Torsten Barring To Possess Bobby Hoffman

TO POSSESS BOBBY HOFFMAN

TORSTEN BARRING

A Renaissance E Books publication

ISBN 1-58873-846-9

This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without written permission.

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A Sizzler/Wilde Edition

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER I

In August of 1958 the thermometer hovered close to 100 degrees

for days on end. As a matter of fact 'The heat was on' in more ways
than one. During those dog days several of Manhattan's most popular
gay bars were raided and the tight-panted young male patrons
arrested. The homophobia of the fifties with its emphasis on gays as
'a threat to national security' was linked to the 'red scare' that outlived
its psychotic progenitor, Senator Joseph McCarthy, to the end of the
decade and well into the sixties. Not to say that homophobia isn't
alive and sick to this day, despite the post Stonewall fights for gay
rights.

I'm an old man now – almost as old as Paul Kleist was when I first

met him that unbearably hot summer day in 1958. My memories of
that day and its aftermath press upon me more urgently than ever as I
stagger through the final phase of my long life – my wonderful
terrible life with my two Bobbys.

I am not in the least clairvoyant, which I would have had to be to

know that that fateful day would be the beginning of the end for
Bobby #1 – the Bobby I loved with all my sex and soul who could
only love me platonically – until he became Bobby #2 - or 'Bobby
Paul,' as I came to think of him.

I was dawdling in the shower long after I'd soaped and rinsed and

shampooed my hair three times. I was trying to insulate myself
against the sweat and strain and grime I knew the stifling day would
bring on my journey to the far end of Long Island to interview the
great Paul Kleist.

Under the steady stream of water my disjointed meditations flowed

with an exquisite freedom from the bounds of logic that is the logical
domain of dreams. The kind of dreams in which the most ordinary,
mundane situations turn violent – or erotic – or both – without
warning.

Oft times while showering, I experienced the traumatizing

sensation of being ambushed by my own meditations. Some
harmless, pleasant thought would trigger an unsuspected association

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that unleashed furies of suffering, helplessness and fear – only to skip
without transition – like switching to another channel on the television
– to opposing images of such potent eroticism that I would spring a
hard-on. And when I gave my hard-on the service it demanded all my
rage and suffering and feelings of helplessness got washed down the
drain with my cum. Then I could enjoy some peace for awhile.

That particular day under the shower my disjointed thoughts began

with the pleasant anticipation of riding in an open car with Bobby at
the wheel as an alternative to having to take the train from Grand
Central Station. But the moment I thought of Grand Central I thought
of the notorious Men's Room there. And the moment I thought about
the Men's Room and what it was notorious for I thought about the
tales of police entrapment I had been hearing about all that summer.
How handsome young cops were being selected by the NYPD Vice
Squad and trained to dress like dirt trade and stand in front of urinals
in the Men's Room at Grand Central with their cocks hard and
blatantly exhibited – waiting for some poor fool to cop a feel – (or
should I say 'feel a cop?') – and promptly feel, instead of a hard hot
cock, the hard cold steel of handcuffs.

But after a moment's rage over the injustice of it all my exercise in

McCarthy age paranoia segued ever so smoothly into a pleasing
homoerotic fantasy that began with a lineup of handsome young cops
being 'auditioned.' It wasn't enough for the chosen cops to be
handsome and muscular. They had to be extremely well hung to pass
the final test.

In my dirty mind I pictured them already in 'costume' for the job –

standing before their chief wearing nothing but jeans so tight they
looked as if they had been painted on the men's gorgeous bodies.

In New York in the 1950's skin tight Levis, worn without under

shorts, were a dead give away. Strictly a uniform for cruising. No
straight man would dare to be caught dead in pants that showed off
the shape of his ass. So I pictured the cops in the lineup being ordered
to take their cocks out of their 'fag-hustler' Levis and jack them to full
erections in front of their chief. I pictured another plainclothes cop
going from man to man with a ruler. I pictured only the men who

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

could flash a minimum of eight hard inches being selected and the
others eliminated.

