother. Breathe.”

“Yeah, there. Better. I don’t want to come. What you were doing

on my chest, that felt good, too.” Skip took ﬁ ve deep breaths, sound-
ing on each exhale, then settled back into the regular breathing of an
ongoing Tantric massage. Candles were lighted on Skip’s phallic altar.
A Balinese gamelan CD thrummed and tinkled. Th

e cotton sheet cov-

ering the massage table was soaked with Skip’s clean sweat and a new
supply of Tahitian coconut oil. We were both naked and breathing
together often enough to keep the ritual bond intact.

I’d put the Halloween edition of Outlines to bed the day before

and was taking Wednesday morning oﬀ . Back at the oﬃ

ce, Bambi had

Skip’s number on a card. If nothing important came up, we’d already
decided to follow the massage-trading session with patty melts and
chocolate milkshakes at Denny’s, then maybe take in a movie.

“I saw Wade on Channel Eleven last week,” I said, adopting the

neutral tone of a C-SPAN news-reader, aware that this was ticklish
territory for both of us. “On their morning show, demonstrating some
kind of new exercise routine. He looked diﬀ erent.”

Elliott Mackle

198

“Diﬀ erent how?”
“Like he’s lost weight, muscle tone, in his face and butt. Not as

bulked-up. Maybe he’s cut back on his workout program.”

“I haven’t seen him since the Games.”
“I know. Me, neither. Which is why I brought it up.”
Th

e ﬁ ngers of my left hand skidded and stuck to the hairs around

Skip’s dime-size nipples. He started to shiver and his body tensed up.
“Stop a minute,” he said.

“Just need more oil,” I answered, reaching for the bottle to lube

my hands.

“Not that.”
I returned to the ritual start position, one hand over Skip’s heart,

the other lightly resting on his genitals. “What’s up, little brother?”

Skip opened his eyes, looked up at me and began to sob. “Henry,

I’m, like, so terriﬁ ed.” His shivers turned to shakes. “Hold me, okay?
Jesus, fuck. I don’t know what to do.”

I bent down and pulled him into my arms. “Are you scared for

Wade? Scared he’s got the big bad bug? Me, too.”

“Yeah, sure, of course. But more scared for me.”
I took a breath, swallowed hard and tried not to let his words sink

in. “Aw, shit, baby. You look ﬁ ne. You’re the same bright-eyed, boyish
hunk we’ve all come to know and love.”

“Yeah? Well, I abso-fucking-lutely wish I’d been known and loved

by one less hunk. Namely, Wade. I’ve been, like, on the ﬂ oor for
weeks.”

“Do you feel okay?” I kissed Skip’s forehead and cheek. His skin

was hot.

“Yeah, ﬁ ne, actually. Except I’m not sleeping all that good.”
Standing upright again, rolling my shoulders and hips to loosen

up, I gave Skip’s arms and chest a succession of little feather strokes
with my ﬁ ngertips. “You got any real reason to worry about yourself?
Besides how we all worry all the time?”

Skip nodded, so I picked up the bottle of warm oil, worked a

fresh supply into my hands and began gently massaging his chest and
cock.

“We were unsafe,” Skip whispered.

199

Hot off the Presses

Uh-oh, I thought. “Probably nothing to worry about,” I said. “Did

you swallow his come?”

“Yeah, but I don’t even count that. No, at least twice, when we

made love, he didn’t use a condom.”

“Breathe. Fucked, you mean? And he didn’t pull out?”
“Not soon enough.”
Bad, bad news. “Th

e bastard.”

“See, I thought he’d probably only been with you, me and Celeste.

And I thought, she’s a nurse and you’re so careful you’re like some
kind of AIDS nun.”

“Just goes to show…something.”
“Something? Like?”
“Like we’re all fools for sex. Can’t assume anybody’s not been ex-

posed. Sucking cock isn’t safe, not in my book. It’s an exchange of
body ﬂ uids. But I let Wade come in my mouth, too.”

Skip continued the breathwork but his eyes, mouth and cheeks

pursed up. In the dim, ﬂ ickering light, he looked like a pink prune. I
ﬁ gured he was about to start sobbing again.

“You didn’t swa-swa-swallow, though?”
“One shot. But I chased it with a bottle of Listerine.”
Skip’s cock pulsed in my hand. “Wade’s something, isn’t he? A to-

tally selﬁ sh person.”

“He had both me and Celeste in bed with him. Just that one time.

Which was the night I called it quits.”

“Henry! What a fantasy—you in a bisexual three-way. I just wish I

didn’t know the other two people.”

I moved to the head of the table to work on Skip’s neck and chest.

When I rubbed warm oil into the hair under his arms, he moaned and
asked me to give him a few more minutes of silent pleasure, no talk,
head to foot.

My own chest hurt and my throat had gone dry. I kept the tears

and the fear back by concentrating on the sweet man I had in my
hands. He had long, smooth muscles, sturdy hips and legs that were
hairier than his chest. When I ﬁ nished his chest, I moved to the far
side of the table, reawakening his cock with gentle but insistent moves
with one hand while beginning to work on his legs with the other.

Elliott Mackle

200

By now he was breathing deeply and regularly, building the erotic

charge and circulating energy. When he raised ﬁ rst one knee, then
the other, I rolled his thighs and calves in both hands for perhaps a
minute each, brieﬂ y stroked his scrotum and perineum, while keep-
ing up the pressure on his cock.

“What about ten charging breaths and then three deep breaths,

clenching on the third?” I ﬁ nally asked.

“Henry, are you scared, too?”
“Scared for you, little brother. I got tested again as soon as the

Games were over. My doctor doesn’t even put them on the insurance
form. No problem, no virus as far as his lab could tell. And they ran
the test twice.”

“I can’t make myself take it. What if—you know?”
“Would you let me go with you? To get the test. And the results.

ey do anonymous testing at the Gay Center. I’ve probably got a

schedule back at the oﬃ

ce.”

“Yeah, um, that sounds kind of doable. I probably ought to ch-ch-

check it out.”

“Deal? Maybe this afternoon? Okay? Good. Now, Sacred Brother,

would you give me ten charging breaths?”

Skip’s cock was hard and upright in my moving ﬁ st. “Keep touch-

ing me,” he said. “Keep touching, keep touching, keep touching.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay. Breathe, breathe, breathe.”
“Ah, oh. Ah, oh—Henry, I’m so scared. Ah, oh. Ah, oh. Ah, oh—”

he state of Wade Tarpley’s health was again the topic on the table
two weeks later when Brian Murphy and I met for drinks at Vick-
ery’s, a popular Midtown watering hole. Brian had called that

morning looking for reaction to a Home Expo press release delivered
to Sports Illustrated. Th

e one-pager stated that Wade had been put on

indeﬁ nite medical leave, with no details given. When Brian phoned
Home Expo’s ﬂ ack to follow up, he got the standard PR runaround:
nothing further available, privacy issues prevent us, call you back
when the team resumes competition. Brian left messages for Wade
at his apartment and for Celeste at Piedmont Hospital. Neither was
returned. So he called me.

201

Hot off the Presses

e November weather was mild, with no breeze or hint of au-

tumn rain. Brian chose an oak-shaded table on the patio, near the
sidewalk, out of traﬃ

c. Vickery’s draws the credit-card crowd, mostly

straight guys in ties and sockless loafers and career gals with great
hair, good jewelry and serious attitude.

Brian’s sharp eyes, knowing smile and wrestler’s shoulders had

swaggered through my mind occasionally during the previous three
months. But I hadn’t called him and we hadn’t crossed paths. He be-
longed to the bittersweet Olympic what-I-did-last-summer experi-
ence, I’d decided. He was part of a chapter I’d boxed up and put away,
along with my ACOG medal, certiﬁ cate of participation, “E” creden-
tial and collection of commemorative T-shirts and pins.

I’d eroticized too many unavailable men in my life: Ted Brown and

another fraternity brother in college, a fellow editor in Jacksonville, a
journalism instructor in grad school, Wade, of course. I’d come out
of each crush feeling raw, tired and stupid. I didn’t want to repeat the
mistake. Brian was a good professional acquaintance, and I ﬁ gured I
ought to just keep it that way.

After we shook hands, Brian removed his jacket, draped it around

the back of a chair and pushed up the sleeves of his SI-logo rugby
shirt. As he did so, I noticed a ﬂ ash of color on his forearm. I won’t
claim that, Oh, shit, KS lesion, popped into my mind like a neon beer
sign. But, given the number of men I’d buried, I did feel a momentary
knife in my gut. “You got a new tattoo? Cool, man. Let me see.”

Brian reacted as many men do when another guy gets personal.

He sat back in his chair, scowled almost imperceptibly and slipped the
cotton cuﬀ back down over his arm. But then he glanced up, his blue
eyes steady. “You sure? I’m still not convinced it was a good idea.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
He pulled the sleeve back up. “You won’t laugh?” He stuck out his

lightly tanned arm for inspection. Th

ere, etched in green, red, blue,

purple and yellow ink, was the symbol of the Centennial Games—the
rings, the Greek column, the rising rainbow ﬂ ame and the words “At-
lanta 1996.”

“Way cool,” I said. “Total commitment.”

Elliott Mackle

202

“And I didn’t have to pay ACOG a licensing fee,” he said, laugh-

ing a little. “My dad has a tattoo on his arm from when he was in the
Navy.”

A waitress stood by, ready to take our orders. She slapped paper

napkins down on the tabletop, glanced at Brian’s exposed arm and did
a double-take. “Whoa, sir. Th

at’s the ﬁ rst one of them kind I’ve seen.

And we saw darn near everything here last summer. “

Brian looked embarrassed a second time. “You like it? I’m worried

it might go out of style.”

“Never!” the girl said. “Lemme go speak to my manager. I think

you sports fans deserve a free round just to start with. And we’re do-
ing two-fers until seven. So there you go. Ready?”

Brian looked at me, a polite question mark in his expression.
“Jack Daniel’s, black, on the rocks,” I said. “Plate of fried squid to

share.”

“Same,” Brian said. “Up. Saratoga water on the side. Double.”
“Both doubles?” the girl said. “While the damage is on the

house?”

“Hit me,” I said. “What the hell?”
“You got it, gentlemen. My name’s Suzie, if I can do anything for

you.” Th

e girl ﬂ ipped her order pad shut and turned away.

Brian patted the empty paper napkin, looked me over carefully

once more, ﬁ shed a sheaf of papers out of his coat pocket and handed
me the Home Expo release. I read it while we waited for drinks. When
they were delivered, Brian oﬀ ered what sounded like a non-commit-
tal toast, “To happy times.” After we clinked our glasses, he asked, “So
what do you think?”

“About Wade? I’m not involved in the situation any more. And

don’t want to be involved. Why?”

“Must be more story here, though. If I don’t use or assign the re-

lease myself, I’m supposed to toss it into the Time-Warner nut-crush-
ers in New York. I thought I’d check out the ground here ﬁ rst, that’s
all.”

“Don’t quote me, okay? He was on the Channel Eleven morning

show last month. He didn’t look so hot, kind of run down, maybe lost
weight. It worried me.” I sipped my whisky. “But it’s not like I need to
do anything about it.”

203

Hot off the Presses

“So you don’t have a reaction to the press release? You don’t even

want a copy?”

I shook my head. “Pass. No comment. I published Wade’s sorry

history already. Been there, done that. Th

anks, anyhow.”

Brian picked up his low-ball glass and sucked down half the dou-

ble. “Should we be worried about you and Skip Roberts? Excuse me. I
know that’s personal. Not my business.”

Just then, Suzie and a kitchen runner arrived with the platter of

squid, small bowls of marinara and tartar sauce, two side plates, cock-
tail forks and cotton napkins. Th

e mild commotion gave me time to

consider my answer.

“AIDS?” I ﬁ nally asked. “Not us, thanks. Skip and I both got tested.

We’re clean.”

Brian drank down the other half of his whisky. “Th

ank God, pal.

You been in my prayers, you know that?” He looked around for the
waitress. When she appeared, he circled the table with his hand, indi-
cating a second round. She smiled and went away. He turned back to
me. “You’re still stuck in it, though. Hate to tell you. Tarpley seems to
view Henry Th

ompson as his own personal tar baby—you and Bol-

Bol Domnovsko.” He pulled a clipping out of the pile of papers. “Did
you see this nasty piece of work?”

Headlined “Gay-Liberal Vendetta Cost Cobb Son Gold,” and

stamped with the name of a clipping service, the article was a recent
interview that had appeared in the Marietta Daily Journal, one of the
state’s most conservative, know-nothing newspapers. “Do me a big
favor and scan this piece of crap now,” Brian asked. “So we can discuss
it? I won’t quote you.”

“You’re not wearing your spy-shop cassette recorder?”
Brian did his own double-take. “Forgot you knew about that.

Sharp little memory on you, Mr. Editor.”

“Why don’t you just read me the good parts,” I answered. “Th

e less

Cobb County Republi-crap I have to plow through, the better.”

Brian grinned and held the clipping away from his face as if it were

covered with shit—or he was nearsighted. “Here we go then. Byline,
Berman Fisher, Journal Sports Ed. Here’s his lead: ‘Cobb County na-
tive Wade Tarpley, an outstanding member of the 1996 US Gymnas-
tics Team, was deprived of several medals during the recent Atlanta

Elliott Mackle

204

Games by a coalition of homosexual activists, nitpicking part-time
judges and European state-sponsored oﬃ

cials,’ blah, blah. Ha! Judg-

ment without citation or attribution. Back to J-school for you, sir.
Okay, dum, dum, down further, quote, quote, ‘Tarpley says he was
manhandled and sexually assaulted by an Atlanta Committee for the
Olympic Games (ACOG) male volunteer just before his initial event
on July 20,’ blah, blah.”

I groaned. “Who just happened to have been his steady sexual

playmate for the previous several months. But who’s counting?”

“He cites his live-in girlfriend.”
“Twice?”
“Uh, dum, dum. Yeah, twice.”
“Th

at’s standard, Wade’s straight-boy cover line.”

“Straight to hell, looks like.”
I laughed. Brian grinned back. “You’re in a good mood,” I said.
Brian ducked his head. “Dum, dum, your turn next. Quote, quote,

‘Tarpley alleges that Roberts conspired with Henry Th

omas, a writer

for the Downtown Atlanta homosexual tabloid Outﬁ ts, and Polish
coach Dumb-Dumb Dumnovscow, to embarrass him, ruin his con-
centration so necessary for world-class athletic performance and,’
yada, yada.”

“Print anything you like so long as you spell my name wrong.”
“And the pommel horse he rode in on?”
“You are just baaad,” I answered, using a slightly addled, Diana

Ross accent. I laughed but quickly settled down. Watch it yourself, I
thought. You are well into your second double. Don’t get too loosey-
goosey with this guy. He plays for the other team. He won’t get the
jokes.

“Baaad to the bone, “Brian answered in the same breathy, Mo-

town drawl, not missing a beat. “And it gets better.”

Whoa! Where’d that come from?
I forked some squid onto our plates. “Hit me again. Tartar

sauce?”

“Th

e red stuﬀ .” He shifted in his chair, held up the clip and ran his

eyes down to the bottom of the column. “Here, ah, he claims that he
never actually spoke to you, Henry Th

omas, during the Games and

that you made up all the quotes.”

205

Hot off the Presses

“Yesterday’s news. Tell me something I don’t know. You’ve got

similar quotes on tape.”

“Says it was a plot by perverts and communists to deprive the nor-

mal men of America of the gold medals they so richly deserved. Hum,
smells of editorial tweaking to me. ”

“Th

e American women won gold,” I said. “Th

e guys ﬁ nished ﬁ fth

in team competition. He wasn’t the only American man who got tan-
gled up in his jockstrap.”

“You deﬁ nitely have a way with words. Ever thought of going into

the journalism trade?”

“Naah, I’m happy to be just a fan. A fan who recalls that USOC

scratched him from individuals competition.”

“My job’s safe, then.” Brian scooped up a handful of squid and

started feeding them into his mouth.

I ﬁ nished my drink, set the glass down a little too hard and said,

“Normal? Th

e lying bastard. He had me in bed with him and his girl-

friend ﬁ ve minutes after I met her. Wade wanted to be the meatloaf
in a sandwich. Celeste and I were the whole-wheat toast. Shit, I’m re-
ally being indiscreet. Don’t repeat that, please. No more doubles for
Henry.”

Brian had ﬁ nished the handful of squid and was staring across the

table at me. “Guess normal depends on who’s keeping score, huh?”
His voice sounded a little tight and high. “He did aim one more kick
at you.”

“I can take it, coach. I’m tough.”
“Dum, dum, question from veteran sports editor Berman Fish-

er, quote, quote, ‘According to sources in Atlanta, the reporter from
the homosexual tabloid Outﬁ ts should never have been granted an
Olympic credential. Sources say the “gay” voice of the inner city is in
dire ﬁ nancial trouble since the Games.’ Answer: “Yeah, Berm, it’s a
real nasty bar-rag, I wouldn’t wipe my lily-white Southern you-know-
what on it. You know how fags are, right? And that guy Henry Th

om-

as, he’s not a trained reporter. No matter what he says I said, that’s just
wrong. He wasn’t important enough for any of the Olympians to talk
to. So he just made it up.’”

“My owners will be surprised to hear we’re in trouble,” I answered,

stretching out my arms. “We posted a proﬁ t the last three quarters.

Elliott Mackle

206

Ad revenue is topping projections. Some local guys oﬀ ered to buy the
McClellands out and they wouldn’t listen.”

“Wow. You want more squid.”
“Now I’m really mouthing oﬀ . I better get on home, water the

plants, sack out.”

Brian looked surprised and disappointed. “Th

is early?”

“It’s a school night.”
“Right. Well, another time, okay? Where are you parked? I’ll walk

you back to your car.”

“Over on Th

irteenth Street.”

“Good. Me, too. Let me take care of this. Be right back. You get it

next time. Where’s that girl?”

We strolled down Crescent, turned at Th

irteenth and reached my

car ﬁ rst. I stopped and stuck out my hand to say goodnight. Brian
took it, then put his other hand on my side.

“Was one other thing I wanted to ask you,” he said, his voice again

stretched and high. “Been wanting to ask, actually. For some time.
Would you go out with me?”

Hearing the words, not the meaning, I answered, “Sure, I owe you

one. Anytime.”

“No, I mean out—out to dinner, movie, whatever. With me.”
Step back, I thought. Th

is is news. “Sure,” I said. “Yeah. Sounds

great. You just surprised me, that’s all. My impression was that you’re,
ah—”

He laughed and stumbled through the next few words. “Me, too.

I thought I was. For a long time. Th

ings change. I’ve been working

on it. And I admire you, how you operate, and decided it’d be good
to spend time with you. Dinner? Maybe someplace extra good that
neither one of us has been to?”

“You’re serious? Okay, I’ll shoot for the moon. What about Bac-

chanalia? People say it’s the best in town. I’ve never been. What about
you?”

“Me, neither. Only the best for us, pal. Does next Wednesday night

sound good?”

“Wednesday it is. But I hear you need reservations months in ad-

vance.”

207

Hot off the Presses

I still doubted this was happening, or that Brian’s availability was

entirely serious. But my chest felt full and I knew I was grinning. Th

was nothing like a grope session in a steam bath or a pickup in a bar.

“Trust me,” he said, pulling me into a light embrace and kissing

me quickly on the lips. “I’ll get us a table.”

His mouth tasted like leather and mint and tomato sauce. His six

o’clock bristles were baby kisses on my face. He patted my arm and
stepped back, looking quite pleased with himself. “You drive right on
home, Henry. Be careful. You hear me?”

Loud and clear. But we’ll probably need a road map to navigate

this excellent adventure.

“Take care of yourself.” Th

e smile on my face was so wide it almost

hurt.

CHAPTER 18

THE ATLANTA WAY

ournalism’s Rule 16 states that when an employer or supervisor
invites a subordinate to lunch the entree is sure to be paired with
a helping of unpleasant conversation. My protective radar thus

went into overdrive when Marguerite McClelland phoned the next
day and asked me to meet her and her husband for lunch at Bone’s.

“Pope reserved a room downstairs,” she explained. “We can have

all the privacy we wish.”

Rule 16A states that privacy is the last thing the unlucky subor-

dinate wants in such a situation. Public executions are usually car-
ried out with at least a minimum of human decency. Cattle prods and
thumb-screws are more commonly employed behind closed doors.

A headwaiter in a deferential necktie and blue serge suit ushered

me into the McClellands’ room on the lower level. Bone’s, Atlanta’s
undisputed power steakhouse, caters to brokers, bluebloods and old-
line sports and business ﬁ gures such as Ted Turner and Fran Tarken-
ton. Th

e ambience is understated and clubby: waiters in Pullman

jackets, dark wood paneling, logo china and a wine list that reaches
the moon, with prices to match.

Figuring the condemned man might as well eat a hearty meal, I

ordered lump crabmeat cocktail, rib-eye steak, sautéed spinach and
mixed salad with Roquefort dressing. Pope allowed the wine stew-
ard to talk me into a glass of Mondavi Reserve Cabernet. “Quite an

Elliott Mackle

210

extraordinary combination of chocolate, raspberry and pink-pepper-
corn notes, with a subtle unsweetened-cherry ﬁ nish,” he assured me.

Marguerite brought the meeting to order after a minimum of

small talk.

“We have such good news,” she said, emphasizing her words by

waving a plated-silver salad fork like a baton. Her appetizer, harlequin
ﬂ an with watercress coulis, lay untouched on the plate. “Good news
for our dear city. We couldn’t wait to let you in on it.”

“You’re going to love this,” Pope put in, his tone conﬁ dential and

masculine, his ﬁ rst course vegetarian black bean puree. “Right down
your alley, son. It’s something you and the paper can really play up,
get your teeth into, now we’ve put the dratted Games behind us.”

“Don’t bring that up, Poppy. Bad luck. Don’t look back.”
“Atlanta’s moving forward again, my dear, you’re right. Moving

onward and upward, just like the phoenix. And I believe the city will
thank you, my dear, rise up and sing your praises, for the way you’ve
helped gather the forces, so to speak.”

Marguerite dipped into the black-and-white custard, raised the

fork, inspected a bicolor morsel carefully, and inquired, “What was in
this again, Poppy?”

“Damned if I know. Waiter? Yes, thank you. My wife’s thingy

there?”

“Black and white truﬄ

es, sir. We had the albino truﬄ

es ﬂ own in

from the Abruzzi and—”

“Th

at’s ﬁ ne. Mushrooms, my dear. Fancy mushrooms. Always

have to order the latest thing, don’t you, so clever.”

“It’s delicious! Henry, don’t you want a bite? Pope?”
He waved oﬀ the suggestion. His French cuﬀ shot out. He was

wearing his dead son’s gold cuﬄ

inks again. “What we’re trying to say,

Henry, is that several concerned citizens have gotten together this
fall, had a quiet meeting or two, made some calls, all trying to decide
on the best ways to approach this AIDS education crisis. And the
feeling now is that more education is needed—education among citi-
zens whose education is not all that it, ah, might be.”

“Poppy, you’re talking the words right out of my mouth.” Margue-

rite set down her fork, chewed and swallowed delicately. Th

e gold

bracelets on her wrist jangled together expensively. “It’s our duty to

211

Hot off the Presses

come up with exactly the right advice for people who are, as the say-
ing goes, at risk. And we must identify just the right, ah, delivery sys-
tem. And I feel so encouraged that we—that Outlines—can be part of
such a worthwhile eﬀ ort.”

e wheel’s about to be invented all over again, I thought. Pope and

Marguerite have been overdosing on CDC propaganda sheets. But my
answer was journalistic, neutral, non-committal. “Interesting. Could
really be important if the delivery system—actually delivers.”

“Th

at’s a good one, son. Actually delivers!” Pope spooned up soup.

A drop of black liquid quivered on the edge of his spoon, lengthened
into a teardrop—and fell. Like an old retriever dog after table scraps,
he caught the drop with his napkin, folded up the spot without fuss
and went on eating. “Can’t fail, got all the best people involved. And
our Marguerite, she persuaded about half of ’em to come in with us.”

“People do want to help. When things are properly explained to

them, Atlanta people will always pitch in.”

Pope lapped up more soup, this time without mishap. “Proper ex-

planations go a long way, of course. But, Henry, do you know what a
lot of the people we know really want? To jump-start a project like
this? Th

ey want their names on something—a building, a foundation,

a memorial parking lot, in this case a printed invitation—and the
higher on the list, the more generous they feel.”

“It’s only fair, Poppy. To recognize people’s good works.”
“An outward and physical sign of an inward and spiritual grace? Is

that from Cotton Mather?”

An outward and physical sign such as a charity ball. Get your

furs and diamonds out of storage. Dine and dance at the Ritz-Carlton
Buckhead, only 500 a seat. Beneﬁ t the city’s homeless AIDS victims of
color. Become a do-gooder and every penny tax-deductible.

“Later than Mather, I think. But now, Henry. Rosalynn Carter was

the ﬁ rst to come in and we’ve scheduled two planning sessions at the
Carter Library. Coretta King is all for it, too, and she’ll ask the King
Center to help facilitate the educational syllabus and curriculum. Th

Woodruﬀ Foundation will coordinate with the Black churches to get
their members involved. And it will happen. Church members just
have to be convinced safe-sex education is the next great thing Atlan-

Elliott Mackle

212

ta needs. Th

en they can go to their councilmen, both city and county,

and their state legislators in good faith.”

“Have to be comfortable with the concept,” Pope harrumphed.
To my right, the waiter silently opened the door, crossed the hard-

wood ﬂ oor, brushed a few crumbs from the tablecloth, collected our
empty plates and replaced them with grilled rib-eye, steamed salmon
and an enormous chef ’s salad, the latter dressed and tossed in the
kitchen according to Marguerite’s instructions.

An end run around Mayor Ramble. Not so bad after all.
“Central Atlanta Progress is with us all the way,” Marguerite said,

adding as she looked down, “Oh my goodness, I don’t know how I’ll
ever eat all that salad. It just takes my breath away.” She glanced up.
Th

e waiter aimed a pepper mill the size of a small cannon in her di-

rection. “No, thank you, I’m sure this is perfect.” Th

en back to me:

“We still have to get the chair of the Fulton County Commission on
board, I’m afraid.”

“Because federal AIDS money goes through the counties as di-

rected by the inter-governmental council, right?”

“Yes, yes! So you understand about that. Poppy, tell him some of

the other people who’ve already agreed to serve on the outreach com-
mittee—Bishop What’s-his-name, you know, at Christ the King. And
Inman Piers IV, of the construction-company Piers, is going to tackle
the county commissioners.”

“One man you probably know, son: Bill Leach, lives down the

street from us in that Neel Reid Dutch Colonial that Sally Hastings
ﬁ xed up and sold. He raises a lot of money for AIDS causes. Good
man to have on board.”

Marguerite reached down, drew a two-page press release out of

her bag and handed it to me. “Most of the names are here. Jessica
Hopkins of the Highliners Group put the information package to-
gether on a pro bono basis. We want you to play it up real big in next
week’s Outlines.”

“We were thinking the front page and a nice editorial,” Pope said,

extracting a small white bone from a hunk of salmon on his plate.
“But skip the cartoon this time. We can’t always rely on Ibo’s judg-
ment, not in politics.”

213

Hot off the Presses

I ran my eyes down the ﬁ rst page of the release. It read like a soci-

ety wedding announcement. “Lemme get back to the oﬃ

ce with this

and see what we can do,” I said, keeping to the non-committal path.

“Jessica gave it to the daily and the Business Chronicle this morn-

ing,” Pope continued. “Th

ey’ll both have something in tomorrow or

the next day. Also the Fulton Daily Report and Creative Loaﬁ ng. But
we can beat them with broader coverage, I’ll bet.”

I looked from Pope to Marguerite and back. Th

eir eyes were shin-

ing, their hearts fully engaged in the project. No doubt about it: Th

ey’d

channeled their grief into a bad case of Knight-Ridder, Cox, Pulitzer,
Graham and Hearst disease. Th

ey saw themselves as publishers, lead-

ers and manipulators of public opinion, the latest in a long line of
buyers of ink by the barrel.

“We’ll need to make some calls,” I said. “We’ll want a reaction

from the mayor’s oﬃ

ce. If the release is out, they’ll certainly know

about it.”

Pope and Marguerite looked at each other and then back at me.

“What Rawson says,” Pope answered, “won’t make any diﬀ erence to
us.”

“We don’t want his retrograde views in our paper,” his wife add-

ed.

“You see, son, we view Rawson as the problem here.”
“I can see that,” I answered. “We’re on the same page.”
When I phoned Ellen Inman, she picked right up. “I was just ﬁ x-

ing to call you, dear one. Th

ere appears to be big developments. His

honor’s attention is absolutely focused. And it’s right up your sweet
little alley. Aaahhh!”

While Ellen rode her nicotine rush, I stated my business. At the

mention of Coretta King, the Woodruﬀ Foundation and the McClel-
lands, she cut me oﬀ . “Such nice people. So many good intentions.
But just not thinking globally, you follow my drift? In educating the
people?”

“Mayor Ramble doesn’t think citizens should act locally?”
“Aren’t you quick? And yes, we’ve seen the release Jessica’s poop

shop put out. It’s real cute. Nice Old-Atlanta names, a lot of my friends
wanting to get involved in what must look like a sure thing.”

Elliott Mackle

214

“We’re talking about AIDS education, not the History Center,

right?”

“Henry! I told you months ago how enthusiastic the Mayor is

about helping all citizens. He wants everyone to be safe from every
kind of scourge. Every kind.”

“As long as his black church people don’t have to admit the scourge

exists? Or that it has to do with men having sex with other men?”

“Henry, is your fax working? I’m just about to send out our an-

nouncement—that the Mayor has formed a red-ribbon AIDS-edu-
cation committee consisting of luminaries such as entertainment
superstar Elton John, activist-actress Jane Fonda, Georgia Superin-
tendent of Education Linda Schrenko, United States Representative
Cynthia McKinney, former Atlanta Mayor Andy Young and Arch-
bishop Horace Greeley Johnson of the Free Will and Holy Name Af-
rican Apostolic Cathedral of Light.”

“Does anybody on the committee actually know anything about

AIDS? Like maybe a specialist from one of the health departments or
the CDC?”

“Henry, Henry. Th

ese are inﬂ uential, worldly people. Busy people

who are willing to take time out to contribute to healing the wounds
inﬂ icted on the community by the, ah, by the so-called HIV virus.”

“So-called, huh? And mostly outsiders, not Atlantans.”
“Andy Young!”
“Th

e delegate from the United Nations of Graft and Corruption?

Big suck-up to Juan Samaranch? Gimme a break.”

“You aren’t sounding exactly journalistically neutral yourself, dear

one. I’d be distressed to have to report all this to Pope and Margue-
rite.”

“Don’t bother, ma’am. I’ll do it for you. It’s all on tape.”
“Same here, you sneak.”
“So would it be fair to conclude that Big Daddy’s making an end

run around the Old-Atlanta coalition?”

“Henry, I think it would be fair to say that, in the end, everyone’s

going to agree on a plan of action. And then the leaders of all factions
will follow the mayor’s lead. Th

at’s the Atlanta way.”

215

Hot off the Presses

“Always has been,” I answered. “As I’ve been told and told and told.

e fax line is ready when you are. If you have a follow-up statement

on the release, I’ll look forward to seeing it.”

“I’m pressing my start button, dear one. Bye. Aaahhh…Ummm.”
When I switched oﬀ the recorder and looked up, reporter Tra-

cy Gunn was standing at the door, a pink message slip in her hand.
“Mama Mac called while you were on the phone. Said to be sure you
read this.”

Henry—mayor’s proposals all bad, oﬀ er nothing new. Go ahead
w/ plans to feature coalition formula editorially. Mayor’s pro-
posals to be reported only in passing—very negatively. See you
Monday to read over coverage. MM

I handed the slip back to Tracy along with the pair of press releas-

es and the taped conversation with Ellen. “See what you can make of
this skunk ﬁ ght. Lemme know by four o’clock how much space you’d
need to cover all or even any of it. Both look like snow jobs to me.”

Tracy cocked her head. “Bosses see it as the Second Coming?”
“Th

eir little baby Jesus. Whole front page, jump to four, double-

truck illustration, shoot the heartless opposition in cold blood, details
at six, ﬁ lm at eleven.”

“If it bleeds, it leads. You haven’t found any blood so far?”
“Mine. Th

at’s why I’m asking you to take a look.”

“Gonna blame the girl, huh?”
“Th

ey write the checks. We write the songs.”

“Okay, boss. I’ll get right to it.”
“‘No business like snow business,’” I answered, adding, “Th

anks,

and ask Ibo to step in here next, please.”

Ibo wasn’t on deadline so I suggested a workout at Midtown Men’s

Club. As an Atlanta outsider, I wanted to bounce my doubts oﬀ a
trusted homeboy. I also needed start moving steakhouse animal fat
and protein through my body. Fifteen minutes later, we were dressed
out, saddled up and whizzing along on side-by-side stationary bikes.

“So none of them know or care anything about AIDS?” I asked.

Elliott Mackle

216

“Th

ey care about pretending it doesn’t exist,” Ibo answered.

“Bunch of ostriches, their heads in the sand, their butts in the air for
all to see.”

“And too many young black butts getting fucked unprotected. Too

many women of color catching it, too many babies getting born with
it.”

“Boss, I have explained. Th

e churches deny, deny, deny. Too many

homies deny, deny, deny. Black men are not, cannot be gay. AIDS is
a gay disease invented by the racist government and the Centers for
Disease Control. Being on the down-low has nothing to do with gay
or AIDS or HIV. It just is.”

“Th

e McClellands have formed a committee of worthies to out-

ﬂ ank the mayor and the conservative churches, get the legislature to
bypass the inter-governmental agency law and make it easier to get
federal funds to educate at-risk people. All in all, a noble goal, right?
People working together for the common good, the Atlanta Way?”

“Far as it goes. But?”
“Th

e Reverend Mayor has formed his own ostrich committee.

Mommy and Poppy demand that Outlines support the old guard and
either ignore or ridicule Ramble’s eﬀ orts.”

“You know the drill, Henry. Everybody argues behind the scenes

until they’re blue in the face. Th

en they agree on something and kiss

and make up.”

“Using our paper isn’t exactly behind the scenes.”
“Duh, Henry. Last time I checked, you didn’t own it.”
“I mean, ours, the gays and lesbians of Atlanta.”
“Th

e ﬁ ght’s about men—mostly black men—who do drugs and

have unprotected sex. Th

e problem’s city-wide, state-wide. You don’t

think changing some laws can help?”

“I can’t argue only one side—just because my employers order me

to. It’s bad journalism.”

“Martin Luther King Jr. argued one side. Gandhi argued one

side. Mother Teresa don’t be playing up no abortion rights, not last I
heard.”

“If they were journalists they’d have to!”
“If pigs had wings they’d ﬂ y up to heaven and eat angel food

cake.”

217

Hot off the Presses

“It feels dishonest—to the community, I mean. To publish only

half the story.”

“So fudge it—be as pragmatic and situation-based as they are. You

and Tracy write up the good stuﬀ . Mr. Ibo’ll do you a subversive little
’toon that kicks it right in the ass.”

“Th

ey’re onto that. I intended to tell you. You’re on the bench, at

least for this game. Poppy thinks you’re politically unreliable.”

“My guilty secret is ﬁ nally out! I see the dirt on both sides. Poli-

tics, by deﬁ nition, means two sides.”

“At least two. And that supports what I said—that journalism has

to cast the cold eye on both, not support just one.”

“Citizen Hearst didn’t think so.”
“No, nor Ralph McGill, in civil rights, anyhow. McGill at least saw

both sides. I’m supposed to wear blinkers, or put the blinkers on our
readers. Feels like a lose-lose situation. Sophie’s Choice.”

“Excuse me? You play ball and you keep gettin’ your paycheck.

Sounds like win-win to me.”

“It’s not ethical.”
“You think the Reverend cares squat about your tired old eth-

ics?”

“You’re arguing for the Devil, watch it.”
“We be’s journalists, boss. Th

at be’s what we do.”

“Th

anks for reminding me. I feel better already.”

CHAPTER 19

OUTWRITES

didn’t feel better. I felt frustrated, angry and nervous. So I called
Brian Murphy and reached him in the press box at Tech Stadium.
“You up for coﬀ ee and talk? Th

is is Henry. I’m in Midtown. I was

hoping you might not be busy.”

“Jumping the gun, are you, sport?” I could hear shouting, stomp-

ing and a loudspeaker in the background. “Good to hear from you.
And, by the way, I nailed that table at Bacchanalia for Wednesday.
Hope seven-ﬁ fteen suits you.”

“Yeah, perfect. I just wanted to get with you sooner. Couple of

questions have come up. Not related to Wade Tarpley or the Olym-
pics.”

“No second thoughts on…whatever?”
“No, none. Th

is is journalism 201. Th

e lose-lose hypothetical they

forgot to bring up in J-school.”

“Not my specialty but I’ll be glad to listen. Th

e Wrecks are los-

ing to Vanderbilt by thirty points. I can leave at the half. Where you
brewing this coﬀ ee?”

“Vickery’s was your turf, right? What about the gay bookstore and

coﬀ eehouse, Outwrites, corner of Piedmont and Tenth?”

ere was a momentary silence. But Brian was game. “Never

heard of it. Tell me where to park and I’ll see you in about an hour.”

I was skimming a noir mystery with palm trees on the cover when

Brian arrived. He tapped me on the shoulder with a rolled-up copy of

Elliott Mackle

220

Outlines. “Finally found a place to pick up your paper. Sorry to keep
you waiting.”

“No problem.” I held up the paperback. “And this is a good place

to wait. How was the game?”

He rolled his shoulders inside his coat. “I’ve seen better high

school tussles.”

I turned and we shook hands. “Glad you’re here now.”
“Me, too.” He looked around, taking in the ﬂ oor-to-ceiling book-

shelves, publishers’ posters, outdoor deck and busy conversation pit.
“Say, this place is pretty neat. Like I said, I’d never heard of such a
thing. What you reading?”

I turned the book face up. “Th

ere’s even a story, with real words.

ey keep the stronger stuﬀ on the racks in the back corner.”

“Skin mags, you mean?”
“And one-handed ﬁ ction. Helps pay the rent.”
“Never even borrowed my dad’s stack of Playboys. Little Brian

David was a good Catholic kid all the way.”

I returned the whodunit to the shelf. “Hope we can change that.

Coﬀ ee time?”

He followed me to the counter. “Just can’t get over this place.

Hunks on sofas reading actual books. Lights turned up. Everybody
wearing pants and a shirt.”

“You were expecting video booths and an orgy room? Th

at’s so

’Seventies.”

“And sticky ﬂ oors. Yeah, I’ve read about dirty bookstores. Pre-

AIDS, huh?”

“It still exists. Th

ere’s a gay bathhouse over by Tech. Couple of sex

clubs on the west side. Th

ey’re HIV City, so we hear. Th

e owners buy

ads and pay their bills with cash.”

Brian settled down on a barstool, put his hands on the counter

and glanced up. A thin, balding, forty-something man wearing leath-
ers and prominent tit rings under a skin-tight muscle shirt smiled
back. “Organic Blue Mountain’s the coﬀ ee of the day, gentlemen,”
he said. “We have fresh apricot pound cake as well as our usual Jail
House cookies, Michael Jackson white-chocolate cheesecake and or-
ganic oat-bran lemon bars. What may I get for you?”

221

Hot off the Presses

Brian looked at the man, then at me, his mouth open in what I as-

sumed to be wonder but might have been shock.

“Blue Mountain’s got no kick,” I said, ﬁ lling the dead air. “You got

something darker, or maybe espresso?”

“Have you tried our Christopher Isherwood Berlin blend? It’ll put

hair on a Ken-doll’s chest.”

“Do it,” I said. I turned to Brian. “Pound cake?”
“Sure, whatever you say. Th

e Jamaican sounds ﬁ ne to me, though.

With low-fat milk, you have that?”

“No problem,” the counter man said, turning away. As he reached

for the coﬀ ee grinder, the ring of keys suspended from his belt clanked
comfortingly. “You want those pound cakes heated or what?” he add-
ed.

At the magazine racks nearby, two stocky, bearded men pawed

through the latest edition of Dads n Lads. Th

e cover illustration fea-

tured hairless teens wearing cut-oﬀ undershirts and nothing else. “Is
that stuﬀ legal?” Brian whispered after a quick glance. “Young boys?”

“As long as they’re eighteen.”
“Th

ose punks couldn’t be.”

“Remember the Kodak machine? Th

e technician said he could

make us look like anything we wanted, including younger.”

“I’ve still got that picture,” Brian said.
“Me, too. And wouldn’t change a thing.”
Our eyes connected. Brian didn’t blink, just held the gaze, grin-

ning. Finally, he slapped his belly. “Me, neither. Except I could lose
ﬁ ve pounds down here.”

“Not from where I’m sitting.”
Th

e counter clerk rescued us from descending into goo-goo, da-

da talk by delivering the coﬀ ee and slices of cake. “Gentlemen? Any-
thing else?”

We shook our heads. I put a 20 on the counter. Th

e counter man

picked it up and went away.

Brian dumped a packet of sweetener into his coﬀ ee, added milk,

stirred and sipped. “So what’s on your mind besides trading compli-
ments? Not that I get that many.”

“My owners. Th

ey’re still ﬁ ghting Mayor Ramble over AIDS-edu-

cation money. He doesn’t want to request federal grants—at least part-

Elliott Mackle

222

ly because his supporters in the Black churches are homophobes with
their heads in the sand. Th

e McClellands and some of the old-guard

plan to outﬂ ank him and link up with the Fulton County commission
to get the Georgia Legislature to amend the distribution law.”

Brian started on his cake. “So far, so good. Th

e federal grants are

worthwhile, right?”

“Right. Except the McClellands have ordered me to play up their

plans and diss anything the mayor proposes.”

“Sure. Make him the bad guy. Give him horns and a devil’s tail.

Sounds like standard editorial give and take.”

“But not only in editorials. Th

ey‘ve basically told me to ignore

what Ramble does. To demonize him without properly explaining
him.”

“To abandon your fourth-estate evenhandedness?”
I sipped my coﬀ ee. “To follow orders rather than edit the paper for

the good of the community.”

Brian turned on his stool, faced me square and tapped my arm

with his hands. Our knees didn’t quite ﬁ t the space. It felt good. “Does
the community own the paper?”

“Well, no, not technically but—”
“You can threaten to quit. Say it’s a matter of principle. Lay down

the law to them.”

“I know. You think that’s what I should do?”
He tapped my arm again, nodded some kind of encouragement

and turned back to his pound cake. “You can tell them to back oﬀ or
else you’ll have to think about leaving.”