Then, in a flash, the scene in my mind's eye switched to the Men's

Room at Grand Central. The handsomest and best hung of all the
Vice Cops is standing well back from a urinal at the far end, next to
the tiled wall. Standing next to him is an equally tight panted youth
who is not a cop. The youth can hardly believe his good luck, for the
big butch trick is obviously offering his incredible dick to the youth –
turning toward him – waving it at him – and smiling–

A moment later the youth realizes it is not his lucky day. He is

being marched in handcuffs through the building, out the door, and
into a waiting squad car. What a sight! A tight panted young man
arrested and handcuffed by another tight panted young man.

My God! The two looked very much alike. They belonged

together in my 1950's scenario of police entrapment – bondage –
interrogation – confession under torture – trial and sentencing – prison
punishment by sadistic guards.

I could have terminated my underwater fantasies by jacking off.

But I was compelled to hold off and yield to yet another SM scenario:
I recalled a true story (at least I believed it at the time) told to me by a
very sexy guy I dallied with at the St. Mark's Baths. It would not be
an exaggeration to call it my introduction to sexual paradox in which
the dark delights of sado-masochism anesthetize the unbearables of
reality that can well lead to madness for a sensitive soul.

He was from England and he told me how matters were even worse

for gay guys there in the mid-twentieth century. He spoke from
personal experience. But his demeanor as he described his arrest,
imprisonment and punishment for 'Gross Indecency' seemed designed
to arouse me sexually. It seemed to me that he was describing his
prison punishment as if it had been the most sexually exciting
experience of his life!

We were naked together in a tiny private room on the second floor

of the bathhouse. He reached for my nipples and proceeded to pinch
and pull them, giving me sensuous pain, as he related every

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

homoerotic detail of what was intended to be an ordeal of humiliation
and pain.

The judge ordered the 'sexual deviant' to be stripped naked and

whipped! Before witnesses! Every step of the elaborate ritual of an
English Prison Whipping he used for sexual foreplay, seeing plainly
that I was swooning under his sado-masochistic spell. Gone
completely was any sense of outrageous injustice – cruelty –
inhumanity. I was conscious only of his husky, sexy voice with its
exotic accent as he spoke of ropes and whips and naked young men
while torturing my nipples so expertly.

As he continued I reached for his large protuberant nipples with

their hard, penis points and returned his sweet agony, beat by beat,
intensifying our mutual pleasure-pain all the while.

"You shall be stripped naked and whipped! – You shall be stripped

naked and whipped!–"

He told me that those words echoed in his mind as the English

prison guards tore all of his clothes off and threw him into a cell for
solitary confinement – to meditate upon his naked punishment to
come.

To 'come' indeed! He already had a hard-on from the way the

guards had used their hands on him when they stripped him.

He sat naked on the cold concrete floor wanting desperately to

masturbate. But he dared not because a guard peered in upon him at
frequent intervals.

Through the tiny, barred window of the cell he could hear the

screams of other naked young men being tortured. He knew he
should have felt horrified, but he didn't. The steady cracking of whips
followed by lusty, male screams only fueled his lust.

He was jacking off furiously when they came for him. Too soon!

For he was close – so close – to orgasm. They grabbed his hands,
cuffed them behind his back, and marched him to the room with only
one piece of furniture: the triangle on which his naked young body
would be stretched to its limits to receive the kisses of the lash. To
add to his humiliation they tied a stout rawhide thong around the head
of his huge, angry cock. And while one guard grasped his bound arms

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

from behind, holding him back, another tugged and teased and abused
the prisoner's throbbing erection as he was literally pulled by his cock
to the place where he would be whipped.

And when he arrived he found the room filled with men and boys

gathered to witness his naked scourging! Fathers had brought their
teenage sons to observe the fate of youths who turn to other men for
sexual gratification!

He was so turned on by two generations of males gazing at his

nakedness and his spectacular erection that he came violently at the
first lash. He had some help however. The handsome, bare-chested
young guard whose duty it was to administer the punishment had
aimed the lash at the prisoner's buttocks but delivered it in such a way
that it struck half way along its length, allowing the lethal tip to wrap
itself around the boy's body and land with a smart crack on the huge
flared head of his rigid, perpendicular cock!