“Same thing but gentler.”
“So maybe you don’t quite need to go that far, not yet. What’s

likely to make your owners back oﬀ ?”

“Dunno. Hard to say. My layout man says they’ve caught a prema-

ture case of the Graham-Hearst-Cox-Knight-Ridder disease.”

“Brian grinned. “And so they socked you with the Mohammed Ali

paradox.”

“Th

e what?”

“Listen. How do you think all these Vietnam-era editors feel about

playing up Mohammed (‘Conscientious Objector’) Ali? Most of ’em
would just as soon chop him up and feed him to Gloria Steinem. But

223

Hot off the Presses

they’ve got their orders. Because a lot of Yuppie readers think Ali’s
cute—especially now he’s gone all gaga and shaky-ﬁ ngers. Th

e Ali

Bear sells papers. Th

e publishers know that.”

“Th

at’s celebrity ﬂ uﬀ , sports-page crap, you’ll pardon the expres-

sion.”

“Huh? Rawson Ramble’s at least a local celebrity. You can tar and

feather him with jokes and jibes. And/or you can tell the truth, all the
dirt you can dig up on him. Everything that’s unﬁ t to print.”

“Well, I’m trying to run something better than a scandal sheet or

bar rag.”

“As long as you’re telling the truth, and he has nothing on you,

raise hell.”

“Brian, I’ve got to be fair—or it doesn’t mean anything. He does

have blood on his hands. Only I can’t prove that but—”

“Fair and impartial. Right. Let me tell you a story, Henry. And,

just to put it in perspective, this was back before my divorce. Before I
lost custody of my kid. Here’s the situation. I was assigned to proﬁ le a
hotshot minor-leaguer coming up through the Yankees organization.
We met at some swanky four-star resort near Sarasota, did the initial
interview on the golf course, played cards with some rich guys for a
dollar a point in the locker room. Later, we got real squiﬀ ed together
in the bar, skipped dinner, took a walk around the lake after dark and
ended up doing some ass-grabbing and mutual willie-wonking under
a palm tree.”

“Wow, the beneﬁ ts of being a big time sports writer. Sweet.”
“Quiet. Th

at’s as far as it went. We quit while we still had most of

our clothes on. Treated it as a joke. I ﬁ led the piece with my editor.
Th

at was that. For a while.”

“And, and? Now he’s a closeted major leaguer?”
“He wishes. No, he got spotted two years later cashing a stack

of 100 tickets at the Fair Grounds race track. Sports Illustrated got
tipped. Ball players are not allowed to bet on anything. I told my edi-
tor about the dollar-a-point poker game in Florida. He told me to
draft a brief on it and run it by the Yankee organization.”

“And you didn’t want to?”
“I didn’t have a choice. So, within an hour of making the call,

the Yankees owner was on the phone to my publisher, applying the

Elliott Mackle

224

screws. Said I’d made a pass at his player, said the player punched
me out. Said because this jock had refused me, I had it in for him.
Said I was totally unprofessional, prejudiced, a pervert and not to be
trusted.”

Brian was looking at his empty coﬀ ee cup. He kept his voice low.

“I had to explain to my editor what had happened, that it had been a
mutual thing, two drunk jocks pulling each others’ peters, like in the
showers only outdoors.”

“But that’s not all it was?”
“Not for me. For me, it was a revelation, though it took a while to

ﬁ gure out why the whole situation frustrated me so damned much at
the same time.”

“You’re still working for the magazine.”
“Yeah, sure. But I’m divorced. And talking to you, my friend. My

brief ran as part of a larger piece on gambling in professional sports.”

“And your playmate’s still playing ball?”
“No, I think he’s selling cars back in Wisconsin. I’ve kind of lost

track.”

“You did what you had to do.”
“Like I say: No choice. My long-range goal was to make it as a

sports writer. You can’t go far in this business if somebody has some-
thing on you.”

“I wish you’d brought this up last July. When I—”
He turned and looked at me square. “I was scared to. You’re right.

I should have.”

“It’s okay. Now you know you can trust me.”
A smile played around his mouth and chin. “What are your goals,

editorial and otherwise?”

I shivered. “In this particular case, getting the education grant for

the city. Which is essentially in line with what my owners want. In
general? Editing this paper or the next one that hires me in a moral,
responsible way. And—” I took a breath and smiled back. “Persuading
you to follow me back to my apartment tonight.”

Brian leaned closer and shook his head. When he didn’t say any-

thing, I asked, “Th

at okay? I wasn’t joking.”

“I can’t.”

225

Hot off the Presses

“Okay. But then what about that kiss the other night? Th

e dinner

date?”

He glanced down, rubbed his wristwatch with his other hand.

“Didn’t I mention the dog? I can’t leave him locked inside all night.”

“I’m three blocks away. You don’t have to stay all night.”
He looked trapped, embarrassed. As the older alpha male, he’d

been leading this seduction. Had I made a major mistake? Or was he
genuinely in the dark about how to date another man?

He patted my back, a very manly, athletic kind of pat. “Let’s split

the diﬀ erence, my friend. Why don’t you to come home with me? Will
you do that? We can talk more there. But I don’t want to just talk.” He
paused. “Wednesday’s ﬁ ne, too, but—”

I put my hands up. “We haven’t even discussed safe sex yet.”
“We don’t have to do anything sexual, not if you don’t want to.

I could just lie next to you. But I need to get out of here, it feels too
public, touching you kinda-sorta, holding back like I am. I don’t know
how to do this. Not sober, anyhow.”

I left the change from the twenty on the counter. “You’re doing

great. I mean, yeah. I have to be safe. Th

at’s the way I am. But I already

said I’d like to get out of here, too. With you. Where do you live? Cobb
County you said.”

“Cobb indeed. Oﬀ Austell Road. We go up I-75.”
“Cobb. Home of the homophobes?”
“Not in my backyard,” Brian answered. “Kind of the reverse. And

getting better all the time. You ready?”

CHAPTER 20

OK CAFÉ

rian’s place felt like real country—a ranch house with three bed-
rooms, oﬃ

ce, living room, kitchen and back deck facing a pine

forest, on a couple of wooded acres. “I wanted the extra room for

when my son’s allowed to visit,” he explained. “And for the dog.”

e dog, an elderly but peppy schnauzer named Dan Gable (“after

the wrestler I used to idolize”), barked furiously when I entered the
house. Th

en, at a signal from Brian, he rushed down the steps and out

into the woods, eager to do his business.

“Tell me about your kid,” I said, removing my windbreaker and

handing it to Brian. He hung it in a closet, asked if I wanted some-
thing to drink and, when I said no, gathered me into his big arms and
just held me.

“He doesn’t get to visit a lot,” Brian ﬁ nally said. “My ex-wife is a

bitter, bitter woman. I don’t care to ﬁ ght her through Mick. So far,
she’s doing a ﬁ rst-rate job of turning him against me. My divorce law-
yer’s even more frustrated than I am.”

“Sounds shitty. He’s how old?”
“Twelve. Kind of a tender age to have your daddy turn queer.”
“Your ex told him? Or you?”
“His mother’s a ball-buster, like I said. She did indeed—in the

worst possible way, like, warning him I’d put my hands on him or
something.”

Elliott Mackle

228

“Th

at’s nasty. But hey, you can put your big hands on me when-

ever you want. I’m over eighteen.”

He stepped back, then moved in close again. “And vice-versa,

sport.”

I reached down. “Th

at thing pushing against my leg is acting pret-

ty frisky. Or is that a mobile phone in your briefs.”

He grinned and moved closer. “I wear boxers. But I do believe

there’s a person-to-person call for you down there somewhere.”

“Go ahead, operator,” I said as I unbuckled his belt and undid the

trouser buttons. His cock rose against my hand as I ﬁ ddled with the
zipper. “I’ll accept all charges.”

When Brian’s zipper came down, so did his pants. He had round,

hard wrestler’s hips and thighs. Kneeling in front of him, I slipped one
hand inside the ﬂ y of his blue broadcloth shorts and walked the other
hand up his leg and into the opening. He shifted from foot to foot
when I gently stroked his fuzzed ball sack.

He held my head with both hands, steadying himself, trying not to

stumble inside the puddle of pants, leather belt, buckle, wallet, keys
and small change.

Brian’s hard, pink-white, pleasingly cylindrical cock has a wide,

ﬂ at head. Th

e tip was already wet. When I leaned in to comb the sur-

rounding mass of brown curls and kiss the tender ridge just below
and behind the glans, he began to shudder so violently I thought he
might fall.

I stopped. He groaned. “Can we get on the bed?” he said. “I want

to see you. And I gotta get these goddamn pants oﬀ before I rip ’em.”

I stroked his balls again.
“Careful,” he said. “Let’s not be in any rush. Your three minutes

are not up.”

irty minutes later—though it seemed like ﬁ ve or ten—I’d be-

come the man in a rush. Being with Brian, a man I not only admired
but found sexy, had me frantic. I was desperate to come and deter-
mined to hold oﬀ in about equal measure.

“I’ve always wanted to wrestle with a real wrestler,” I’d said once

we got naked. “Just don’t hurt me, you great big sexy editor-bear.”

We’d knelt on the king-size bed, facing each other, already out

of breath from kissing and sparring with our ﬁ ngertips. His nipples

229

Hot off the Presses

were as erect as his horizontal cock. His wide, moderately furred
chest, outsize arms and bull neck seemed oﬀ balance compared to
his strong but compact legs, bubble butt and modestly proportioned
genitalia. Once naked, he moved lightly and gently, like a dancer or
a nurse. Yet when he’d pulled my shirt and pants oﬀ , discarded my
shoes and socks, pushed me backwards and began kissing my stom-
ach and cotton-covered crotch, I’d felt bested, happily powerless, not
overwhelmed but honored, joined in a match race with no losers.

“I wouldn’t hurt you, Henry,” he said. “But I’d like to take you down

for the count. Th

at okay?”

“If you’re man enough. I can be pretty slippery, though.”
He reached inside my briefs and ﬁ ngered the end of my cock.

“Damned slippery already.”

“You, too, champ.” I giggled at the sensation of his hand on me,

drew a quick breath and closed my eyes. In a ﬂ ash, he was on me,
delicately encircling my waist with his tattooed arm, gently grabbing
my ass with the other hand, spreading me face down on the bed, then
moving in to pin me with his knees and lower body.

“Take-down, two points.”
I tried to shake him oﬀ . He lowered his hips.
“You give, young man? You give? One, two, three—”
“Unfair tactics. Playing with my dick to get me oﬀ guard. Unfair.”
Brian ground his excited pole up and down the ridge of my ass.

“Give it up, chickie. You know you want to.”

“Not that way. Safe sex, remember? We’re just playing.”
“Right. But, shit, man, I want to love you every way I know.”
“Okay, okay. Round two. Could we just wrestle? Fool around? Get

a little more sweaty.”

He let me up, pulled oﬀ my shorts, sniﬀ ed them and threw them

away. I rolled underneath him, he slipped oﬀ to one side and we held
each other for a minute, face to face, and began wrestling again.

He allowed me to turn him on his back, hold his arms down with

my hands and explore his body with my mouth and tongue. By the
time I got to his crotch he was panting. When I kissed his balls again,
he began humping the air.

“Suck me,” he said. “You could do that for me. Or let’s switch—and

we can, you know, try a sixty-nine.”

Elliott Mackle

230

I took both his balls in my mouth and pumped his shaft with my

hands. “You’re killing me,” he cried.

“Sucking oﬀ isn’t safe,” I answered. “Body ﬂ uids. You got some dry

rubbers anyplace?”

“No, but I’m clean,” he gasped. “Clean.”
“Me, too. Gonna keep it that way.” Straddling him, I gathered our

cocks together and began slowly pumping. “I like you too much—this
feels too good—to take any risks.”

He looked desperate. His mouth hung open. His eyes cut into

mine again, hurting, almost begging me to agree.

“I can’t come this way,” he ﬁ nally said. “Turn over. Let me get on

top again.”

We switched places. He covered me, inserting his cock between

my legs, bumping the back of my scrotum, riding me until I was ready
to shoot oﬀ and he was gasping big breaths and squeezing me in frus-
tration.

Finally he rolled oﬀ , whispered, “Shit, I can’t,” and threw his head

back on the pillow.

I climbed back on top of him, paired our wet cocks and began

shooting. “Come with me, Brian,” I pleaded. My ﬁ rst shot hit his chin
and cheek. He looked surprised, as if a ﬂ y had landed. He was just
about to slap it away when the second and third rounds splashed
down on his neck and chest.

I grabbed the head of my cock, gathered the next two shots in my

palm and began roughly massaging his shaft. He helped as best he
could, humping in rhythm with my strokes, clenching his butt, calling
out to me, saying, “Yeah, almost home, doing great.”

But I couldn’t get him there. Finally, he pushed me away, spat in

his hand, grabbed himself and muttered, “Let me do this.”

I tried to help. But when I stroked his balls and thighs, squeezed

his nipples and kissed his legs, he shook his head in frustration. When
I tried to get behind his nuts and massage his prostate from the in-
side, he pushed my hand away. “Stay outta there,” he muttered, his
voice carrying an angry edge. “Just hold me.”

So I moved up, slipped an arm behind his head and kissed his

ears, cheeks and mouth while he struggled to get himself oﬀ .

231

Hot off the Presses

He didn’t shoot much. Two short shots landed on his belly, two

more drooled down his dick. When his breath began to slow I reached
down to touch him again and this time he let me. “Easy,” he said, as
I mixed our semen together on his cock and belly. “Ticklish down
there,” he whispered, turning toward me, throwing his free arm over
mine. “You really like handling that stuﬀ ?”

I kissed his forehead and mouth. He tasted salty and beefy. “Sure

do. And you’d better watch it. I could get to like handling everything
you’ve got.” I kissed his mouth again. Now he tasted like coﬀ ee and
apricots and cream. “Ain’t this what wrestling’s all about, champ? I’m
sorry I couldn’t do it all for you this time.”

He turned his head away. “I need to get inside to come.”
“Do you mind if I ask, have you done this a lot since your di-

vorce?”

“Not a lot.”
“With men, I mean.”
“Even less. But some.” He took a breath and swallowed hard. “Now

I’m fucking embarrassed. Feel like a kid who doesn’t know where to
put it.” He rubbed his ﬁ st across his mouth. “Feel like I disappointed
you. Didn’t give you what you wanted.”

I straddled him again. “Brian?”
He ﬂ ashed his blues, steady and trusting as ever, though holding

back on the smile.

“Do I look disappointed? Do I look like I want to be someplace

else?”

“I just meant, you’re a young, hot guy. Younger than me.”
“What, ﬁ ve years?”
“Ten. I’m forty-ﬁ ve.”
“And in your prime. Th

e wrestling match was a tie. I think we

ought to sleep on it. Discuss a rematch over breakfast. Work on our
technique as the season progresses.”

“You really want to stay over?”
“Really, really. Th

is is the ﬁ rst time I’ve seen your hairy, gorilla

shoulders. I’m not leaving now.”

He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I really, really want to

take a piss and a shower. Get this gunk oﬀ of me.”

Elliott Mackle

232

I put my arms around him from behind, massaged our tacky

spunk into the fur on his belly and chest, kissing his neck and hair.
“Th

at works. You want to let me soap your back? Maybe you could

soap my front before we sack out?”

Brian tentatively rubbed the sticky spots on his gut. “Can we do

that?” Th

en he indicated a door at the far end of the room. “Lemme

let Dan Gable back in. Shower’s right there. You get the water warmed
up. I’ll be back in a minute.”

e ate breakfast at OK Café, a Buckhead power diner that caters
to people whose names are on buildings.

A big-busted waitress in a nylon uniform led us to a booth,

set down menus, surveyed us with an overly large wink and said, “You
boys look like you been up to no good! And it’s only Saturday morn-
ing! Ha, ha, ha. Coﬀ ee?”

“We’re just getting warmed up,” I answered, trying to stay with the

joke. “Weekend’s not over. Yeah, coﬀ ee, please. Brian?”

He nodded. “With low-fat milk. And a big orange juice.”
“We grow ’em real big here, sir,” she answered, shifting her shoul-

ders and giving her bra-puppies a little exercise. After scratching
something on her order pad, she turned and went away. “Just getting
warmed up,” she repeated. “Ha!”

Brian leaned down, stared at the tabletop for what must have been

thirty seconds and shook his head. “Why’d she say that?”

“What?”
“Why’d she suppose we been ‘up to no good’—together?”
“It’s an act.”
“Huh? Her? Or you—us?”
“Her, this place. Look at the crazy curtains, the artsy-fartsy carved

animals and Marvel Comix ﬂ ag painting up there. OK Café caters
to people who support the High Museum and Ducks Unlimited. It’s
supposed to be kool with a capital K. Th

e waitresses crack jokes. It’s

part of the shtick.”

“Bull.” He rubbed his head, then scratched and leaned over. “Look.

Right here. Do I have some of your, ah, stuﬀ stuck in my hair. No?
Guess I’m just jumpy, imagining things.”

233

Hot off the Presses

e waitress returned with coﬀ ee, milk, ice water and ﬂ atware

rolled in cloth napkins. “Back in a sec, gentlemen.”

I sugared my coﬀ ee. “We spent the night together, sir. I’m cool

with that. Fact is, I’d be proud if everybody within ﬁ ve miles heard
about our little sleepover. But neither one of us has semen on his fore-
head or the word ‘faggot’ tattooed on his face.” I touched my eyebrow
and smiled. “Or do I?”

He swigged coﬀ ee and threw me a crooked grin. “Never realized

how easy I had it.”

I raised an eyebrow.
“Dating women. Being married. If a man’s got a female on his

arm, or is having a weekend breakfast with her, other people—men, I
guess—usually ﬁ gure they’re a couple, or dating or something.”

“You think the customers here are reading you—us—the same

way?”

“Stands to reason.”
“Maybe in Midtown. Out here in Coke Chateau Country they’re

more likely to assume we’re headed to the club to play tennis, and that
the little women are sleeping in or headed to Neiman’s.”

Now it was Brian’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Huh?”
I caught the glint in his eyes. We both laughed. “You asked for it,”

I said. “Acting so innocent.”

“Hey. Gimme an A for eﬀ ort. I didn’t say I wasn’t happy to be

here.”

“But if you knew how to scramble eggs we’d still be at your

place?”

I felt a wingtip oxford prod my ankle. “Ha.”
Th

e waitress arrived to take our order and Brian quickly withdrew

his foot. After she went away, I said, “Guess we both get A’s.”

“How so?”
“We’re trying to communicate.”
“Isn’t that the point? In spending time with somebody?”
“Yeah, sure. But in my limited experience? And what I see a lot

of, editing Outlines? Gay men go to bed, and if they don’t ﬁ nd instant
communication or the world’s greatest fuck, they get bored, they
make an excuse or ﬁ ght, and they split.”

“You’re the one wanted to wrestle.”

Elliott Mackle

234

“I was one of the ones, yeah. But I also want to wrestle with words,

feelings, fantasies, ideals, dreams, nightmares. Wrestle with my friend,
not just a hunky buddy.”

Brian sucked in a breath and exhaled, making a “whoosh” sound.
When he didn’t say anything, I continued. “So tell me again what

I should do about the McClellands and Mayor Ramble. Or did we ﬁ n-
ish wrestling with that?”

Brian gave me a sharp look. “I can’t tell you.”
“Th

ere’s diﬀ erent rules here. ‘Th

e Atlanta Way,’ you know what I’m

talking about. How the top dogs sniﬀ butt, ﬁ ght, decide, kiss, make up
and ﬁ nally all fall into line.”

“Situational and pragmatic. Whatever yields the most raw meat

for the pack.”

“I don’t want to be somebody’s sled dog. Did I tell you they raised

my salary again? It’s almost like I’m making a decent wage. I could get
way too comfortable.”

Brian looked deﬁ nitely uncomfortable. “Got to follow your moral

compass, pal. Nobody can give you one.”

“But what if mine’s oﬀ ? Like Atlanta’s? Wouldn’t it begin to feel

like I ﬁ t right in?”

Brian looked down, shook his head, then smiled and looked up.

e waitress stood over us, a platter in each hand. Once she’d set the

food down, we went to work, silent for a while, but later picking up
the thread.

“Th

e Church says my moral compass is oﬀ by one-eighty degrees,”

Brian said. “Because I left my wife, because I need to be with men
more, because I—you know, what we did last night.” He buttered a
slice of toast. “But now I know who I am. Took me a long while to see
it. To trust my own compass.”

“Who taught you? How’d you get there?”
“I got lonelier and lonelier. Even on the road, with a bunch of

sports writers who are my friends. And home was worse. My ball-
buster wife. I did two retreats out at the Trappist monastery in Cony-
ers. Asked my confessor for advice. He said, Ask God. So I did. And
you know what God said?”

I shook my head.

235

Hot off the Presses

“He said, I don’t have time for your ethical and moral dithering.

He said, Figure it out for yourself, pal, or else follow My rules like
everybody else.”

I put down my fork. “And you decided not to?”
“Huh? Well, no, not exactly.” Brian stopped, his eyes ﬁ xed on mine,

then glanced at his watch. “Forget it. Maybe we can chat about this
some other time. I just remembered, I’m on deadline. Stories will be
coming in, and I’ve got to get back to the house and move them.” He
picked up the check. “You got the coﬀ ee last night. Th

is is mine.”

I felt cut oﬀ , dismissed, like a failing student being shown the door.

“Please don’t do this.”

“What? Told you, I’m on deadline.”
“Don’t treat me like a copy boy.”
“Don’t you understand how I feel—humiliated? About how last

night went? Unable to perform for you?” He was whispering.

“We were together. It was the ﬁ rst time and—”
“Let’s take this slow. You know what I mean?”
My mouth went dry. I shook my head and whispered back. “No.”
“Maybe we aren’t compatible. In the sack.”
Oh, shit, I thought. “Th

at was just round one,” I said. “Th

e match

isn’t over. Not as far as I’m concerned.”

He slid across the seat and stood up. “I’ve also got my kid to con-

sider. Got to think about my responsibility to him.”

“We’re still on for Wednesday, right?”
“Oh, sure. Absolutely. Looking forward to it.”
“Me, too.”
“We’ll talk before Wednesday,” he said. “You ready to go?”
I wasn’t but I lied and said I was.

CHAPTER 21

UPSTAIRS DOWNSTAIRS

ewly rich climbers throw the best parties. Bill Leach’s lavish
“Rainbow of Caring” cocktail-buﬀ et the following Tuesday was
about as good as it gets.

Given the host’s status as an arts patron, Piedmont Driving Club

member and A-list gay socialite, the two-hundred-and-ﬁ fty-dollar-a-
ticket beneﬁ t for St. John’s House sold out quickly. Even Old-Atlanta
couples who’d have drowned their teenage sons before allowing them
to meet Leach unchaperoned were themselves happy to attend.

e yard, front porch and driveway of the benefactor’s Ansley

Park mansion were gorgeously lit by masses of red, blue, yellow, or-
ange and purple votive lights and lanterns. Valet parkers in rainbow
jackets whisked guests’ cars out of sight, presenting each driver with a
claim check attached to a commemorative silver and rainbow-enamel
fob. Leach, swathed in a pale gray Valentino suit, received his guests
in the ﬂ ower-ﬁ lled, Georgia-marble-paved, story-and-a-half foyer.
Beside him stood Ann Kaplan, executive director of the AIDS shelter,
and two of its principal founders, Bishop Benn Brightly of the Episco-
pal Cathedral of St. Phillip, and Alicia Sloan M.D., Director of Infec-
tious Medicine at Grady Hospital.

Ann had sent me a complimentary media ticket enclosed in a

press release announcing the event. Outlines promoted the gala by
including a blurb in the “Wasshappnin” listings in several editions. I’d
slotted a possible follow-up brief, but only if something beyond self-

Elliott Mackle

238

congratulatory bullshit occurred. Since I had a free ride, I put myself
down as the reporter.

Ibo’s partner Gary bought tickets, then had to work late. So Ibo

and I drove over together, direct from the oﬃ

ce, using the extra ticket

to include receptionist Bambi Fawne.

“Girls,” Bambi squealed as he plunged an inch-thick asparagus

spear into a Waterford crystal bowl ﬁ lled with creamy wasabi sauce.
“We have died and gone to the Cheesecake Factory in the sky.” He
nibbled the end of the spear, rolled his eyes suggestively and added,
“Th

is here’s even tastier than my big biker daddy’s precious thing,

blessed be.” He ﬁ nished the spear and selected another. “None of
these is as big, though.”

“I be lookin’ for the stuﬀ ed tuna rolls myself,” Ibo joked back.

“Th

ey always be having ’em at big aﬀ airs like this, just in case there’s

any lesbian ladies be attending.”

Bambi pointed at him with another cream-tipped spear. “Behave,

Uncle Tom. Wrap your lips around this big thing instead.”

Waiters in trim rainbow jackets passed trays of champagne, Char-

donnay and Zinfandel. Bars were set up with stronger stuﬀ . At the far
end of the dining room, a large, sweating man in a white coat carved
beef tenderloin and leg of lamb to order. Warm yeast rolls and fresh
horseradish sauce were oﬀ ered on the side.

Embroidered across the breast of the man’s coat were the words,

“Cody Eager, Executive Chef, Incredible Edibles.”

“Hope you’re planning to write up my lovely food, Henry,” Chef

Cody whispered as he piled extra beef on my plate. “Our holiday busi-
ness is already clear up to here.” He waved the knife over the carving
board. “But we always soooo appreciate any little mention. You might
want to try those brisket balls in the chaﬁ ng dish at the other end of
the table. I stole the recipe from Martha Stewart. And my turnip-
green dumplings are even better than Nathalie Dupree’s. If I do say
so.”

I tried to move toward the dumplings. Th

e caterer caught my arm.

“We have some of my very special peanut-butter fudge saved for later.
I’ve had professional food critics tell me it’s better than Alice B. Tok-
las brownies.”

239

Hot off the Presses

“Save a piece for me, then,” I answered, not thinking this nugget of

information through. Bambi and Ibo were chatting with Ellen Inman
at the other end of the room. Ellen caught my eye and winked.

“But don’t you dare write up my fudge,” Cody Eager drawled as I

moved away. “It has to be our little secret.”

“Not a problem,” I answered, beckoning a waiter with a tray of

champagne. “Mumm’s the word.”

Cody groaned. “Very pun-ny, sir.”
Mayor and Mrs. Ramble arrived a few minutes later, posed for pic-

tures with the hosts, and quickly worked their way through the living
room, library and glassed-in back porch. Before they left, the mayor
told Bill Leach and the crowd, somewhat equivocally, that, “Yes, we
was due at the Governor’s mansion for supper thirty minutes ago. But
I told my staﬀ , I said, Yes, absolutely we must stop oﬀ here, at this his-
toric event and honor some of our most precious citizens. Th

is is our

highest priority. Th

is is the right thing to do. Bless you. Bless you all.”

After applause from the assembled partygoers, the Rambles and

Ellen Inman swept down the front steps and disappeared into a black
Lincoln town car.

I found the McClellands in a large breakfast room fronting the

mansion’s gardens. On a staircase landing somewhere overhead,
a harpist spun sweet strands of Mozart, Chopin and Phillip Glass.
Marguerite and Pope were surrounded by young matrons and their
soft, spaniel-eyed husbands, school friends of Chad’s, people with old
Atlanta names like Hopkins, Grant, Pegram, Montag and Elsas.

“Well, we hope the education package will be ready next week,”

Pope muttered once introductions had been made, small talk ex-
changed and young socialites recognized for giving so generously to
St. John’s House.

“Tracy’s drafting the main story,” I answered. “As you know, I keep

a close watch on her. But she always does a great job.”

Pope stood a little taller. “You don’t think this is too important to

farm out?”

Marguerite shook the ice cubes in her empty glass. “She’s our star

reporter, Poppy. Henry can’t do everything. Th

ese stories take time.”

“Not a word about any of it in the daily,” I said. “Or the Biz Chron,

either. We’re safe so far.”

Elliott Mackle

240

“Damned if I know why they didn’t pick it up,” Pope said.
Marguerite rattled her glass a second time.
“Another Scotch, my dear?”
“Oh, I think so. Yes. If you’d be good enough, my dear.”
While Pope refreshed their drinks, Marguerite pointed out the

evening’s notable angels. Among them: Anita and Gordon Joel (“Can
you believe he owns over four hundred hamburger stands in Geor-
gia and the Carolinas?”), Lucy Claire and Compton Hampton (“Her
mother’s grandfather was Peggy Mitchell’s mother’s ﬁ rst cousin”) and
Melinda and Jess Courts (“My Chad once intimated he’d slept with
both of them. On separate occasions, of course”).

In turn, I identiﬁ ed patrons such as Bruce Jerusalem, the charity-

minded proprietor of a chain of adult-toy-and-video stores; Clairence
Houck, a New Orleans thug who’d made a bundle opening, insuring
and torching a series of bars and sleazy apartment houses, and Mi-
chael West, a WSB-TV producer whose bad habits were rumored to
include crystal meth and rough, underage boys.

Hey, anybody with a checkbook could buy a ticket. Some were

even people I felt comfortable introducing to Mom and Poppy.

Two of them slipped up behind me a minute or two later. I felt

a large, muscular hand squeeze my butt—and heard a deep, “Haaa-
eeey, dude-cub.” Turning, I recognized Terry (“Big Sarge”) Fletcher
and his even taller sidekick Hoke (“Th

e Hook”) Jones.

“Here’s my man,” Big Sarge growled fondly. “Where you been hi-

din’, champ?”

“We gotta get you out to the lake house,” Hoke added. “Loosen ya’

up. Bet ya’ been workin’ twenty-four-seven, ya sexy little rascal.”

From the edge of my eye, I saw Marguerite stiﬀ en. Quick introduc-

tions brought smiles all around. Pope and Marguerite knew the two
gay leaders by reputation. Hoke and Big Sarge, pony-tailed partners
in life and in Jeepers, the hugely successful auto shop that ﬁ nanced
their charity work, had been proﬁ led in our “AIDS Heroes” series.
Th

e boys, longtime buddies of Chad and Chip, probably knew more

about the McClelland family than I did.

Hoke and Big Sarge jumped to sing my praises with no prompting

whatever. Th

e McClellands took up the chorus.

“Paper’s as good as ever.”

241

Hot off the Presses

“We’re so lucky to have Henry.”
“He’s the best.”
“Henry knows, he just knows, what’s brewin’ in the gay-lezzie

swamp out there. Heard a lot a’ comment when you folks nailed that
female weasel who was robbing the Pride committee, it was just phe-
nomenal.”

“Yes, he certainly does the city a great service.”
“His editorials are right on the money, I mean. We gotta keep

ﬁ ghtin’ the goddamn nuts, like them rad-con Coors people, excuse
my language, ma’am. And gotta stay on the disease. Henry’s dead-on
as far as supporting the AIDS war. Can’t say enough there.”

“Couldn’t agree with you more, Mr., ah, Fletcher. Especially about

Coors.”

“Call me Big Sarge, ma’am. Picked it up in Nam. Just stuck to me

like stink on skunk.”

“Well, yes, thank you kindly, Big Sarge. But you do know that the

Coors family is trying to improve their image. Th

ey hired one of Dick

Cheney’s daughters as an emissary to the community.”

“Should’a hired Ben Aﬄ

eck or Kev Spacey. Lezzies don’t drink that

much beer. We met the Cheney girl at a fundraiser in Palm Springs
one time, Mary. She’s about as useless as a hockey puck at the Super
Bowl.”

While we talked, Father Ronnie McCloud, another Outlines hero,

joined the circle. Th

e celibate priest and AIDS activist approached

with a glass of golden wine held high, elevated like a chalice. Th

e bot-

tle was clasped in his other pudgy hand.

Without even saying hello, he leaned over, sniﬀ ed the wine in my

glass, wrinkled his pink nose and orange moustache, then nodded to
the men and kissed Marguerite’s cheek.

“Just as Jesus turned water into wine,” he ﬁ nally said, “our dear

host has attempted to turn cheap Gallo into a tax deduction. Luckily,
having been a guest in this house more than once, I am capable of
ﬁ nding better. Gentlemen? May I suggest that you pour that swill on
a potted palm and join me in a glass of Chateau Lynch-Bages Blanc
1990? It’s an old-growth white Bordeaux that more nearly matches
this joyous occasion—and the price of the ticket.”

Sarge and Hoke downed their glasses and held out the empties.

Elliott Mackle

242

“If it’s that good,” Marguerite piped, “you can tempt me, too, Ron-

nie, dear.”

Father Ronnie turned, summoned a waiter and asked for a supply

of clean tulip glasses.

“I think you’ll all be much happier with this divine nectar,” he ex-

plained, swirling the wine in his glass and sniﬃ

ng the rim. “It’s from

Pauillac, you know, where the grand cru reds come from. Th

ey blend

Sauvignon Blanc, Semillon and Muscadelle for this minor miracle,
but only in the best years.”

“Oh, my,” Marguerite murmured. “It may be too grand cru for

me.”

“Nonsense,” Father Ronnie purred. “And plenty more where this

bottle came from. Bill’s wine-chill box is bigger than the Ritz-Carl-
ton’s cellar. And he never bothers to lock it.”

e waiter arrived with glasses. As Father Ronnie measured out

the wine, he threw the young man a smile that would’ve melted wax.

After the waiter departed, Father Ronnie whispered to Big Sarge,

“Do you s’pose he’s going to be part of the show later on?”

“Worthy specimen,” Big Sarge agreed. “We can only hope.”
Father Ronnie raised his glass. “To St. John, the beloved of Christ.

And to the house where his unfortunate sons and daughters now
dwell.”

“To St. John,” we dutifully answered.
“And to our gracious host,” Father Ronnie intoned. “As generous

as he is judicious in selecting his liquid refreshments.”

An hour later, the McClellands, Hoke Jones, Bambi and most of

the social crowd had said goodbye.

Huddled by the ﬁ replace in the den, Big Sarge, Father Ronnie, Ibo

and I were ﬁ nishing a second bottle of the Bordeaux blanc.

Big Sarge glanced at his wristwatch. “Showtime. You boys ready

to go downstairs?”

Father Ronnie touched the collar of his black turtleneck. “Maybe

just for a moment. Just to see how they’ve decorated Bill’s movie the-
ater. I don’t want to be too sorely tempted.”

Big Sarge nudged the priest’s arm. “Guess you ain’t interested in

whether that foxy waiter’s gonna strip down and show us his assets?”

e priest waved his hand, his plump wrist going mock-limp.

243

Hot off the Presses

Ibo and I exchanged glances. “We don’t know what you’re talking

about,” I said. “It’s probably time for us to head out anyway.”

Big Sarge threw back the last of his wine. “Say again? You don’t

have tickets to the after-after?”

“Guess not.”
Big Sarge put down his glass, gathered his pony tail in his hands,

smoothed it back, shook out his arms and pinched my butt for the
second time that evening. His pinches felt good. I liked his touch.

“Not a problem,” he said. “See, we bought a bunch a’ VIP tickets to

the reception—just to support the house. Bill told us he just wanted
to show a little extra appreciation. So we got extra tickets for the af-
ter-after.”

“Th

ought we were all VIP,” I said. “Anyhow, I’m here on a free tick-

et. And Ibo’s partner bought coach seats.”

Big Sarge began herding us toward an outside staircase half hid-

den behind a curtained door. “Th

e show’s on me, gentlemen. Th

eater’s

downstairs. So’s the workout room, showers and sauna.”

“Oh, my,” Ibo said.
“My guess,” Sarge continued, “is that some a the boys’ll get a real

workout ’fore the night’s over.”

“You are bad,” Father Ronnie cooed, tweaking Big Sarge’s ponytail.

“Simply a shameless enabler. And so much fun to be with.”

A rainbow of red, yellow, blue, purple and orange balloons marked

the entrance to the play area. Doors to the darkened sauna, gym and
snack bar ranged down one side of the hall leading to the theater it-
self. Th

e smaller rooms appeared to be empty.

A thin ﬁ gure in an undershirt, Joe Boxer shorts and a rainbow

necklace collected our tickets and stamped our wrists with invisible
ink. “So you’re free to go in and out all night. Th

ere’s a water bed in

the pool house, of course.”

Perhaps ﬁ fty more men entered the room during the next hour—

men in leather jackets and tailored pants as well as jeans, tank tops
and shorts, most of them late arrivals who’d either skipped or missed
the reception upstairs.

Inside the theater, two buﬀ -and-buzzed young men gyrated to

hip-hop music on a makeshift stage. T-shirts and cut-oﬀ s lay discard-
ed at their feet. Th

e men were down to rainbow boxer briefs, white

Elliott Mackle

244

socks and black leather bow ties. Th

ey were teasing the audience with

winks and thrusting hips.

He puts his hand inside me,
He wants to own my stuﬀ .
I get on when he ﬁ sts me,
N’ tears my ass up rough!

Father Ronnie’s waiter from upstairs, now minus jacket, trousers

and shirt, circulated with a tray of hand-rolled smokes, Hershey kiss-
es and small bowls of yellow, red, orange, purple and blue pills. When
he came our way, all but one of us passed. Father Ronnie selected
a handful of candy kisses, one by one, while engaging the waiter in
what looked to be thoughtful conversation.

As we looked for seats together at the rear of the large room, Bill

Leach greeted us with air kisses and fresh handshakes. His Valentino
jacket, socks and Ferragamo loafers were gone, his shirt unbuttoned
to the waist. “Everybody’s welcome to get as comfortable as they care
to,” he said, his baritone steady but loose. “Get your drinks and heavy
munchies over at the pass-through. My man Sam’s back there, he’ll
take care of you. Show’s just getting started.”

A very fat cowgirl bearing a silver tray approached. She touched

the miniature Stetson hat riding atop her beehive wig and thrust the
tray forward. “How-dee,” she trilled in apparent imitation of Grand
Ole Opry star Minnie Pearl.

“Miss Eager,” Big Sarge said, waving away the proﬀ ered fudge. “Yer

even sexier than the real Dale Evans.”

“Miss Wild Billie Bigcox,” the caterer countered. “And her candy’s

in plain sight, you know?”

Sarge slipped his hand beneath the hem of Chef Cody’s very short

skirt. “Not wearin’ any bloomers, huh? You ﬁ gure some of the boys’ll
be riding your lone prair-ee?”

Cody switched his butt out of reach. “And happy trails to them

that gets so lucky.”

“Wish I’d brought my spy camera,” Ibo whispered in my ear.
“Keep your eyes peeled,” I answered. “Look over there.”

245

Hot off the Presses

On the far side of the room, half a dozen men were gathered in

a tight circle. Ibo and I drifted closer. One older gent’s trousers and
shorts were around his ankles. His thin, leathery legs were bowed
with pleasure. A younger man was on his knees before him, eagerly
sucking.

Some of the other men in the circle were touching themselves

or each other. Most had removed their neckties or unbuttoned their
shirts. But no one else had undone his pants.

e room’s overhead lights had been lowered. Th

e sweating and

naked models on stage writhed under the stagelights. Th

ey resembled

boys wrestling after school.

Big Sarge came up behind me. “You better get you a piece a’ that

fudge, dude-cub. Help you cut loose.”

His breath on my neck and ear felt comforting, tempting, sexy. I

reached back and touched his leg. “You plan to cut loose with me, big
man?”

“Aw, hell, no. You kidding? Here? Not my scene.”
“Me, neither. But—”
Inside the circle, the older man being serviced began to shout.

“No, no. Fuck, Christ, pull ’em hard, yeah, hard, and the tip, right
there, right there—”

e men around him cheered: “Yeah, fuck his mouth.” “Big balls,

big balls.” “Hold him, man, nice, nice.”

Behind us, Father Ronnie whistled, then waved. “I’ll be saying bye-

bye,” he called over the din. “Stay well, stay safe.”

“Man’d need a body condom to get it on safely around here,” Big

Sarge growled, pulling Ibo close with one paw and wrapping the other
around me. “But, somehow, I do love watching these fools get oﬀ .”

“Boss,” Ibo said. “Look there, who just came in.”
Four men—two white, two black—were standing between the

door and the stage, taking in the hip-hop act’s ﬁ nale, complete with
enthusiastic rimming, a ﬁ st-shaped dildo and mutual hand-jobs.

“No fucking way,” I said, breaking free of Sarge and moving out of

the light.

Sarge tried to pull me back. “See somebody you know, dude-

cub?”

“Can’t be. He wouldn’t do it.”

Elliott Mackle

246

“Last place he’d be,” Ibo said. “Unless he’s loaded up on Special K

again.”

One of the white men was short, muscular, thick-necked and

trying to hide behind aviator shades, a windbreaker and a Braves
cap. One of the black men, also small and with a pencil moustache,
smoked wire-rims and an undertaker’s black suit, stood beside him.
Th

eir companions, both at least a foot taller, wore sports jackets and

looked like rookie cops who hoped to move up to detective one day.

“Martin,” Ibo whispered. “And he don’t look so steady.”
“Wade,” I answered. “I was talking about Wade, the little prick.”
“Mr. Billboard? Th

e Centennial Olympic Fuck Up?”

“In the same crowd with Daddy’s little helper, huh? Why’s your

friend Martin not at the Governor’s mansion?”

I moved toward the shadowy far wall, pulling Ibo and Big Sarge in

my wake. Th

e cowgirl caterer approached the newcomers and oﬀ ered

them fudge. Th

ey all took samples, washing them down with bottles

of beer from the pass-through. Father Ronnie’s waiter, now clad in
only his necktie, brought around the smokes, candy and pills. Again,
the foursome indulged.

“Could the big guys be rent-a-cops?” I asked Ibo.
“Th

e muscular brother with the shadow beard, yeah, maybe. I’ve

seen him at functions, in uniform. I believe he got busted a while
back. Th

e other, I don’t know.”

“Could they be working security?”
Ibo shrugged. “Hang loose, boss. I bet we’ll see.”
We found chairs and settled down to watch the pilgrims’ prog-

ress.

“Guys you know but steer clear of?” Sarge asked. “Your exes?”
“Not exactly,” I said.
“Ugh,” Ibo said, sounding hurt and humiliated. “Th

ank God no.”

Two more entertainers had taken the stage. One lay on his back,

naked, legs in the air, arms clasped behind his knees, while the other
tongued his ass. After a few minutes, they reversed positions. Bump-
and-grind music ﬁ lled the room.

He gets his licks
And turns his tricks

247

Hot off the Presses

And ﬂ icks his dicks
On Route Sixty-six.

When someone from the audience hopped on stage to join them,

they welcomed him with drugged smiles. Th

e paid performers quick-

ly stripped the volunteer from the waist down, lowered him to the
ﬂ oor and began sucking, tugging, pulling and licking.