The tortured boy hung by his wrists in a delirium of sexual

hallucination through out the forty lashes he endured.

But he wondered if he was really hallucinating when he saw several

of the teenage boys frantically rubbing their hard young cocks through
the fabric of their skintight pants.

At that point in his story my delightfully depraved English trick for

the night threw me down on the bed, and we brought each other off
with our cocks buried deep in each other's throats.

My memory of that bathhouse encounter possessed me utterly. I

couldn't postpone my need to come another second. Pretending I was
the naked prisoner bound to the whipping triangle I turned the hot
water all the way up to scalding and aimed the spray at my ass. I
pressed the front of my body against the tiled wall and raised my arms
as high as I could – so high I was forced to stand on the tips of my
toes. Then, while pretending that the pain on my ass from the
scalding water was being caused by the strokes of a cat-of-nine-tails, I
rubbed my throbbing cock against the tiles. I masturbated that way –
fucking the wall – each thrust of my cock representing another stroke
of the lash. I kept it up until I came. After I came my legs went
numb. I knew I couldn't step out of the shower stall without falling

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

down. So I switched the water to cold and slid to the floor and stayed
there while the cold water rejuvenated me. I knew I had been in the
shower far too long. Any moment Bobby would be yelling to me –
wanting to know why I was taking so long – and what the hell was I
doing in there all that time.

Gone were the fantasies that made my dick hard and I could deal

once again with reality – in my thoughts at least, for I wasn't ready to
stand up yet.

Encounters like the one in the bathhouse happened before I met

Bobby. After Bobby came into my life I vowed to 'clean up my act' as
they say nowadays. I strove to be worthier of all the 'high minded'
thoughts he inspired in me.

It was bullshit, of course. I didn't want to admit to myself that I

was terrified of the law. I longed to take refuge behind the facade of a
'respectable Queen,' as if the term could have any meaning in an age
in which homosexuality was a crime.

The pose of 'respectable Queen' meant, among other sad and silly

things, aping the lifestyles of British Aristocrats with an emphasis on
'high culture' epitomized by regular attendance at the Opera.

We had no American role models. Everyone who was anyone was

in the closet. So we turned to Europe for the living, (Jean Cocteau),
and the dead (Oscar Wilde). It may seem incredible to gay folk today
that a gay man such as myself would fall in love with, live with, and
devote his life to a man who was sexually unavailable. But it was by
no means uncommon half a century ago. We could suffer so
beautifully. We could be Bette Davis or Barbara Stanwyck all over
the place. Or just plain masochists if we had the guts to be honest
with ourselves.

Bobby had been a hustler before we met. He may not have been

the type who convinces himself that he's really not gay as long as he
gets paid for having sex with men. That type would have been too
infuriating even for a 'Tragic Queen' like me. It was just that he had
never had sex with other men under any other terms. And his idea of
love – love for me – had therefore to be strictly platonic. I loved him

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so much that I did not dare to push him and run the risk of losing him
altogether.

He wanted to put his sordid past behind him. So he submitted

gladly to my efforts to transform him – if not into a 'respectable
Queen' then, at least, into a 'cultured gentleman'. Therefore it could be
said that he became my protege. My credentials for playing
Pygmalion to his Galatea were adequate enough. I was a professional
musician, not good enough for a big time career, but good enough to
earn a modest living in New York City where good piano
accompanists who understand singers have always been able to find
work.

So I took Bobby to the Opera and, to my amazement and delight, he

fell madly in love with it – all of it – from Bel Canto to Wagner.

But even at the Opera I was ambushed by homo-erotic exhibitions

that went far beyond anything the public might have seen in any other
theatre in New York.

A comedy on Broadway had been closed and the producer fined for

allowing a gorgeous young actor to cavort in his jockey shorts and, at
one point, pull them down to flash his best asset which, to be sure,
was his bare ass.

And yet! In a newly staged production of Samson and Delilah that

opened the Opera season of 1957 the Boys Of The Ballet flashed their
totally bare butts in the orgiastic Bacchanal of Act Three. By some
strange double standard the girl dancers were modestly costumed
while their boy partners were nearly nude in tiny G-strings. If you
knew when and where to look you could see things at the Opera you
could never see on the Broadway stage or in films. The campy
explanation seemed to be that as long as you kept singing or dancing
to classical music you could get away with almost anything.

It wasn't just the Boys Of The Opera Ballet who got away with

showing skin. A perfectly gorgeous young baritone from Australia,
making his American debut as John the Baptist in Salome, for the
Opera season of 1955 emerged from the cistern, where Herod had had
him imprisoned, to confront the sex crazed Princess Salome at her

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command. The chaste Holy Man just happened to be young,
handsome, muscular and Hung Like A Horse!

He was wearing nothing but a loincloth so abbreviated that it was

instantly apparent that he had been obliged to shave off his pubic hair.

That was another hilarious example of sexual hypocrisy in public

performance: As long as the nearly naked man looked like a classical
oil painting it was OK. And, of course, naked men and women in
GREAT ART never seem to possess pubic hair.

I had no idea if the Australian Baritone could sing or not. I could

only sit there, hoping I could summon enough willpower to refrain
from coming in my pants as the Holy Man raised his arms for a high
note, allowing his loincloth to slide down another two inches.

It was, of course, the very gay stage directors of the 1950's who

made the Opera a refuge for gays. One could be fairly confident that
a performance at the staid Opera House – bastion of 'High Culture' –
would not be raided by the Vice for public displays of gross indecency
even as the aforementioned Aussie Baritone, in red ballet tights,
rubbed his crotch against a phallic column when he sang the title role
in Mephistopheles that same season.

But – for some strange genetic reason it was only basses and

baritones who possessed beautiful bodies and could add their physical
assets to the lusty thrills of their dark, masculine voices. Never was
there a Samson who could show us his muscles. Because – alas! – the
tenor singing the role possessed only flab that had to be concealed by
a corset under his full coverage costume.

One tenor with a nice, flat tummy showed us his sexy navel in his

Egyptian outfit for Radames in Aida but he was trashed by audiences
and critics alike for his thin, reedy voice. The moral was clear: A
provocative navel isn't enough for the role of Radames. One either
has the requisite blazing top notes - or one doesn't.

And – speaking of blazing top notes fit for an ideal Radames – my

meditations under the shower which segued effortlessly from the
erotic to the musical were, at that moment, annihilated by Bobby's
stentorian voice calling to me from the kitchen.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER II

"Les! You out of the shower yet?"
Even with the bathroom door shut and the water on full blast I

could hear Bobby's voice resounding from the kitchen, loud and clear,
as if it were electronically amplified and blasting through a speaker
located inside the shower stall.

I had often thought, 'What a pity he's tone deaf. With a set of pipes

like his what a hell of a baritone he would make! Maybe even a
dramatic tenor! And with his six-foot-four height and Greek God
physique and blond hair and matinee idol profile...'

"Les! You dressed yet? Gotta hurry UP!"
The 'gotta hurry' came out on four notes of a baritone's upper

middle register. Then the 'UP' soared up – literally – to a dramatic
tenor's stentorian high B. That voice, without his having to strain in
the least, could be heard a mile away. That super-human resonance
came from every cavity in his body: his massive chest, his thick neck,
his leonine head. Any would-be Opera singer would kill to possess
such phenomenal vocal equipment.

But Bobby couldn't sing. Aside from being tone deaf (also known

as 'singing in the cracks') he had no musical talent.

Not that he didn't try. He tried constantly. And I tried to help him.

But to no avail. All the ear training and rhythm exercises I drilled him
on couldn't sink into his beautiful head. On the simplest four-square
tune he would skip a beat on one phrase and come in late on the next.
And any interval wider than a third would go disastrously sharp.

It was a joke among our friends. Jerry Connors said Bobby ought

to return to his roots in Texas where he most certainly could win the
blue ribbon in any hog calling contest. He didn't say it in front of
Bobby but I chewed Jerry out for saying it. True, his looks were all
Bobby had going for him. An uneducated country boy, he was a
misfit in the big bad apple. But he was worth ten of Jerry, who was
one of those superficially intelligent types with no depth, no wisdom,
no heart.