We could see the theater’s front row seats easily. Bill Leach had

settled down to watch the action, cigar in hand. His lean, hairless bel-
ly rose and fell inside his open trousers. With his free hand, our host
touched the bobbing head of a youth kneeling before him, scratching
behind his ears every so often like a master would a hound.

Meanwhile, the circle-suck had gained numbers and turned a lot

dirtier. Half the men had shed most of their party clothes. Several
were sprawled in cushioned theater seats with partners’ faces in their
laps. Th

e hunk I’d assumed to be Wade’s date or babysitter was slowly

fucking one of Marguerite’s young husbands, a blueblood account
exec with IBM. Th

e blueblood had lost his pants but still wore his

Johnson & Murphys.

On stage, the volunteer performer eagerly nuzzled the dirty, ﬁ st-

shaped dildo held by one of the models. Th

e other boy plunged a large

red, white and blue device in and out of the man’s ass. Bill Leach had
risen to his feet and was ﬁ ngering the balls of one of the models.

e man on stage was clearly enjoying the attention. After sev-

eral minutes of moaning and kicking, he rolled over, launched himself
onto his hands and knees and began to shake his head like a mare
ready to be mounted. His partners quickly caught the signal, entering
him front and back, while several other men lined up, pulling at their
clothes.

“You know who the bottom is?” Big Sarge whispered. “Loving

it?”

I looked over. Big Sarge was gently kneading his crotch, clearly

aroused by the spectacle.

“His name’s J.T. Davis. Professor of Architecture at Georgia Tech.

We service his cars.”

“Th

ey’re not using condoms to service him,” I said. “I haven’t seen

a rubber on anybody.”

Elliott Mackle

248

Big Sarge put his hand on my leg. “His lover died three, four years

ago. I don’t think he gives a shit.” I felt a pleasant squeeze. “Yeah,
there’s a bowl of rubbers over by the pass-through. I hadn’t seen any-
body using ’em, either.”

Big Sarge’s hand moved higher. Th

e excited hardness and wetness

in my shorts surprised me. I let him stroke the front of my pants until
it felt way too good. Th

en I slowly pushed his hand aside and spoke

into his ear. “You’re making me real happy, Big Sarge. I want you to
keep going. But I’ve got to keep my head clear.”

He sat back and laughed. “Always on duty, are you, dude-cub?

Like Hoke said upstairs, we got to get you out to the lake house some
weekend, let you oﬀ the leash a little.”

“Weekends are deadline city,” I answered, meanwhile trying to

push my dick down inside my briefs. “But maybe we can work some-
thing out.”

Sarge got busy taming the bulge in his own pants. “Why don’t we

stroll around some. You with us, Mr. Ibo?”

Ibo looked as composed as if he’d been watching a string quar-

tette. He pointed toward a two-backed beast rutting in the darker
shadows to our left. “Either one of you know those dudes? Th

e one on

top looks familiar.”

“Oh, yeah,” Big Sarge replied. “He’s a doctor at Crawford Long

Hospital. Saw him with his lover upstairs. Th

ey’re both involved with

helping residents of the house.”

“Perry Fitzgerald and Dr. Ray Moody,” I said. “I’ve seen their

names.”

“Th

at don’t be Mr. Fitzgerald gettin’ splinters in his ass,” Ibo ob-

served. “Looks a little bit too ethnic.”

“Th

at there’s a hustler,” Big Sarge said. “Peaches Santiago. Usu-

ally hangs out at Bulldogs bar on Peachtree Street. You boys seen
enough?”

“Not quite,” I said, moving closer to Ibo. “Do you see Wade and

Martin?”

Ibo looked around the room. Near the pass-through, the white

rent-a-cop, naked except for socks and boots, his pale butt reﬂ ect-
ing light as he humped Father Ronnie’s waiter, was the centerpiece of
what had become an indiscriminate fuck-and-suck session.

249

Hot off the Presses

A fresh crew was on stage. Th

ey were actually dancing.

Ibo shook his head. “Could be they split.”
“Maybe we ought to look around.”
“Go play hide and seek?” Big Sarge asked.
“Pin the rubber on the donkey would be better,” I answered.
Locating our bad boys took two minutes. Seeking privacy, Wade,

Martin and a tall, black chauﬀ eur named Resky Peebles had retired to
the shadowy workout room. Martin was sprawled on an exercise pad,
passed out, eyes closed. Except for his shirt and socks, he was naked.

Peebles, topping Wade, barely looked up when Big Sarge, Ibo and

I ﬂ ipped on an accent light and entered the room. Wade still wore the
shades and ball cap. Th

e heels of his high tops appeared glued to his

partner’s ass. Th

e room smelled like shit and poppers and alcohol.

Ibo stepped forward and bent over Martin. “Not again, baby,” he

crooned. “Baby, you promised.”

“Bill Leach’s rainbow of happy pills?” I was disgusted and fascinat-

ed. I’d been in gay bath houses and private orgies but never imagined
a scene like this.

“Special K and vodka, that’s his usual. But when he’s in a mood,

he’ll try about anything.”

“Special K…is?”
“Ketamine, Kathy. Makes you horny but unable to perform.”
Peebles pulled out of Wade with an angry cough and a squish-

pop. His hard, unsheathed cock waved from side to side as he lurched
to his feet. “What the fuck? What the fuck you doin?’”

Big Sarge had ﬁ fty pounds on him, not to mention two years com-

bat experience. “Simmer down, son. We just was worried about these
boys you got with you.”

“What the fuck, Chuck?”
Ibo patted Martin’s face, gently slapped his cheeks, leaned down

and put an ear to his chest. “He’s out. But breathing pretty good.” Glanc-
ing up at Peebles, he demanded, “You plugged him, too, right?”

“He wanted my shit, bro. You know what I’m saying?”
Wade, shaky but alert, managed to get himself approximately

vertical. He glanced around, wiped his mouth with a ﬁ st and started
laughing. I put out a hand to steady him. He backed away. When he

Elliott Mackle

250

bumped into an exercise machine, he stopped and lowered his head.
“I know you. You’re—”

Look at me, Wade, I wanted to say. Just look at me. But I couldn’t

pull it oﬀ again—couldn’t say the words. I felt sad, not mean; dis-
gusted, not vengeful.

“Can we take you boys on home?” I said instead, trying to keep my

voice upbeat and unthreatening. “Wouldn’t that be better, Wade?”

“Get away,” he answered. “You don’t have enough dick to interest

me. Never did, never did.”

“Wade? Th

is is Henry. You’re not thinking right, you must be

doped up a little. Must’ve been an accident. Why don’t you let us help
you, okay?”

“Get away,” Wade said again, mumbling and laughing while bend-

ing at the waist to collect his clothes. “Never did tell you how much I
hated your naked little dickhead.”

e chauﬀ eur and Big Sarge were not communicating well either.

It sounded as if Big Sarge might need to demonstrate the superiority
of weight and determination over cock and bad attitude. “Hands at
your sides, now,” Sarge said. “Warned you for the last time. Don’t get
that shit on my good clothes.”

Martin was sitting upright. “Where are your glasses, honey?” Ibo

whispered. “Can you tell me where you put them?”

Wade snatched up his pants and sprinted out the door. I didn’t go

after him. Ibo needed help getting Martin dressed. Big Sarge had the
naked chauﬀ eur face down on the exercise mat. “Bad pony,” Big Sarge
snarled, mildly panting. “Have to ride you a bit. Giddyap.”

Once outside and into my car, the night air revived Martin consid-

erably. “A momentary aberration,” he giggled. “Just a little unintended
detour, hee, hee, on the down-low. Must be the result of a combina-
tion of fatigue and cocktails. No harm done.”

Ibo hugged him. “What are you on? Do you even know what kind

of pills was in that bowl, honey?”

Martin hiccupped. “What can I say, bro? You know what I’m say-

ing?”

When we came to a stoplight on Peachtree, I checked the back-

seat through the rear-view mirror. Th

e two friends were huddled to-

gether. “Not that it’s any of my business. But you ought to think about

251

Hot off the Presses

an AIDS test. Not to mention the rest of the VD series. Th

at stud on

top of you could be carrying anything.”

“Shut your faggot mouth,” Martin answered. “Shut up and drive.

It’s white bunny rabbits like you catch the AIDS disease.”

“No, honey,” Ibo said. “He’s—”
“Fuck him,” Martin replied. “My black tail’s clean as Ivory Snow.

What can I say? You know what I’m saying?”

CHAPTER 22

BENEFITS

courier delivered a press release to the Outlines oﬃ

ce late Wednes-

day morning. Quoting Ann Kaplan, the release stated that pro-
ceeds from the “Rainbow of Caring” gala would total more than

ﬁ fty thousand dollars. Since host William W. Leach had covered all
expenses, Kaplan reported, the entire record-breaking amount would
beneﬁ t the St. John’s House building fund.

Ibo and Tracy hadn’t arrived. I asked Bambi to pull a copy of

Leach’s AIDS-Hero proﬁ le. Th

e coverage we’d given him—arts lover,

philanthropist, solid citizen, volunteer, father—didn’t exactly square
with his behavior the previous night. Has he changed? I wondered. Or
were we ﬂ ummoxed?

When I called Big Sarge’s oﬃ

ce to ask how he’d acquired his VIP

tickets, the receptionist told me Sarge and Hoke had taken the morn-
ing oﬀ . I left a message.

Next, I called Wade. Th

e machine picked up. Th

e mailbox was full

and not taking messages.

I drove up Peachtree Road and turned left on Biscayne Drive.

Wade’s black Ford pickup was parked against a sweet gum tree in
front of the building. Slivers of glass from the left headlamp and sig-
nal light were scattered across the nearby pavement. Th

e fender and

hood were bashed in, though not recently.

Wade’s door was cracked open. Inside, the voice of an ESPN

commentator brayed and pleaded. Th

e total number of rapes, felony

Elliott Mackle

254

assaults and car-jackings allegedly committed by members of the Mi-
ami Hurricanes football team, he reported, were unmatched in the
history of amateur athletics.

I knocked and entered. Wade looked up, cocked his head and

stared at my feet for perhaps thirty seconds. He clicked the mute but-
ton on the remote and motioned me forward. He was propped up
on the couch, wrapped in a Piedmont Hospital bathrobe, a bowl of
granola and yogurt on his lap.

“Th

at was you, wasn’t it?” He spooned up a mouthful of cereal,

chewed, swallowed and added, “Last night?”

“Yeah. And I wish I hadn’t seen it, you—what I saw.”
“Wiped? Or with the big dude?”
“Both. Seeing you being unsafe, a bottom. He didn’t have a con-

dom on.”

“What’s it matter? What do you want from me?”
Wade’s left foot and leg kicked up and down, piston-like, in some

kind of nervous tic. His calf looked thin, his toenails dry and hard,
the bottoms of his feet scaly white. I settled into a chair nearby so I
could check his face. When I leaned forward, my gut clenched tight.
His once-bright teeth had the dull, opaque sheen associated with HIV
sickness. Wade’s untrimmed, formerly luxuriant hair fell limp and
thin around his ears.

Wade ﬁ nished the cereal and set the bowl on the ﬂ oor. “I’ve known

Resky forever. He drives part-time for Mr. Leach. He’s healthy. Told
me so.”

“It’s you I’m worried about.”
“Quit staring at me, will you? Whatta you want to see, this?”
Springing to his feet, Wade snatched open the stained bathrobe,

tossed it away and pulled a series of quick breaths. Momentarily his
old self, he bounded from the cushions onto the ﬂ oor, cart wheeled
across the small room, whirled and bounced oﬀ the far wall, ﬂ ipped
and landed back in front of me, his naked crotch six inches from my
nose.

“Or how’s this? No lesions, okay? Why are you following me

around, man? You’re the one helped fuck me up. You and your Jew-
Polack friends, you fucked me up world class. You and your ACOG

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Hot off the Presses

boyfriend from college. And that fag traitor, your fuck-buddy Skip
that you threw in my face? How’s he doing?”

He punched his hips forward and then hurled himself toward the

couch. “Why won’t you leave me alone, Henry? How else can I say
it?”

“Why’d you tell so many lies, Wade? We could have been honest

with each other.”

“Just get out of here.”
“Okay, so where’d you get the tickets for the party last night? For-

get Skip and the Games.”

“What? You kidding me?”
“Th

e VIP tickets. Where’d they come from? Did you buy them or

did somebody give them to you?”

“It’s none of your…business.” Wade seemed out of breath. His

head ﬂ opped back on the couch. “Where do I get anything? Th

ey…

got delivered.”

“But from?”
“You’re the reporter, do your job. Look on the table by the door.

Should be an envelope from St. John’s House there somewhere.”

ere was, plus two unused tickets and a photocopied note signed

by Bill Leach and Chef Cody Eager.

“Mr. Leach arranged for Resky to drive me and Marty Ramble and

a prof from Tech and his roommate. Th

e roommate begged oﬀ , last

moment. But Resky’s dealer had scored some real nice party favors—
Gina, he called it. And Marty had a supply of Special K. We partied a
little on the way over.”

e tickets looked just like the one sent to me. Th

e only diﬀ er-

ences were the ﬁ ve-hundred-dollar price, a prominent “VIP” stamp
and the slip of paper explaining that VIP festivities would follow the
reception and be held on the lower level. VIP guests were welcome to
attend either or both events but downstairs admission was restricted
to adult males.

“So you didn’t buy the tickets?” I ﬁ nally said.
“Man,” Wade said, sounding defeated, “I can’t pay my condo as-

sessment. I’m behind on my truck insurance and credit cards.”

“What about Celeste?”

Elliott Mackle

256

“She moved out. I’m paying interest on the plastic with a part-

time gig at a Tile-It-Yourself outlet. In Duluth, right? My health in-
surance has another sixteen months to run—as long as I keep up the
COBRA payments.”

“Jesus, Wade. Aren’t there events and meets that’ll pay appear-

ance fees?”

“Shit.”
“What about USA Gymnastics and USOC?”
Wade scratched his elbow. Th

e skin on his arms looked loose and

dry. “Man, I don’t have the energy, not for a world-class routine. I al-
most broke a wrist on the rings a month ago. And my coach at Tech,
he took a job in Arkansas.”

“Look, Wade,” I said. “I’m sorry about this shit you’re going

through. What can I do?”

“For me? You can go set oﬀ a bomb in the steam room at that fag-

goty club of yours. So you don’t fuck up somebody else’s life.”

I’m a reporter, I thought. I can take this. I can listen, ask questions

and report the answers. It’s my job. Th

is man and I connected—yeah,

brieﬂ y, but the bond got as hot as I could ever imagine. He’s ﬁ nished
now and he doesn’t know truth from turpentine. He’s on an upswing
this morning. Be decent. Treat him with respect. But nail your facts,
Mr. Journalist. Stay on task and nail your facts.

“You came on to me, Wade. And I liked it, I liked it a lot. We both

liked it. Until, well, when it got unsafe.”

“You got jealous of me and Celeste, didn’t you, faggot? Fag Henry,

edits the faggot paper, worse than Bob Fucking Faggot Costas. Spit
my cream out, shit! Couldn’t make anybody happy with that ugly
skinned dick you got.”

And here comes the downswing. Is this a drug hangover? Some kind

of dementia? Or was I so lonely and dick crazy last year I didn’t lis-
ten?

“Come on, Wade, you liked it—me—at the time. I thought we

could, well, I hoped we could have spent more time together.”

“I don’t think so, man. Actually, you’re the one who never told

the truth. Actually, you were, like, just one more star fucker—except
you wanted to write me up instead of let me fuck you. Th

ey warned

me against your kind. And I made an exception.” He reached for the

257

Hot off the Presses

bathrobe and slipped an arm inside it. “My mistake. Look what hap-
pened. Cost me gold.”

I slipped the tickets and note back into the envelope. “Do you

want these?”

“Take the damned things and go.”
“How long have you known?” I whispered. “Th

at you’re posi-

tive?”

He pulled the robe on and tied it at the waist. “Get your butt out

of my place or I’m calling the police. I’m ﬁ ne. Just totally ﬁ ne. Now
move.”

CHAPTER 23

SHAME

nn Kaplan turned her head away after reading the photocopied
note from Bill Leach. “He told me he was asking a few close
friends to increase their donations. Th

ere was never any discus-

sion of a separate party.”

We were seated in her oﬃ

ce at St. John’s House. Th

e framed “AIDS

Hero” proﬁ le from Outlines hung on the wall along with citations
from AID Atlanta, the Atlanta Medical Association and the Centers
for Disease Control.

“I take it you were there,” she continued, her voice ﬂ at and low.

“And you wouldn’t be here now unless something happened.” She
handed back the note. “Drugs, I suppose? Crystal meth? GBH? De-
signer grass? I’ve seen it all, at one time or another. Th

e residents…”

Her voice trailed oﬀ .

“One of the waiters passed around a tray of pills and smokes.

I don’t know what the stuﬀ was. Some guests got high on the way
over.”

Ann smiled. “Well, that’s certainly a relief.”
“Not exactly. Th

ey got there ready to party. And there was a sex

show. Do you know what ﬁ sting is?”

“Spare me not, Henry. Th

at was the show?”

“One of the acts. Unprotected oral and anal intercourse on stage

as well as in general among the drunk, stoned guests. Rimming.”

Elliott Mackle

260

Ann stood up. She was a slim, handsome woman with thick gray

hair cut short and no makeup except lipstick. “Obviously St. John’s
House had nothing to do with the sort of behavior you describe. We
had no knowledge of it, even unoﬃ

cially. And I have to ask, though

I’m distressed to hear about men acting so foolishly, why you’re tell-
ing me all this. You’re not going to write about it.”

I pulled the press release out of my pocket. “Some of the guests

were at both parties.”

When Ann shook her head, I named the married IBM exec, the

Tech professor, Big Sarge Fletcher, Father McCloud and Ibo Williams.
“And our genial host, of course, with his pants down.”

Ann made a face.
“Big Sarge, Father Ronnie, Ibo and I did not indulge,” I added. “But

we all witnessed enough brain-dead stupidity to sink the Titanic ﬁ ve
times over.”

Ann began to pace. “Witnessed, you say? You wouldn’t print any

of these names. Th

at would be—don’t they call it ‘outing’? After all,

this was a private aﬀ air.”

“Anybody could buy a ticket. But that’s not the point—or the only

point. Th

e Mayor’s son was there, stoned and being sexually unsafe

with another man hardly an hour after his daddy showered blessings
upon all. What a contrast—considering that the Reverend Daddy is
Atlanta’s Number One Enemy of AIDS education.”

“Well, the boy’s not a—”
“He’s not a boy. He’s an adult and he denies being homosexual.

But he’s in the habit of doing drugs and having sex with men. It’s the
same head-in-the-sand behavior as the mayor and his church-mouse
supporters.”

“Now you’re being political.”
“Want more names? What about the respected Dr. Ray Moody of

Crawford Long Hospital? After he made nice upstairs, I’m telling you
he got right down to it—down below.”

“Don’t make nasty jokes, Henry. I don’t have time for that. What

can I do? Tell me that condoms were being used, something.”

“Even the caterer got involved. It was not a pretty sight. Plus my

old friend Wade Tarpley, the big Olympic star? Th

e brother on top

of him was riding bareback. And, by the way, that particular brother

261

Hot off the Presses

works for Leach. He drove Martin and Wade to the party and sup-
plied some of the drugs. Sure, condoms were available. I didn’t see
anybody use one. I could be wrong.”

Ann slipped behind her desk, picked up a ballpoint pen and began

jotting notes on a pad. “You can’t be sure. You couldn’t have seen ev-
erything. It must have been dark.”

“Ann, I’m sorry to upset you. Believe me, we saw enough, me and

Ibo and Big Sarge. Do you still have the checks they wrote? I can tell
you who came downstairs, make you a list of bad boys.”

Ann noted down something else. “We have some—most of them.

at’s how our accountants came up with the ﬁ gures in the release

this morning. But I can’t let you see them, or conﬁ rm names. Th

at’s

private.”

“Fine. Look, I wanted to make sure you weren’t involved. Even so,

it’s going to read like St. John’s House beneﬁ ted from an unsafe-sex
party.”

Ann was holding the pen in her ﬁ st when it snapped in half. She

tried to wipe oﬀ the ink with a Kleenex and the smear got worse.
“Henry! We can’t run the house without Bill Leach’s money. He gave
us over a hundred thousand dollars in one jump. He might ask for it
back. Not even counting the party last night.”

“Sounds like he’s got his priorities crossed.”
“Don’t! You can’t implicate him, much less people like Martin

Ramble and Dr. Moody and your athlete friend.”

Ann was crying now. “What’s to be gained? You’ll shut us down.

row the residents out on the street. Dr. Moody’s a good man, he

treats our residents without charge, free, out of the goodness of his
heart.”

“What a collection of low-down, lying sacks of shit your good

work and this house has attracted,” I answered. “What a mess.”

Jesus, I thought. What an uptight, unforgiving, self-righteous prick

you can be. You sound like Lester Maddox, not Ralph McGill. Cut the
lady some slack.

“Leach is using you,” I said, trying to soften the blows. “Has been

using you. He knows better than this. Marty Ramble’s an addict. I bet
Dr. Moody is, too. It’s not your fault.”

Elliott Mackle

262

Ann’s hands were in her eyes. “I didn’t know, I didn’t know. Oh,

Henry, I didn’t know.”

ree hours later, a courier delivered a revised press release to

the Outlines oﬃ

ce and to other Atlanta news outlets. Quoting Lucy

Grant Long, chairwoman of the St. John’s House board of overseers,
the release stated that the board had unanimously voted to decline all
money raised at the “Rainbow of Caring” beneﬁ t. Checks would be
returned. Th

e host’s expenses would be reimbursed. No explanation

was given.