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Bobby, who was all heart, had a sense of humor about his

impossible singing. He knew. And I knew it hurt him. But, bless
him, he didn't let anyone else know how fervently he wished he could
sing.

He even regaled our friends at parties with his audio-surreal

impersonation of Mario Lanza singing "Be My Love." I would
accompany him on the piano, trying as best I could to minimize the
damage by changing keys when he did and skipping beats when he
did. But my hastily improvised adjustments could not disguise the
sublime ridiculousness of that uncanny voice hitting notes that weren't
even on the piano. And Bobby's ardent sincerity served only to
heighten the ludicrousness of his performance. When he took the
final high note it was nowhere near the right note but he held it and
held it and held it with super human reserves of breath.

Bobby's mangled rendition was rewarded always with hysterical

laughter. Bobby laughed too, pleased that his efforts were not a total
waste so long as they could provide comic relief at parties that were
inclined otherwise to be rather dull affairs.

I alone did not laugh. I felt very strongly that Mother Nature had

played a cruel joke on Bobby and, like Queen Victoria, I was not
amused. To have such a great natural instrument and not be able to
control it. To have music imprisoned deep in your soul and not
possess the key to let it out. Not funny. Not to Bobby who I knew
would offer his sweet soul to the Devil in exchange for the ability to
sing.

"Come on, Les, damn it, you don't wanna be late!"
I was out of the shower and dried off. But I couldn't decide what to

wear. And why, I wondered, had I been meditating so intently on the
voice of the gentle giant I lived with instead of the voice of Paul
Kleist, the legendary Wagnerian tenor with whom I would be face to
face at four that afternoon?

"I'm almost ready!" I shouted, but with the kitchen so far away, and

the high decibel competition from an ambulance's siren screaming
through the heavy 46th street traffic outside, I doubted he could hear
me. I had only normal human vocal chords.

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We had one of those crazy railroad apartments in a crumbling

tenement on 46th Street near Tenth Avenue. The bedroom
overlooked 46th and the kitchen was half a block away at the opposite
end, overlooking the grimy courtyard of another tenement on 47th.

At last I was dressed in the suit I didn't want to wear. It was

lightweight, at least – one of those form-fitted jobs with 'natural'
shoulders and narrow lapels that had come into fashion in the early
fifties. It was 'wash and wear' and I had washed and worn it until it
shrank. The pants were much too tight. But it was the coolest outfit I
owned. And with an extra sheer, short-sleeved white shirt with a
collar starched enough to accommodate a regulation rep-stripe tie I
felt I looked respectable enough. Of course I would have to leave the
jacket on as the shirt was almost transparent and would call attention
to my large dark nipples – unless I wore an undershirt, which was
unthinkable in that weather.

Would any young person today believe the dress codes for men in

the 1950's?! We were expected to wear jacket and tie regardless of
the heat. And – can you believe it? – few men were bold enough to
leave off their undershirts when the thermometer reached the 90's.

There were exceptions, of course, and Bobby was one of them.

When a young man was so masculine, tough, and sexy-dangerous
looking that he could pass for a truck driver or a member of the
Actor's Studio (Was there a difference after the likes of Marlon
Brando and Steve McQueen?) he could get away with the same
cruising uniform associated with gay men on the make.

With my portable tape-recorder hanging by its strap from my

shoulder I walked through the cramped, narrow boxcar shaped rooms
linked together like a freight train to find Bobby in Levis and T-shirt,
standing in a pose of mock command beside the kitchen table on
which was a glass of milk and a tuna salad sandwich.

"You vill eat it unt you vill enjoy it by order of Der Furher," he

snapped, in his charmingly unsuccessful impression of a movie Nazi.
"You didn't eat a bite of breakfast. You do that interview thing on an
empty stomach and you'll get a headache, and your stomach'll start

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growlin', and the tape recorder will pick it up, and when you play it
back that's all you'll hear: Gr-r-r-r-r-r-r-rrrr!"