CHAPTER 24

WHATEVER IT TAKES

rian punched the car-radio’s scan button. We were stopped at a
traﬃ

c light on West Paces Ferry Road. Since leaving Bacchanalia

restaurant that night he’d ﬂ ipped through the am and fm dials

twice. Not ﬁ nding what he wanted, he ﬁ nally hit the oﬀ button and
touched my knee.

“I have a bad habit,” he said. “Th

at I need to tell you about. Some-

times I feel stuck and—I guess the word would be—involved, both at
the same time. So I just walk away. Th

at’s what I did Sunday morning

at the diner. I need to tell you it wasn’t about you. Have to apolo-
gize.”

We were headed back to Brian’s place. Th

e conversation had

stayed light throughout dinner. I wondered if the California wines
we’d drunk had prompted the confession.

I put my hand over his. “No problem. I like that you admit it to

me, though. So I’m going to go ahead and admit something, too.” I
began rubbing the tops of his knuckles. “Talk about involvement and
getting stuck; talk about conﬂ icted feelings—”

e light turned green, Brian squeezed my knee and returned his

hand to the wheel. “Yeah, I kinda thought you were holding some-
thing back. Which is natural. We don’t know each other that well.”

I withdrew my hand. “First I have to confess I’m really glad to

be spending time with you again. Work’s still Journalism 201—same
editorial conﬂ icts, same cast of scoundrels, just more details about

Elliott Mackle

264

unsafe sex, two-faced do-gooders and Atlanta’s mayoral monarch of
mendacity, the Reverend.”

“Mendacity. I love that word. Too bad we can’t use it much in

Sports Illustrated. Mendacious scoundrels and rascally reverends.
Blessed ethics and blasted club owners. Am I being helpful?”

“Last time I brought this up, we almost split.”
“I was mistaken. Told you.”
I put my left hand on the seatback behind him and lightly stroked

his neck.

“Th

at feels good what you’re doing, by the way.”

I massaged the cords of his neck.
“So does that, as long as you don’t mind me wrecking the car.” He

reached down and rearranged the front of his pants. “Why don’t you
tell me about your scoundrels. And yeah, that’s good, harder, yeah.”

I brieﬂ y described the St. John’s House beneﬁ t and the involve-

ment of Rawson and Martin Ramble, Wade Tarpley, Bill Leach, Ann
Kaplan, Ibo Williams, Big Sarge Fletcher, the Crawford Long physi-
cian and the blueblood husband.

“Talk about conﬂ icted feelings,” I explained, summing up. “It’s all

the same story. Th

e McClellands want me to diss the mayor, the mayor

shows up to pronounce blessings on an AIDS beneﬁ t they’re patron-
izing. Th

e beneﬁ t becomes an unsafe sex orgy, the mayor’s drugged-

out son plays bottom for a drug-dealing chauﬀ eur who works for the
host—who happens to be paying for the whole thing with his Coca-
Cola inheritance.”

“Huh. What did Mayor Ramble know about his drugged-up,

plugged-up son and when did he know it?”

I shook my head. “Th

ey live in separate worlds.”

“Okay, even without that, you’ve got a ton of useful dirt, some of it

unﬁ t to print, maybe—except you’ve got witnesses, right? Bam. Take-
down, two points. Write it and hit the ‘send’ button.”

“I’m going to write it. No question. But do I name everybody?

Anybody? Do I out some married guy who maybe arrived horny, ate
a piece of spiked fudge and made a mistake? What about my ex-fuck-
buddy Wade Tarpley? He’s already told the entire world I ruined his
life—and said he hopes I die of AIDS. Would it sound like pay-back

265

Hot off the Presses

time if I include him? And do I have to admit I got horned up watch-
ing Wade get porked—while Big Sarge had his hands all over me?”

“Tell it, Sam. Like in Casablanca. Th

is could be the start of a won-

derful series: ‘Doping Scandal Follows Mayoral Blessing,’ ‘Mendacity
in Midtown,’ ‘Fuck-Buddies on Parade.’”

“Th

anks. You make it sound easy. But if I fuck this up, it could be

‘Mud in Moral Compass.’”

“Easy for me to say, sure. Only now your J-school hypothetical has

a cast of familiar faces. It’s your assignment. Personally, I don’t have
any doubts on your moral compass. Fact is, I think you’ve got me
beat. Anyhow, we’ve got more important matters to—”

“You trust me to get this right?”
“We’ve always got choices to make. I can’t write your story for you,

or tell you who to name or not name. I know I want to be with you
tonight and I intend to make you happier than last time. Even if—”

“You did. I was. Listen, I took this philosophy course in college one

time, had to write a paper contrasting spiritual and physical truth.”

“Heavy. Yeah, keep touching my neck like that.”
“Th

at’s the physical. Anybody could do it for you. My friend Skip

could give you a Tantric erotic massage, and his kind of physical truth
would probably feel better because he’s a trained professional. Wade
Tarpley would let you fuck him bareback, no question, especially if
you gave him dope or promised him ink in Sports Illustrated.”

Brian squeezed the steering wheel hard, then tapped the brake

pedal. We were coming to the intersection at Northside Parkway and
I-75.

“You’re wrong,” he said. “It wouldn’t feel better with somebody

else. I don’t want your buddies to touch me or put out for me.”

“Is that your physical truth or your spiritual?”
He turned toward me, his bright eyes wet but also dancing—seri-

ous but unthreatened. “I like you a lot, Henry. And I guess you like
being with me. So we have more choices to make: how we spend time
together, what we need from each other and what we can or can’t give
to and get from the other guy. How’s that sound?”

“Heavy, like you said.”
“Huh? Maybe because I’m talking spirit and physical combined.”
“Yeah, I know that.”

Elliott Mackle

266

“I can tell you some of the things I need and don’t need right now.

I need to make a life with somebody. I don’t need to own you or any-
body else.”

“Me, too. But I may not know all of what I need, or what I can give,

not right now. Anyhow, you were married, had a kid. Except for the
frat house, I’ve only lived with somebody else once.”

“What happened? None of my business.”
“He died.”
“Oh, Jesus. Of the—?”
“Yes. Five years ago. But I’m negative. Just got tested again, actu-

ally.”

“Good, great. Look, I’m sorry about—”
“What’s your kid going to think if I’m around your place all the

time? What if some other woman came along, one that wasn’t a ball-
buster.”

e driver behind us blew his horn. Brian looked up. Th

e light

was green. “I’ll try to be honest with you, honest all the way. How’s
that?”

“Honest and up front?”
“Physical and spiritual truth. No more women. Women never

again.”

We passed under I-75, headed for Cobb County. “What a story,” I

said. “Can’t wait to write it.”

Brian glanced toward me. “Th

eirs or ours?”

I leaned toward him. “Are you kidding? Both.”

wo hours later—naked, sweaty, still horny and laughing at some
silly, dirty joke—we took a break. Brian rolled oﬀ me and headed
for the toilet. I plumped the pillows, pulled the damp sheet up

over my legs and stretched out. A tentative, muﬄ

ed growl emerged

from a wad of blankets at the foot of the king-size bed.

Dan Gable had quietly burrowed into the pile of bedclothes while

Brian and I were busy. I tried to reassure him, “Here, pooch, cool it,
Dan.” But when I moved toward him, the little dog began to snuﬄ

and dig, either attempting a speedy escape or hunting an atavistic rat
or mole. He didn’t settle down until Brian returned, open bottles of

267

Hot off the Presses

Heineken in one hand, a fresh box of condoms and a tube of lubricant
in the other.

“He usually sleeps on the bed.” Brian tossed the rubbers and lube

onto the sheet and handed me a beer. “Keeps my feet warm. Does he
bother you? I can lock him out. But he might howl.”

“He’s ﬁ ne. I mean, if he doesn’t bite or anything.”
Brian crawled across the bed, put his head on my lap and pulled

up the covers. “He’s neutered, not much ﬁ ght in old Dan Gable these
days.”

I touched Brian’s face and smoothed his eyebrows. “Don’t guess

there was any symbolism in doing that to your old hero?”

Brian rolled his head back and forth gently, putting pressure on

my cock. “You bet, sport. Still, I hated to do it to another male.”

“A real mixed bag, huh?”
Brian laughed, rolled over quickly and nipped at the mound be-

tween my legs. “Arf, arf. You asked about dry rubbers last time. So I
got us some. And grease, just in case.”

“Arf, arf to you, sir. In the AIDS 101 class I took, they showed us

the safest, most pleasurable ways to unroll a condom. One of the
teachers, a young woman, demonstrated the no-hands way to do it.
She took the condom in her mouth, lunged and wrapped that rascal
in about six seconds.”

“On a penis? Where was this class held, anyway?”
“On a cucumber. At the DeKalb Mental Health Center, actually.”
Brian pulled back the cover, knelt beside me and ran his hand up

my thigh, teasing the wiry hairs. ”You know, I was raised Catholic.
Rubbers were the devil’s work.”

He touched my cock. I opened my legs to give him room.
“I’d like to put one of these on you, Henry. And take a taste.”
“You ever tasted latex?”
“I practiced. Just for you. It’s okay.”
“Same here—just okay. And if I put one on you?”
Brian tore open the Trojan’s red and white wrapper. My cock had

already taken notice.

“We’ll do whatever works for both of us,” Brian said, ﬁ tting the

end of the rolled-up rubber to the end of my cock.

Elliott Mackle

268

“But will my ass be safe once you’re wrapped up? You’re not going

to start begging and pleading?”

“No agenda, Henry. Just me and you.”
“I’ve got an agenda, then—a request, okay?” Brian pulled the loose

skin of my cock taut with one hand and started to roll the condom
down the shaft with the other. I leaned back to let him work. “Careful,
okay? Leave some room at the end. Not too much pressure.”

“Beautiful, just like a birthday present. Doesn’t even need a blue

ribbon. So what’s the request?”

“Don’t get yourself oﬀ .”
“Huh?” Brian dropped his hands.
“Let’s keep going until it happens.”
“Until I get blue balls?”
I reached out and put his hand back on my wrapped cock. “As

long as it takes, however it ﬁ nally happens. I can hold oﬀ all night. We
learn that in Body Magic. Th

e pleasure’s the thing, being with you,

giving you pleasure, receiving pleasure from you. I won’t come unless
you do. Two cocks, one soul, one orgasm.”

“Body and spirit, huh? So you can actually do that?” He bent down

and took my cock in his mouth.

After a few seconds of lapping noises, I said, “Jesus, Brian. You’re

a natural. Are you sure you never did this before? Christ, slow down,
slow down. Careful.”

“Yeah, a couple of times, only without the wrapper. Th

ere was a

policeman I saw last year. But this feels a little—”

“It feels real good, actually. You got another one of those?”
“Th

ose what?”

“Dry Trojans. So l can show you.”
He sat back on his heels. “You sure you want to? I thought cock-

sucking wasn’t your—?”

Brian’s cock was standing straight up. I touched the red, wet tip.

When he shuddered, I leaned forward and kissed him hard on the
mouth.

“No agenda, man,” I said before I kissed him again. “However it

happens.”

I leaned back. Brian went down on me again. I started rhythmic

breathing—in through the nose, out with a sound, in, out—

269

Hot off the Presses

He pulled away. “Hold it,” he said, wiping his mouth. “I don’t know.

is is going so fast.”

“Yeah, it is,” I agreed. “Are you feeling stuck—getting over-in-

volved? You want to walk away? Or do you want to stop and talk it
through?”

Brian paused, looked straight at me and shook his head. “Aw hell,

no. Why do you think that? No, I’m just excited as hell. I want you to
put a rubber on me. Do it like they taught you in class, with the cu-
cumber. Can you do that? Yeah? Oh yeah. Like that. Jesus, Henry. Oh
yeah. Jesus, Henry. Yeah, like that.”

Despite this initial enthusiasm, and a couple of what sounded

like near misses, Brian didn’t come. I sucked him the best I could, he
sucked me, we sucked each other simultaneously. Finally, frustrated,
he rolled away and muttered, “Shit, shit, shit. I don’t know what’s the
matter. Th

is ain’t gonna work.”

I spooned up against him and wrapped an arm around his mid-

section. “It’s working. I’m loving this. Being with you. It’s all I need.”

Brian whispered something. I pulled him closer. “Can’t hear you,”

I whispered back.

He turned his head toward me. “I thought being inside you that

way would be enough.”

“Take it easy.”
“Enough to please you and get us both oﬀ . I’m feeling like a fool

again.”

“Stuck?”
“Wish I hadn’t said that.”
“We’ve got all night. I can go in to the oﬃ

ce late tomorrow morn-

ing.”

“Th

at’s not the point.”

I touched his cock. He’d gone soft. Th

e wrinkled latex felt like

plastic wrap on moldy bread.

“But you ﬁ gure if you top me you can get oﬀ —get us both oﬀ ?”
“You said it. But I’ll stick with the bargain. Unless you want to get

oﬀ and go home.”

“Did I ever say I was totally opposed?”
Brian turned toward me and pulled us close together.
“Th

ought you said your rosebud is never-never land.”

Elliott Mackle

270

“I did. But with you, I want to. I’m deﬁ nitely not ready now, though.

We don’t know each other that well, do we?”

“Huh? Well, yes and no.”
I touched his butt. “Hey, big man, I might even top you one day.”
His head was nestled in the crick of my neck. “We practically just

got introduced. I just want to be close to you, close as I can get—inside
you, you inside me. Two men, one body. Does that sound crazy?”

“Not to me. Can we try for one body, one soul? Like my term pa-

per, only physical and spiritual truth. But…still, it’s just got to be safe.
I’ve got to trust the safety-ness of it. Safe sex. Th

at’s my bottom line,

so to speak.”

“I like the way you joke around. Even in bed.”
“It covers the serious. How much are you up on AIDS? I mean,

married guys must think about safe sex a lot diﬀ erently than I do.”

“Yeah, yeah. Rubbers, no body ﬂ uids. Is kissing all that safe? But

I’ll take care of you, Henry. You know I wouldn’t do anything to risk
hurting you.”

“Good. Me, too. I won’t risk me, I mean. We all have to be respon-

sible for our own safety. Adults do. And I don’t know what else you
did with that cop.”

Brian threw a leg over my hip, squeezed both my arms, leaned

down and kissed me lightly on the tip of my nose, then wiped his
tongue across my cheeks, eyebrows and chin. “I don’t intend to baby
you, Henry.” His sharp eyes held mine. “Only the best, that’s my mot-
to. For me, for you. You’re my man. Guess I thought it went without
saying. Now I know it.”

Lowering himself on to me full length, he gave me a lock-on, tor-

pedo kiss, a kiss that started with his tongue and my mouth, paused
only a moment while I took a second breath, and then reached down
into me, through me, down, down, down until—whammo, electric
explosion—the current set ﬁ re to the tube inside my cock.

I felt dizzy. Th

e room seemed to spin, just for an instant. You’re my

man? Hell. I’ll be the man for you, Brian. Oh, yes! My eyes were wet,
my chest ached, I was about to bawl. So I kissed him back, hard as I
could, and started sobbing.

271

Hot off the Presses

Brian shifted and raised himself up, kneeling between my legs

again. “Are you okay? Am I too heavy? Goddamn gorilla shoulders.
Don’t want to crush the life out of you.”

I stroked his hairy shoulders, reached down and petted his balls,

then gently squeezed his wrapped, rigid cock.

“Can we take these damned things oﬀ ? I said. “I want to touch all

of you—with all of me.”

He nodded. We got the rubbers unrolled with a minimum of

pulled hair. Th

e red head of Brian’s cock was sopping wet. He shiv-

ered and sucked in breath when I ran my thumb around the ﬂ at sur-
face of the helmet.

“What a big man,” I said, drifting quickly into the sexual trance I

knew was on the way. “Big handsome man, big Irish man, big hard
cock on him.”

“Nobody ever said that part of me was big,” Brian answered, work-

ing his hips and already slightly out of breath. “My wife said the op-
posite. Which certainly didn’t make it grow any bigger, or encourage
me to perform…with more…vigor.” He sucked in a deep breath and
shivered. “Yes, touch me like that. Nobody ever, ever—”

“Your wife didn’t? You’ve convinced me. She’s crazy.”
“Touch me again, Henry—lover, sweet man, sweet safe man.”
“I want to show you a real full-body erotic massage. It’s a lot more

than mutual J.O., it’s a trip, a… I can’t explain. You’ll see.”

“Only the best. Me and you. I want to connect us. Physically, spiri-

tually, souls together.”

“We do that in Body Magic.”
Brian was arched over me, gently prodding my dick and stomach

with his drooling cock. “Connected inside and out. I’m never going
to hurt you.”

I lay back, not saying anything, happy yet still slightly worried that

I was committing to something I wasn’t quite ready for. I shook my
head. Brian’s eyes were on me again. I was glad we’d left a light on in
the other room.

“You’ll have to ask me inside you,” he said. “I swear. I won’t try to

get in you until you want me there. No rush.”

“More than two ﬁ ngers always hurts like a bear.”

Elliott Mackle

272

“Maybe your—whoever it was—man with the ﬁ ngers—didn’t

know what he was doing.”

“Maybe his ﬁ ngers were too big. Yours are going to be perfect.”
Brian raised up, touched my left nipple with his thumb and kissed

my neck. I wrapped our cocks in both my hands and began squeezing
and pumping. Brian’s right hand massaged my legs, navel and balls
gently.

“Yes,” I said. “Fucking perfect.”
Brian stopped, reached across me, gripped the tube of lube and

coated the fore and middle ﬁ ngers of his right hand. “Th

is okay?” he

asked, looking worried. “Can I do this?”

I nodded. When his foreﬁ nger slipped inside my ass and nudged

my prostate, I gasped. “Yeah, God, yeah. Do that, do that.”

“Would you give me a weekend? Or a week or a month in bed, if

that’s what it takes for you to want the rest of me inside you?”

“I’d get crazy. You’re making me crazy now. Jesus, Brian. I’m gon-

na, now, soon, I am. Careful, be careful.”

“Let’s start with a couple of days outta town somewhere close. Is

this safe enough? For now?” Brian’s hips and right hand moved faster,
rolling, prodding and gently twisting. “Me, too, soon now. Count of
three?”

“Yeah, three. Make it two. Now, now. Oh, man, you know.”
“I do. Two, one. Th

ere.”

Brian didn’t groan when he came, didn’t grin like an idiot. Th

ough

he blinked once, he didn’t roll his eyes like a porn amateur. He smiled
at me, steady as a ﬁ ghter pilot, letting me know he was exactly where
he wanted to be, with me, just me, sharing that moment. Safely to-
gether. No evasions. No kidding.

“Henry,” he whispered, settling down on top of me after we both

stopped coming. “Henry, Henry. As many days as you want.”

“As many days as we need,” I said. “Whatever it takes.”

CHAPTER 25

NEWS TRAVELS FAST

’d told Ibo to take Th

ursday and Friday oﬀ , to help care for his

friend. When he opened his computer on Monday morning and
saw the orgy exposé slotted for that week’s edition, he exploded.

“Just drop it, Henry,” he shouted from the outer oﬃ

ce. “Spike the

fucker. Forget the federal AIDS money. You’re a lamb to the slaughter.
You don’t know how daddy Ramble operates at all.”

Ibo’s outburst, running smack into my post-weekend-with-Brian

state of cheerfulness and physical contentment, drew an answer I al-
most immediately regretted.

“Where you been, Ibo, the White Party at Vizcaya? First I was the

Easter Bunny. Now I’m a virgin lamb. Your buddy Martin claimed to
be clean as Ivory Snow. We’re having a staﬀ meeting and you’re an
hour late. Will you please come in here.”

“Screw your staﬀ meeting, massa. I quit. You act like this is some

J-school exercise. I am through working for a man who’s ﬁ xing to kill
my best friend. You know what I’m saying?”

Ibo was now before me, pounding the top of my desk with a ﬁ st.

“Screw Outlines,” he sobbed, looking around. “Screw you all. Th

had to pump his stomach. We got him to Piedmont Emergency just
in time. You be’s going to write that up?”

Bambi Fawne, Tracy Gunn and I had been ﬁ ne-tuning the AIDS

orgy’s narrative—the who-did-what-to-who-when story line when Ibo

Elliott Mackle

274

barged in. Maybe he heard me say, “Resky Peebles topped Wade after
he ﬁ nished with Martin Ramble.”

“You don’t know what Marty did or didn’t do,” Ibo shouted. “And

if you print anything like that, he might try to oﬀ himself one last
time.”

“I helped you carry him home, remember? I told you who to con-

tact about the AIDS test.”

“You want that dick-head driver strung up in the jailhouse next?

With a chicken bone shoved up his ass? Or maybe yourself?”

Bambi squealed. Tracy caught a breath and turned pale.
“You told me the Xeroxed incident report was oﬀ the record.”
“So why’s a party in a rich white man’s basement not oﬀ the re-

cord? I was right beside you Tuesday night. All I saw was Marty passed
out on the ﬂ oor.”

“With his pants oﬀ and his shirt up. Which is one reason I sug-

gested the AIDS test.”

A revived Tracy squealed. “Can we use it?”
“He did get the test, didn’t he? You took him to the Gay Center

clinic?”

Ibo wiped his eyes and shook his head. “He wouldn’t go. Nothing’s

anonymous. Th

ere’s no secrets for people like Marty Ramble. Not af-

ter the…incidents at the jail.”