"I don't dare show up late."
"You got time for a sandwich and milk. That's why I hurried you.

And I'm gonna drive you and pick you up. So no more argument. Sit.
Eat."

I obeyed and was instantly glad I did. He had fixed the tuna salad

the way I liked it: lots of mayonnaise and very finely chopped celery.
One bite and I realized how hungry I was.

"Thataboy – And there's enough left in the bowl for another one

when you finish that."

"No. One is all I can manage, really."
"You're sure?"
"Definitely. You eat the rest."
"No way. I ate a big breakfast. Remember?"
"Oh, yeah."
"Gotta watch my weight."
"Your weight is perfect."
"Yeah, because I watch it. Two pieces of bread with breakfast.

Then no more bread for the rest of the day. No sweets, no liquor, no
starch. All that stuff is out from now on. Guy I work out with at the
Y, he says sugar and white bread are both deadly poisons. And, like –
wow – I was hitting all that deadly poison like crazy when I was
trying to give up cigarettes. Gained eight pounds. Was starting to get
a spare tire around my middle."

"Doctors tell us cigarettes are poison."
"Yeah, but smoking helps me to keep my weight down. Plus

working out and eating right."

"You never looked better. You look terrific."
"Thanks."
He flashed me his dazzling smile as he pulled his T-shirt up and

off. He posed for me, half naked, flexing his Tarzan-the-Ape-Man
muscles.

"Look at these abs!" he cried, as he shoved his Levis down to well

below his navel.

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I beamed. I applauded. I wanted to tell him that looking at his

fabulous body gave me such a hard-on it hurt inside my tight jockeys.
But I didn't. That kind of talk coming from me made Bobby
uncomfortable – I was expected to show my admiration without
getting too down and dirty about it.

Yes, he loved to be admired. And he knew I worshipped him. But

his narcissism wasn't in the least offensive. There was no arrogance
in it. It was as if he knew that his beauty was the one and only thing
he had that no one could underestimate or subject to ridicule. No
wonder he was terrified of losing it or allowing it to depreciate. No
wonder that in his mid twenties he was already obsessed with fear of
growing old. And yes, he was a cock-teaser.

After holding his spectacular physique pose long enough to make

his point, he put his T-shirt back on, seated himself across from me,
and silently watched me eat my sandwich to the last bite.

I glanced at my watch, saw that we still had plenty of time, and

settled back to relax and digest for a few minutes.

"So, Bobby, what are you going to do with yourself while I'm

interviewing Herr Kleist?"

"Thought I'd drive on out to Montauk Point. See the lighthouse.

It's not too far out from were he lives, is it?"

"Oh Bobby, you're asking the wrong guy. My knowledge of the

geography of Long Island starts and stops with Scott Fitzgerald's The
Great Gatsby, which I read in English class. Teacher told us
Fitzgerald deliberately fictionalized the geography of Long Island for
symbolic effects, like all those necks and eggs, East and West."

"Necks and eggs! What does it mean?"
"Don't ask me. Then after omitting the entire borough of Queens,

he has Northern Boulevard copulating with the Long Island Railroad,
and their illegitimate offspring is named 'Valley of Ashes.'"

"A pretty name."
"Isn't it? Especially for what in real life is a swamp filled with

ashes, garbage and manure. Or so I've heard."

"So what is it you're trying to tell me exactly?"

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"Only that I don't know the first thing about Long Island because

I've never been there. All the rest was just me camping it up. When
there's something I don't know or can't understand I camp it up to
relieve my anxiety."

"Well you don't have to worry 'cause I got a map."
"Terrific. Can I see it?"
"It's in the jeep. But I don't think I'll need it. I was out that way

once. I remember – it's straight and narrow."

"You were on the straight and narrow, eh?"
"Hardly. I meant Long Island. The road through it. It's hart to get

lost if you–"

"Follow the straight and narrow."
"Ah, come on, Les, you're puttin' me on."
"Affectionately, Bobby, don't get sore."
"Aw, I'm not sore."
"Good. So when was it you went out to Long Island?"
"Before I met you, of course."
"Of course."
"Soon after I came here to the Big Apple. I had just started

hustling. Hanging out at the Astor Bar. I had heard that James Dean
used to hang out there and get picked up by rich guys."