“And he, what? Took pills? Because he’s ashamed to have HIV?”
“Because he’s a Christian. He’s shamed for being on the down-low

so long and people knowing. Because he’s scared his father will kill
him, one way or another. He knows what they did to the car thief in
that holding cell. And he knows what happened to bring it on. Marty
don’t have the inclination to ﬁ ght for himself. He’s weak.”

Bambi raised his hand. “Natural selection? Survival of the ﬁ ttest?

e four of us are gonna make it but—”

Ibo grabbed Bambi by the collar. “Don’t even think it, little missy.

You know what I’m saying?”

Bambi wasn’t taking any more. “Henry’s muscle-brain jockstrap

buddy, Wade Tarpley, hasn’t turned tummy up yet. He has it but he’s
still ﬁ ghting.”

“You don’t know shit about it, Miss So Deer to My Heart.”

275

Hot off the Presses

“I know Martin could try AZT! And there’s these new AIDS cock-

tails that Tracy wrote up last month.”

“Th

ey just prolong the dying!”

Bambi slapped the air in front of Ibo’s face. “I’ve delivered enough

meals for Project Open Hand to know a quitter when I see one. Can
you say ‘quitter’ and ‘Martin’ in the same sentence, Miss Mandela? I
know you can.”

Ibo put his hand on his mouth and turned away.
Bambi didn’t quit. “Henry, do you suppose we could get Wade as

keynote speaker for the Faerie Visions conference next year?”

e phone’s main number rang. I hit a line button and picked it

up. Ann Kaplan was on the line. She asked for Ibo. I handed him the
receiver.

He didn’t try to keep the conversation secret. “Yeah, he was ad-

mitted and then released. No, he’s, ah, resting comfortably. Yeah, his
mother. I’m sure he appreciates your, ah, yeah. Uh huh, uh huh.”

ere was a long silence while he listened. Finally, he said, “Aw,

shit. No, I don’t know the bitch. I think Henry does, he’s right here,
you want to…? No? Okay, I’ll tell him. Yeah, but he may call you back.
I’ll tell him that, too. And thanks. I guess.”

Ibo handed the phone back and ﬂ opped down on the sofa. “No

secrets,” he whispered. “Told you.”

“Ann’s not going to talk, is she?” I asked. “I told her Martin was

being unsafe at the party but it doesn’t—”

“Ann’s plugged into the medical snoop-loop. Th

ere’s an all-points

gossip bulletin out this morning. Some charge nurse at Piedmont
called Ann at home. Told her that some other nurse, identiﬁ ed only
as the former girlfriend of somebody connected to the situation, hap-
pened to see Martin’s paperwork, and that it has AIDS and HIV and
AZT and suspected hepatitis stamped all over it.”

“Celeste,” I said. “Wade’s ex. I’ll bet.”
“And this nurse with the nosey eyes, she talked it up in the break

room, like some of ’em do. But the nurse Ann spoke to, she thinks the
other nurse, Celeste or whatever, that she’s been acting funny anyway,
like maybe she’d been dipping into the pain killers and tranquilizers
a little too often.”

Elliott Mackle

276

“So you think let’s-call-her-Celeste knows Wade and Martin were

out partying together? Maybe she wants to get even?”

“Stands to reason, boss. Stands to reason.”
“Wade could have exposed Celeste to HIV, hepatitis, no telling

what else. But why’s Ann telling us this?”

“She called me earlier, at home, just when I had my hands full with

Marty. She begged me to try to talk to you, boss.”

“To talk me into dropping the story?”
Ibo held up his hands. “Well, I’m on her side, you know? If you go

ahead with this, what’s going to happen to Martin and Wade?”

“If we drop it,” I answered, feeling a headache coming on, “there’s

no telling what else could happen, courtesy of the Rev and his boys.
What’s going to happen to Atlanta?”

“Maybe we should call the cops,” Bambi suggested.
“A posse of dykes on bikes would be more eﬀ ective,” Tracy said.

kip Roberts suggested a compromise during lunch at Tamarind.
“Just leave out all the na-na-names. You don’t want to hurt St. J-
J-John’s House, right? Can’t you, like, call everything something

else? Th

e AIDS home, how would that be? And you could describe

the people as a famous athlete and the son of a black politician and
the heir to a local fortune and so on.”

“Th

at’s not reporting, that’s fudging.”

“I’m wondering if you still want to get back at Wade, Henry.”
“For treating me like a two-bit hustler? For blaming you and me

and Body Magic for fucking up his career? For exposing Celeste and
both of us to HIV and hepatitis?”

“Th

at’s what I said. You’re still sitting on a lot of anger. I thought

that was ﬁ nished once you reported what happened during the
Games.”

“I resent what he did. But this is about the mayor and federal

AIDS-education money. Would you feel so charitable if he’d infected
one of us?”

“Maybe he infected Celeste. Could that be why she’s talking out of

school? It’s very unprofessional.”

“I’m committed to this, Skip. Th

e McClellands want to ﬁ ght the

mayor on this issue. Marty Ramble getting AIDS is a prime example

277

Hot off the Presses

of what happens without education—when people think they’re ex-
empt from the so-called gay cancer.”

“Do you think Wade’s going to die soon, Henry? I don’t care about

Martin—or Wade, really, not the way I did. But I don’t want him to
get even sicker and die. He probably knew less about HIV than Mar-
tin, do you think? And he’s white. So would your story have helped
him?”

“I’m not explaining this well. Th

ere’s parts I need to work

through.”

“Have you talked with your whatever-he-is? Th

e guy with shoul-

ders out to here?”

“My whatever-he-is? You mean Brian Murphy? Yeah, we talked

some, not enough. I spent last night at his place. I guess you could say
he’s my boyfriend. At least until something happens.”

“Henry, that’s, like, so wonderful. He’s a big time editor and writer,

right? So he can guide you past a lot of journalistic pitfalls. It’s all go-
ing to work out, see?”

“I’m pretty sure I know where to go with this, Sacred Brother. But

so far I can’t see how to ﬁ t it all together.”

“I’ll light a candle on my phallic altar as soon as I get back to the

studio. I feel better already.”

he McClellands called from their country house at Lake Burton,
in North Georgia, late that afternoon.

“Henry? Pope here.”

“It’s Marguerite, Henry. I’m on the extension.”
“Now listen, son, we got a very cordial telephone call from the

Reverend Ramble this morning. We have deﬁ nitely agreed to disagree
on the main issue, at least for the time being.”

“Th

uh tyme bein,’” Marguerite echoed.

“But the mayor argues that questions involving what a person

does or does not do at a private party is strictly personal.”

“You mean he doesn’t want us to report that he showed up at Bill

Leach’s house and got his picture taken?”

“Please don’t waste time on long distance,” Marguerite snapped.
“He argues that to imply that his son took part in some kind of sex

orgy borders on the invasive. And that litigation could result.”

Elliott Mackle

278

“A personal matter,” Marguerite added. “Deplorable all the same

but—”

“Freedom of the press versus political pressure. Th

e administra-

tion riding roughshod over the journalistic tribunes of the people.”

After a long silence, Pope answered in a strong but conciliatory

tone. “My wife and I prefer that you soft-pedal the personal aspects
of the story. It can do no good to embarrass well-meaning, powerful
people who are well aware of their own mistakes, and facing trag-
edy.”

“Th

ere’s no nice way to put it, Pope. Marty Ramble, Bill Leach,

and a bunch of others who were raised to know better abused drugs
and alcohol at a beneﬁ t for the city’s best-known AIDS shelter. We
don’t want to hush that up, do we?”

“Son,” Pope countered. “We don’t want Martin Ramble’s blood on

our newspaper’s front page.”

“Or on our editor’s hands,” Marguerite added.
Big Sarge Fletcher’s hefty checkbook crossed my mind. “Would

y’all be willing to listen,” I asked, “if I can ﬁ nd people in the gay com-
munity to buy you out?”

“Not at this time,” Pope answered. “We like the way the paper’s

going.”

“We trust you completely,” Marguerite added. “Don’t we, Pop-

py?”

CHAPTER 26

ROUGH TRADE

llen Inman closed the door behind the mayor and seated herself
on my oﬃ

ce sofa. “Marty is doing much, much better,” she an-

nounced without preface or greeting. “His mother and the chap-

lain from Morehouse College are with him.”

I’d spent the rest of Monday with Tracy, Bambi and a set of elec-

tronic ﬁ les, editing, tweaking and rewriting version after version of
Outlines’ AIDS-education package. With less than twenty-four hours
until the FedEx driver arrived to collect the pasted-up boards, I was
still undecided on editorial approach. Th

e cautious, circumspect route

(“asked not to be identiﬁ ed,” “spoke under the condition that,” “people
say”) felt cowardly and embarrassing, worse than television news. To
name names, deﬁ ne crimes, thunder from the editorial pulpit and
let the chips fall willy-nilly looked like a one-way ticket to a new line
of work. And yet neutral, J-school, middle-of-the-road coverage (“al-
leged,” “possibly”) would raise more questions, provide no answers
and anger powerful people on both sides—without result or reform.

When Ellen and the mayor arrived at the Outlines oﬃ

ce on Tues-

day morning, I’d just clicked the tell-all version back onto the Mac
screen. Heck, I’d thought. After what I promised Brian, can I do any-
thing but let ’em have it? What if he ﬁ nds holes in it even so?

“Good of you to see us on short notice, young maaan,” Mayor

Ramble said, touching a hand to the starched shirt over his heart.
“To hear my plea for mercy upon my dearly beloved son. For I truly

Elliott Mackle

280

believe you hold his lifeblood in the palm of your hand. Th

ank you for

helping him last week.”

I looked at Ellen. Her eyes were closed. Her hands clutched a large

leather handbag. I ﬁ gured the cigarettes must be inside.

“Would have been better,” I answered, “if we’d found Martin be-

fore he got mixed up with Bill Leach’s dope-dealing chauﬀ eur.”

Ramble drew in a breath, touched his mouth and glared as if I’d

slapped him.

“Th

e mayor’s son,” Ellen said, her eyes now open but cast down,

“has made a number of unfortunate mistakes in his short life. But so
have many of us, Mr. Th

ompson. Don’t you agree? Martin Ramble is

not a public ﬁ gure. Th

e mayor and his wife believe that public notice

of the reasons behind Martin’s, umm, lapses, might do even more
damage.”

“Put him in his grave,” the mayor snapped, “before his time is

come.”

“Which would likely kill his dear mother,” Ellen added, adopting a

low, sympathetic tone.

“Yes, I’ve thought of that, your honor, Ellen. I have to concede that

a news story about a tax-deductible sex orgy would aﬀ ect a woman I
admire very much, Ann Kaplan and, in the short run, possibly hurt a
charity that means a lot to Atlanta. I used to do volunteer work there
myself. I had an AIDS buddy who died. So I know the kind of work
they do.”

“But my son is not part of that story—except in so far as you make

him so. He’s not even gay, not per se.”

“Right. Having sex with men doesn’t mean he’s gay. Using ille-

gal drugs to forget that he’s an addict—that just means he should be
protected, right? Martin is part of the story because you’re the cen-
tral ﬁ gure, Mr. Mayor. And you might have taken better care of your
son—gotten to know who he is.”

“I do know. It didn’t seem possible that a son of mine could—”
“And what’ll you say to him—before he dies.”
“I won’t hear this.”
“He takes after you—the way you’ve abused and dishonored a

string of decent church ladies.”

“Ellen, shall we? Th

is is just not—”

281

Hot off the Presses

“You oﬃ

cially refuse to help educate poor people about safe sex.

ey stay ignorant or homophobic or both—and get infected, and

die. Did you ever give any of your church ladies the clap?”

Ellen opened her purse, reached inside, but thought again. “Hen-

ry, Henry,” she said. “Be realistic. Pretend Mayor Ramble isn’t sitting
here. Listen to me. Running such a story will give the administration
yet another excuse to avoid going to bat for minority-outreach AIDS
funding. Is that what you want?”

“What do I want? I want some honesty that I can quote. I want

citizens treated with respect—and shown how to keep themselves
safe and healthy, no matter who their fathers are, or what color they
happen to be.”

Ellen pulled a sheet of paper out of her purse and handed it to me.

“Th

is is strictly oﬀ the record. Do you understand? It’s Bill Leach’s

own list of who was present at the VIP party.”

I glanced at the list. My name was near the top. So was Ibo’s.
“You will kindly note,” Ellen continued, “that despite the presence

of Martin Ramble and three or four other men of color, the party
crowd downstairs overwhelmingly consisted of well-to-do white
men.”

She had a point, though not much of one. “So?”
“So, do you believe the white men acted in unsafe ways because

they’re ignorant of how AIDS is transmitted? Are you going to in-
clude their parents’ names in your coverage?”

“Th

ey’re ignorant one way or another. And we’ll name anyone rel-

evant.”

“Be reasonable. Th

e mayor is willing to deal. He will appoint a

representative to the intergovernmental AIDS agency and approve
the request for the federal minority-outreach money. He will move to
combine the mayoral red-ribbon AIDS panel with the King-Carter-
Woodruﬀ -McClelland advisory panel and cut every inch of red tape
along the way. And, if you make it possible for him to do so, he will
cite your paper’s groundbreaking reports as an important factor in
his decision. But he will do so only if you agree to omit names, orga-
nizations and personal characterizations in any story about an AIDS
beneﬁ t-gone-wrong.”

“Treat it like a grease ﬁ re at a Burger King?”

Elliott Mackle

282

“On the record, the mayor will assert that his son was caught up

in thoughtless experiments with alcohol and recreational drugs. And
that he is entering a treatment facility at an undisclosed location.”

“Oﬀ the record,” the mayor growled, rising to his feet, “them fed-

eral funds is nothing more than blood money for immoral, atheis-
tic white people—safe-sex teachers, barkeepers, condom sellers and
trash like that. But I am a realistic maaan, especially when confronted
by the power of the press, even the so-called gay press.”

Do I try to weasel through this—or do I go for a take-down? Do I

compromise—or do I stay true and report the whole story? Do I wimp
out—or preserve my integrity and serve the cause of truth, morality
and (hey, hey) the American Way?

“What if we can’t agree to that?”
Ellen Inman answered for the mayor. “I’ve already spoken to

Marguerite. She and Pope are parents, or were. Th

ey understand the

Mayor’s position perfectly. Atlanta City and Fulton County can’t go
back to the federal pork barrel over and over. No, the administration
will have to propose regulations that will indirectly compel for-proﬁ t
media outlets to fund worthy non-proﬁ ts. Th

e mayor proposes to de-

mand licensing fees on the distribution boxes used by papers such as
Outlines, Creative Loaﬁ ng, Southern Boys and Intown Weekly.”

“You’ll try to tax us out of existence,” I answered, seeing where

this was going.

Ellen shook her head. “Not at all. Th

e fees would go directly to mi-

nority outreach all over Metro Atlanta. Concerned, proﬁ table media
outlets should welcome the chance to contribute their fair share to
stamping out AIDS and other deplorable evils.”

“Would the mayor’s list of deplorable evils include male-on-male

rapes and sadistic assassinations in the Fulton County jail? Adultery
with gullible church ladies?”

“Young maaan, are you so depraved, so beset by sodomy, that you

fail to understand a father’s love? A parent’s grief? Th

is is my son!”

Ramble’s voice was shaking now. “He’s been poisoned by the drugs of
the white culture, seduced by unspeakable forces not of his making.
He’s sick. He may die!”

“How many men have already died of AIDS in Georgia, your hon-

or? Not to mention inside the Fulton County jail?”

283

Hot off the Presses

“It is my ﬁ rst priority. So kindly allow the proper authorities to

address the butt-fucking scum in that clap-house. As well as the
shiftless, balls-for-brains, dread-locked niggahs that calls themselves
guards, section captains and Fulton County sheriﬀ . Discipline will
not be spared. Rawson Ramble is not to be mocked.”

“Sir, I’m sure you’re aware how speciﬁ c the Constitution is about

freedom of the press and separation of church and state. Not to men-
tion being lynched while in custody.”

“Sodomy remains a felony in the state of Georgia,” Ramble roared,

getting to his feet. “Young maaan, you run a sodomite press. You would
thus do well to consider the freedom of your journalistic butt—and
most especially if it came to pass that you were jailed on a morals
charge, aiding and abetting sodomy or any such thing.”

Ellen tried to get between us. “Whew, we’re really talking apples

and hushpuppies here. Henry, the mayor has called for funds to hire
additional guards. But the city and county councils have yet to ap-
prove the expenditure.”

Ramble jerked the door open. Glaring at Ellen as he left, tears

streaking his face, he shouted, “Th

e Hell with all that. You told me this

godless pervert knew where his bread’s buttered. Ellen, we got to talk.
But right now I got to go see my poor pitiful son.”

After they left, I checked the recording machine.
Th

e cassette was still running. I had the entire interview on tape.

Take-down, two points. But the tournament’s not over. Can I use

it? Or did I just foul out?

I picked up the phone.

CHAPTER 27

BODY MAGIC

rian was halfway through an interview with Georgia Tech’s latest
basketball coach. He called back in ﬁ ve minutes.

“I tried to work this out right,” I began. “I’m at the end of my

rope.”

“What happened?”
“Th

e mayor was here. I know what I have to do, and I’m fucking

scared to do it.”

“Ramble was there and—?”
“He threatened to have me arrested for running a sodomite press,

aiding and abetting a felony, whatever. He wants to throw me in the
ADP shark tank where his son got raped and the chief rapist brother
later got lynched—and corn-holed with a broken-oﬀ chicken leg.”

“Do you have a witness?”
“Ellen Inman, his mouthpiece.”
“Th

at’s no good.”

“Th

e whole thing’s on tape.”

“You’re a fast learner. Are you at your oﬃ

ce?”

When I said, “Yeah,” he said, “Stay there,” adding, “What’s your

deadline?” followed by, “Get somebody reliable to transcribe that tape
into your system. Now.”

Forty minutes later, Brian and Skip marched into my oﬃ

ce, closed

and locked the door and began rearranging the furniture.

Elliott Mackle

286

Brian set down a briefcase, lowered the blinds and turned oﬀ most

of the lights.

Skip, sounding surprisingly upbeat, called out, “Hey, Henry,

what’s happening?” as he began unfolding a portable massage table.
Within ﬁ ve minutes, he’d arranged a makeshift ritual space, complete
with bottle warmer, coconut oil, clean sheet, towels and a CD player.
Th

en he lit three candles on the altar that usually served as my desk,

removed his shirt and pressed a button on the boom box. A sinuous
tune from Th

e Mission’s soundtrack ﬁ lled the room.

“What the fuck?” I said, stunned. “What’s going on? I’m on dead-

line. I got a paper to put out.”

Brian and Skip each took one of my arms, led me to the cleared

space between the massage table and the altar, and began unbutton-
ing my shirt.

Skip kissed my neck. “Brian called me. He said you were in trouble

and needed help.”

Brian put his palm on my chest. “Skip said he knew you did, too.

Relax, Henry.”

“Drink in the pleasure, Sacred Brother. Breathe while we raise

your erotic energy. Relax. Touch me, touch your hand to my body.”

“Don’t do this,” I cried. “You’re making fun of me. Skip, Brian

doesn’t know how to do Body Magic.”

“He knows what you’ve told him, that it’s important to you—what

you believe it does, how it opens you up.” Skip knelt at my feet and
began to untie my shoes. “He’s agreed to follow my lead. Let us take
care of you, Sacred Brother, while you ﬁ nd and accept your truth.”

Brian was hugging me from behind, touching my nipples, rubbing

his ﬁ ngertips through the thin patches of hair on my chest and belly.

“Skip explained a little about the ritual on the way over. I’m his as-

sistant today. Relax. Let it out. We’re going to raise and redirect your
energy. We’re with you. All the way.”

Skip helped me out of my shoes. Th

is wasn’t making sense—a

Tantric massage in the Outlines oﬃ

ce. “Guys, no,” I said. “My life’s on

the line and you’re pulling my clothes oﬀ .”

Brian undid my belt buckle. “Huh? Well, you’re right: It is. Your

life as an ethical journalist is on the line. Your life as a man who can
sleep at night. Your life as a man with integrity.”

287

Hot off the Presses

“Your spirit,” Skip said, carefully lowering my zipper and pulling

my slacks down to my ankles. “Your gay spirit, willingly giving and
receiving pleasure so that the whole world gives and receives pleasure
through you.”

I took a deep breath. Th

e scent of warm oil eddied up into my

nose, then down through my lungs to my cock and thighs. “You’re my
best friends, you’re ganging up on me, you—”

Brian’s hands had slipped inside the waistband of my shorts and

begun to pull and tickle the pubic hair over my cock. Skip approached
from the back, sliding his ﬁ ngers in through the ﬂ y and teasing the
hair on my balls. When the two men’s hands joined around my cock,
I gave in and began breathing deeply and vocally.

After several minutes of light, playful fondling, Skip stood, and

the two of them hugged me close and moved to the table. Once I was
face down and comfortable, with my head supported and my knees
apart, they quickly stripped down. Brian’s red-headed cock was al-
ready erect, stubby and hopeful. Skip looked as he always did before
a massage—relaxed, alert and just slightly aroused.

Skip placed his hands on my spine and butt and began to apply

light ﬁ nger strokes to my back, shoulders and legs.

Brian settled down on a folding chair at my head and gently mas-

saged my neck and ears. When he began to whisper, I had to strain to
hear his voice over the insistent music, now Balinese gamelan.

“Have you ever been to confession? Had your sins absolved? We

can do that.”

“I invite you to relax and breathe with me,” Skip said. “Gently at

ﬁ rst. In through the nose, out through the mouth, making a sound on
the exhale.”

“Just for today,” Brian began, “I’ll be your editor-confessor. You’re

free to spill it all—to tell me everything that’s going on with the may-
or, the McClellands and the paper, with our sad friend Wade Tarpley
and the woman at St. John’s House. And with you.”

Skip had begun to work on my glutes and the backs of my thighs.

Whenever his hands moved from one to the other, he gently ran a
ﬁ ngertip down my ass and over the back of my scrotum. “Breathe,
breathe,” he said. “Do you like that?”

Elliott Mackle

288

“My lungs hurt,” I answered. “My shoulders are concrete. I feel

like I‘m wearing steel gloves on my hands.”

“Let it out,” Skip said, stroking the insides of my thighs.
“You can be one of the great journalists,” Brian said. “Because you

instinctively know what you’ve got to do, no matter what. And you
don’t just take orders or edit from the bottom line. Because you know
how to assign it or write it. And this time you need to write it, not
ﬁ ght it.”

“I’m scared. I have doubts.”
“Rightly so. But you have friends. We trust you to do right. We

know you trust us. We’ll win.”

“You’re so g-g-good,” Skip whispered.
“Th

e community needs to know what’s going on,” I said. “I was

hired to help tell the truth about Southern gays and lesbians. Th

e Mc-

Clellands don’t want truth, they want nice. Th

ey want genteel. Th

don’t care what the fuck Chip and Chad hoped to do with the paper.”

I was beginning to sweat. Brian reached out and smoothed the

top of my head. “Th

ey don’t, they don’t.”

“Th

e mayor and his gang of fundamentalist cutthroats are no bet-

ter. ‘Do anything you want as long as you can deny everything,’ that’s
their motto.”

“Why do you deny being the moral and upright man we know you

are? Why do you deny your own moral power? What’s the fear, Henry
Th

ompson?”

I shook my head but couldn’t say anything. After a few more min-

utes of silent massage, Skip put one hand on my shoulder and the
other under my hips. “Can we turn you over, Sacred Brother? Are you
ready? Would you like a blindfold so the light doesn’t bother you? To
help keep you centered?”

“Take me somewhere. I love both you guys. Brian, I’m so glad

you’re here. Jesus, I’m scared. Is the oil warm? Have we got time for
this? I don’t feel like I’m centered at all.”

“Deﬁ nitely a blindfold,” Skip said.
“Tell me what will happen,” Brian whispered, “if you do what’s

right, if you stay true to your ethical ideals? If you tell the community
every detail of what you know and can prove?”

289

Hot off the Presses

“Breathe with me, Henry,” Skip said, his oiled hands covering my

heart and cock. “You’re safe. Wherever you go during this ritual, I’ll
be with you. I’ll call you back from the underground cave or the sky or
the sea when you’re ready. Breathe in, breathe out. Relax, Henry. Let
your mind relax, let it go, let your mind and body go, let your body
go.”

e familiar touch of Skip’s strong hands on my skin sent currents

of electric pleasure coursing through my body. My cock and nipples
reacted immediately, tensing and growing erect. When I wiggled
my hips just slightly, a signal Skip knew, he concentrated both of his
hands on my genitals, oiling and teasing my balls and running a dry,
almost painful ﬁ nger around the corona of my cock head.

Within ten minutes, guided by Skip’s hand on my hard cock and

Brian’s voice in my ear, I’d begun to ﬂ oat a foot oﬀ the table.

Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. Jesus, I’m already

ready to come, I’d like to come. I don’t want to come. I came with Brian
on Sunday, all over Brian, I’m ﬂ ying, an eagle, hover like a bird, where’s
the sky, Brian, touch me, too, touch me, Jesus, oh Sacred Brothers, it’s
never been this powerful, I’ve never felt so much…

“We know your goodness, Henry. We know your power.”
Breathe in, breathe out. Breathe in, breathe out. “My chest is so

tight, my arms, I’m afraid, my arms, my arms, a stitch in my shoul-
der.”

My wings, my wings, I could fall.
“Th

ere, that better? Beautiful cock, beautiful man, Sacred Brother,

beautiful arm, sacred shoulder, sacred balls, breathe in, breathe out.”

Brian placed his open hands on each side of my head, cradling my

cheeks and jaw. “You’ll always be safe, Henry Th

ompson,” he whis-

pered. “I’m here, I’ll be with you. Let go now. You’re safe. Breathe.”

I won’t fall. I won’t fall.
Th

e CD pumped out Mickey Hart’s drumbeats, a complicated pat-

tern of rhythms and changes. As the trance began to ﬂ ower, perhaps
twenty minutes in, my body had instinctively matched its heartbeat
to the drumming.

Safe, safe, getting it right, my body, my spirit, telling it right. Only

one way to go. Yeah, Brian. I’m here.

Elliott Mackle

290

Brian’s breath matched my breath now. His whispers and Skip’s

hands moved in unison with the drumbeats and my pulse.

“A visualization,” Brian whispered. “Are you with us? Tell me, nod

your head.”

I nodded and moved my shoulders and feet. Skip adjusted his

strokes.

“Fantasies, options,” Brian continued. “Can you visualize your op-

tions for this news package, how it will play out?”

Breathe in, breathe out. “Yeah, I can tattoo the word ‘integrity’

across my forehead. Refuse to compromise an inch. Go down with
the ship.”

“Th

at’s one option. How does that feel?”

“Like shit.”
“So? Or?”
“I’m just following orders. My owners have an agenda. Th

e mayor

needs deniability. Outlines hopes and believes that the combined Ful-
ton-Atlanta City AIDS council will beneﬁ t the gay and lesbian com-
munity in the long run. I destroy this morning’s tape. Th

at’s more

shit. Help me, Brian.”

“Good. Keep going.”
I breathed for a minute or two, my mind blank. Th

en I surfaced.

“Prop up the community’s received notions of political correctness.
Tell Wade I never should have written about him, that I had a conﬂ ict
and it’s my fault he lost the gold and caught AIDS.”

Skip’s hands paused, then continued.
“And if I did that, everybody’d say I was generous and noble, a real

gentleman. I’d get another raise. But I’d be all alone, the men I love
would know it was lies, a fraud, I’d lose their respect, I’d—”

e tightness in my chest grew much worse—ﬁ erce, pounding,

what I’d imagine the beginning of a heart attack must feel like.

“Th

ey’re not going to make me—”

“Let it out. I’m with you. Skip’s here. Fly.”
“Th

ey don’t want a paper, don’t want an editor, don’t want what I

can—they don’t, don’t.”

“Are you ready?” Skip asked.
My breath was ragged, my cock felt hot as a rocket, though wheth-

er it was hard or soft I have no idea. “Ah, ah.”

291

Hot off the Presses

“Deep charging breaths,” Skip coaxed. “Th

ree deep charging

breaths and then clench. One—”

Breathe in, breathe out.
“Two—”
Breathe in, breathe out. Oh, shit. I’m falling backwards.
“Th

ree.

I clenched my arms around my legs. Th

e sobs began. I can’t duck

it this time. Th

ese guys are with me, they love me. I can’t let them

down. Th

ey are the community, I am the community, my integrity is

the community. Clench, clench. Eyes tight, eyes tight. Mike’s gone, I
was so alone, all the time, surrounded by people, naked men, meaning
nothing. Brian’s here, Skip’s here, I’m here. Pull tight, pull tight—Go!

“Ah, aghh!” I shouted. My arms and legs ﬂ ew back as I un-

clenched.

“Stand back,” Skip whispered. “Just a little. Let him be with it.”
“I don’t have a choice,” I sobbed. “I don’t have a choice, no choice,

no choice. I’m searching, no choice, no choice. All clear.”

Skip held up his hands, signaling Brian to silence.
I ﬂ oated, sobbing, riding the edge of consciousness, out of my

body, somewhere in space, with bursts of light coming at me, a me-
teor shower of stars and feelings.

I know the story, I’m the only one who knows the whole story, I

know how it ﬁ ts, how the McClellands and the mayor ﬁ t, how the drugs
and the Olympics ﬁ t. I have no life if I don’t tell it, I have no Brian, no
Skip, I have no—no fucking anything.

Skip and Brian stood beside me, one on each side of the table.

ough my hot, ﬂ ooded eyes were still closed and masked, I could

feel the heat of their bodies. I reached out and took each man by the
hand.

I can do this alone if I have to. But I can do it better if you help me.

Not alone. Not alone. Help me, help me.

Each of them folded my hand inside his two. I could hear their

breaths. Skip had shut oﬀ the music.

“I’m going to pull this story together,” I ﬁ nally said. “So how about

this? We’re going to spread copies of the most blatant, tell-all version
out on the desk and on this table, and we’re going to interline this
morning’s quotes from the reverend mayor and Ellen, from Bill Leach

Elliott Mackle

292

and Martin Ramble, if need be. I’m going to nail the AIDS numbers
for minority men on City Hall’s door as a symbol of civic violence
caused by Black Christian intolerance. ‘Th

e city too busy to hate’—like

hell. And by God I’m going to say that if we don’t get rid of drugs in
the community we can forget about having a gay community—much
less a city that ever gets beyond the Olympics disaster and reinvents
itself.”

“You sound so angry,” Skip said, smoothing my arm. “Don’t be

angry, Henry. You’re so good, this is so good.”

“No, I’m happy,” I said. “Crying happy. Angry happy.”
“Th

e Catholics never caught on to this,” Brian said, grinning and

ﬂ exing his big shoulders. “Adult conversion, getting born again into
goodness.”

I tried to get up but the trance was still with me. So I ﬂ oated back

into reverie. Somewhere far oﬀ , I heard a click. Th

e soundtrack from

e Mission ﬁ lled the room.

A torrent of white water tumbles down a rocky mountainside. A

rough cross appears at the edge of the cliﬀ . A priest cruciﬁ ed by his
own faith lies strapped to the cross, falling, falling, crashing, dying, and
thereby becoming a martyr, a saint forever, a soul reborn.

Can I do this? Th

ere’s not time. Born again into goodness? Me,

Henry Th

ompson? Mister moral compass? When all I want some of

the time is a hard cock to touch and a good man beside me? Do I have
strength? Moral strength? I’ll lose my job, yes I will. Will I starve? No,
these guys are with me. Tracy, Ibo, Bambi, too, and there’ll be other
guys in the community, gals, dykes on bikes, Big Sarge and Hoke. Hell,
it’ll be good for Atlanta. Good in the long run—a new play on the At-
lanta Way.

Breathe, breathe. Breathe in, breathe out.
Finally, I signaled Skip to help me sit upright.
“I’m angry at myself,” I whispered, “because I doubted myself, be-

cause I didn’t automatically do what I should do without question—
or walk out. But you’ve got me back on track. You’re helping me see.
And I’m hoping to St. Walt Whitman you’re going to help me ﬁ nish
this.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Brian answered quietly. “Where’s my wrist-

watch? Oh, yeah, we got almost four hours. Piece of cake.”

293

Hot off the Presses

Skip began gently toweling the oil oﬀ my body. “We’re going to do

what? In less than four hours?”

Brian slipped his arm around my shoulder. “Lot of people, includ-

ing some of your gay friends, will call you a renegade. And worse.”

“And worse. I like seeing you naked this way, in my oﬃ

ce.”

“Th

e oﬃ

cial Outlines locker room. What about your owners? Th

McClellands ordered you to soft-pedal the exposé, right?”

“Th

ey’re at Lake Burton until the end of the week. Unless they

show up by four o’clock, we ship the boards to Birmingham.”

“An end run, huh? Can you do that?”
“Just watch me. Now where are my pants?”
“Henry? Can I hold you for a minute? After that, we’ll all get to

work.”

“Sure, move in close and get some oil on you. And I’ve got a ques-

tion.”

Brian snuggled up. “Shoot, Mr. Editor in Chief.”
“Will you take Body Magic training? It’s just a weekend, at least

to start.”

He stepped back. “Huh? I’m not that, you know—I’m new to all

this gay stuﬀ . Maybe I’m not ready.”

Pulling him close again, I reached down to tickle the crack of

his butt with both hands. “Oh, right, sir, I forgot. You’re really just a
straight heterosexual family man who had a bad marriage to a cas-
trating bitch. You’re hanging out with the guys now, for a while—but
you’re not really gay? Not per se.”

“Heard it all before,” Skip cried, raising his arms and turning the

embrace into a three-way group hug.

“Guess I can give it a try,” Brian said. “Would I have to do the

training naked? What if there’s somebody there I know?”

“Trust the process,” I said. “Ask him what he’s doing naked in a

room full of naked men. Hey, I’ll go with you if you like.”

Brian looked down and away. “We can’t spend every waking min-

ute with each other, be in each other’s pockets all the time.”

“Would we want to? I mean, nights, yes.”
“We’re gonna be equals, right? Except that I’m ten years older?”
“Two bodies, one soul. Separate but indivisible.”

Elliott Mackle

294

“Only the best. Together and yet totally comfortable with not be-

ing on top of each other every minute of the day.”

Skip squeezed our shoulders. “Don’t you guys have a p-p-paper to

put out? Aren’t you on deadline? Or should I get up on the table?”

“Back to work, slaves,” I said. “I love you both.”
“Th

ree claps and the ritual’s over,” Skip said.

“Huh?” Brian said.
“It’s magic. Trust me.”
We clapped, and went to work.

CHAPTER 28

FEDERAL EXPRESS

ambi had keyed the taped conversation with Ramble onto a com-
puter disc by the time the ritual was done. I asked him to create a
Mac ﬁ le, print out four copies, take the cassette to the bank and

lock it in my safety deposit box. I told him to stop at Zesto on the way
back. News people on deadline need fuel: milk shakes, burgers, chili
dogs, tater tots, onion rings, slaw and plenty of ketchup.

Once Bambi was gone, Tracy and I began the rewrite. Brian ed-

ited copy and wrote cutlines and headlines, including “Mud on the
Rainbow,” “A Long Fall for an Atlanta Olympian” and “Mayor Ramble
(right), turned a judgmental eye on closeted son Martin’s distress.”
Having no hard evidence of the jailhouse rapes, and no one to link to
the drug dealer’s murder, I ﬁ nally decided to leave them out. Nor was
there any reason to name St. John’s House or Ann Kaplan. Th

ose in

the know would know; the words “AIDS-related facility” got the mes-
sage across.

Names were named: Wade Tarpley, Ellen Inman, Bill Leach, Mar-

tin Ramble, caterer Cody Eager, Tech Professor J.T. Davis and driver
Resky Peebles.

Details were provided. Brian’s editorial eye found minor holes in

the story so I made some ﬁ nal phone calls. Big Sarge Fletcher was
happy to provide additional quotes on the lack of condoms in use,
the wholesale distribution of illegal drugs and the “stupid as goats”
promiscuity at the after-party party.

Elliott Mackle

296

Photos of the principal players appeared over the fold on the front

page and inside: the mayor with his son, the mayor with Bill Leach at
the “Rainbow of Caring” beneﬁ t, Wade Tarpley with his Barcelona
medal and Big Sarge and Hoke holding their returned check.

Tracy read proof behind Brian. Skip prepared envelopes and ship-

ping labels. Ibo cut and pasted down preliminary layouts. Because
time was short, we boxed Mayor Ramble’s most damning quotes and
ran the column down the side of the main story. Th

e tape-recorded

threats, curses and oﬀ ers to deal were there for all to see.

Ibo’s editorial cartoon—well-to-do white men in suits with pens

and checkbooks lined up outside a building labeled “Tax Deductible
Sex Shelter”—was already scanned into the computer. I composed a
four-graf accompanying editorial, and the package was ﬁ nished with
twenty minutes to spare.

We were sipping milk shakes and sealing envelopes containing

photocopies of the whole package when the FedEx driver arrived.

“Place smells like a locker room,” he observed as he trotted into

the oﬃ

ce only six minutes late. “What kinda stories you been writin’

here? One-handed ﬁ ction?”

“Too hot for you to read, bro,” Tracy answered. “You’d crash your

truck.”

“I’ll read it,” the driver said, picking up the folder of ﬂ ats. ”Long as

it’s got some good nasty sex in it. And sexy pictures. Th

at works.”

“If you ever manage to get here early,” I joked, “We’ll show you

some things that deﬁ nitely work.”

“Count on it, gents,” he answered, turning toward the door. “You,

too, sexy lady. Next week, for sure.”

When he was gone, Tracy stood up, collected the stack of sealed

envelopes and asked, “What about these, boss? UPS gonna pick ’em
up?”

I took the stack, ﬂ ipped through it and read over each label. Bambi

had reduced the layouts to letter size, stuﬀ ed the pages into cardboard
UPS envelopes and included my business card. Just in case something
went wrong, I was sending our “Mud on the Rainbow” package to
Pope McClelland’s downtown oﬃ

ce and to top editors at CNN, the

AP, Atlanta Business Chronicle, the New York Times’ Atlanta bureau,
the Advocate, Washington Blade and several other gay publications.

297

Hot off the Presses

“Could you take them by their drop-oﬀ desk at I-85 on your way

home? Be sure they’re marked for second-day delivery. Brother Fed-
Ex driver might have done us a favor—and sent them back out tomor-
row.”

“As if he was ever early for anything,” Bambi said.
Tracy threw me a thumbs-up. “Do you think we’ll be out of jobs

on Th

ursday, boss?”

“Could happen. I wouldn’t worry about it. You’re good, you’ll keep

moving onward and upward.”

“You ﬁ gure the McClellands will ﬁ re you?” Brian asked. “Or shut

down the paper?”

“Maybe both. But I’m not worried about me, either.”
“Because Georgia needs a decent gay paper? And you’ve got the

contacts who’ll ﬁ nance a new one?”

“No. Because we nailed the bums. Because this’ll help clean up the

city—and help the gay community clean its own house. And maybe
save some lives.”

“Spoken like a true J-school graduate,” Ibo said.
Brian reached over and pinched my ear. “I may have to take you

down a peg. If you get too big for your britches.”

“We’ll see about britches,” I answered, squeezing his leg. “You

ready to go, big man?”

“Place deﬁ nitely smells like a locker room,” he said, getting to his

feet. “We could both use a shower.”

“Just one other thing,” I said.
I opened my oﬃ

ce calendar to Th

ursday and picked up a pen.

“Call Ann Kaplan at St. John’s House,” I wrote. “Let her know what to
expect.”

I turned to Brian. “I bet you could use a massage, too. How does

that sound?”

He grinned. “Only the best?”
“Th

e best I can do,” I said, grinning back. “Whatever it takes.

You’re my man.”

Author’s Afterword

As a staﬀ reporter for Cox Newspapers during the Centennial Olympic

Games in Atlanta in 1996, I was given an up-close-and-personal look at the
events behind the event. It was not a pretty picture. Money and corporate
sponsors ruled almost everything. Several athletes, coaches and Interna-
tional Olympics Committee oﬃ

cials behaved badly. Th

e eﬀ ort to micro-

manage press coverage by the Atlanta Committee for the Olympic Games
backﬁ red. A deadly explosion in an area that should have been better se-
cured stopped the Games in its tracks. Despite high notes—dancing cat-
ﬁ sh and new music by John Williams during Opening Ceremonies, several
world-record performances by athletes—the Games proved an expensive
disaster for the city.

Hot oﬀ the Presses is a work of ﬁ ction. Aside from subsidiary public ﬁ g-

ures such as Juan Samaranch, Billy Payne and sportscaster Bob Costas, the
characters and situations are imaginary and any resemblance to actual per-
sons is accidental. Th

at said, several events are loosely based on incidents

witnessed and reported by my colleagues and myself at the time. Since 1996,
the commercialization of the Games has steadily grown more pervasive. In
Atlanta, political cronyism and corruption, already rife before and during
the Games, drew criminal charges and convictions in the years that fol-
lowed.

Friends and colleagues who were particularly helpful and supportive

during the creation of Hot oﬀ the Presses are, in no particular order, Duncan
Teague, Ivan Bailey, Gary Kaupman, John Silbersack, Jerry Gross, Christo-
pher Dean, Bette and Mike Harrison, Jim Duggins, Joseph Kramer and Jeﬀ
Mann.

Finally, sincere thanks to Steve Berman, my editor, who lavished extraor-

dinary care and attention on the preparation and packaging of this novel.
He believes in his writers, his sense of mission as a publisher is unique in
today’s industry, he is a joy to work with.

Elliott Mackle covered the 1996 Olympic Games for the Atlan-
ta Journal-Constitution. An AJC staﬀ writer, he served as the news-
paper’s dining critic for a decade, also reporting on military aﬀ airs,
travel and the national restaurant scene. His ﬁ rst novel, It Takes Two,
was a ﬁ nalist for a Lambda Literary Award. He has written for Travel
& Leisure, Food & Wine, the Los Angeles Times, Florida Historical
Quarterly, Atlanta and Charleston magazines and was a longtime
columnist at Creative Loaﬁ ng, the South’s leading alternative news-
weekly. Mackle wrote and produced segments for Nathalie Dupree’s
popular television series New Southern Cooking, and authored a dra-
ma about gay bashing for Georgia Public Television. Along the way,
he managed a horse farm, commanded a squadron of Air Force cooks
and bakers, served as a child nutrition advocate for the State of Geor-
gia, volunteered at an AIDS shelter, was founding co-chair of Emory
University’s GLBT alumni association and taught critical and edito-
rial writing at Georgia State University. He lives in Atlanta with his
partner of nearly forty years.

Document Outline

Cover
Title Page
PART I
PART II
PART III
Author’s Afterword
About the author

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