"Not that he was really gay, of course, tut tut. I believe he called it

'research': trying everything out, at least once, to enrich his acting."

"More than once, I heard, because gay or not, it paid better than

waiting on tables."

"And more fun besides."
"Yeah, that's what I figured. Boy was I wrong. My very first john

– he picked me up at the Astor and drove me out to his huge mansion
on Long Island. Oh boy! A Long Island Millionaire! I had struck it
big time! My Sugar Daddy would buy me fancy clothes; take me to
the best restaurants; hook me up with a Broadway agent who would
get me into the Show Business. Ha ha, oh yeah, turns out he wants
strictly the one-night-stand and he'll be generous enough to pay me a
hundred bucks if I let him tie me up and whip me – then screw me for
good measure. He went on and on about what a thrill it would be to

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have a big, strong, handsome stud like me at his mercy. You know
the rest, I'll bet."

"No, I don't. You've told me a few things you had to do to keep

from starving but you never told me about that episode. But then I've
never pumped you to tell me anything you didn't want to."

"I woulda' told you but I pushed my one and only Long Island gig

out of my mind until you told me, the other day, how you'd scored for
an interview with this famous Opera Star who lives in style out there.
Then it all came back to me."

"So – you know I'm curious. Do you want to tell me?"
"Tell you what?"
"Did you, or did you not, accept the slime ball millionaire's offer?"
"Yeah, I did. That's how much I needed the money. It was bad

enough just going through it. What made it worse was – he – he –
reminded me of – of–"

"Your father."
"Stepfather."
"Oh, right. I'm sorry my appointment has brought back shitty

memories for you."

"Naw, it's O.K. At least I know for sure the famous Opera Star

you're gonna interview ain't the same guy who picked me up at the
Astor. Your guy would have to be much older and – I remember for
sure – my hundred dollar john didn't live nowhere near so far out. I
remember 'cause he drove me out himself then sent me back to
Manhattan in a cab the next morning."

"Did he give you cab fare too, I hope."
"Yeah. And a bottle of lotion to rub on my whip welts."
"Thoughtful of him."
"Yeah, real polite when he wasn't doing his rope and whip act."
"I'm curious – tell me – was there ever an occasion when it was the

other way around?"

"You mean – did guys ever offer to pay me to use a whip on them?"
"Yeah, that's exactly what I mean."
"Yeah, but I wasn't very good at it. You know – my heart wasn't in

it."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"You mean your dick didn't respond to it."
"You could say that. I couldn't get into that scene."
"Too bad I wasn't around then. You could have practiced on me."
"Are you serious?"
"Not necessarily."
"You ever let a guy whip you?"
"No. I've thought about it."
"You mean – you've thought you might like it?"
"I'm not sure. It would depend on the other guy. He would have to

be the right type – the kind of guy I would want to submit to – in that
kind of way."

"And you haven't met him yet."
"Apparently not. I have my fantasies."
"Really."
"Yeah, really. My fantasy life is very active. In it I offer myself,

body and soul, to the man of my dreams – to be his sex slave – to let
him do anything he wants to me."

The poor dumb guy hadn't a clue I was talking about him.
"That's creepy."
"To each his own."
"I suppose so. But I gotta say I hated my date with the whip. O,

sweet Jesus! What some guys won't do when they're hard up for
cash."

"What some guys won't do when they're hard up for cheap thrills.

Hey, shouldn't we be starting out about now?"

Bobby glanced at our kitchen clock, pondered a moment, and

replied: "No hurry. We really shouldn't start out too soon. You said
he told you to be there at four on the dot – not to be early or late. We
don't want to have to sit in the hot car. Don't worry. I'll get you there
on time and with no sweat. You can rely on me, Les."

"I know that, Bobby. I only hope he's ready to start and doesn't

keep me waiting. He said the interview had to be over by five on the
dot."

"Five! Hell, that gives you only one hour. Is that enough time?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"I guess it'll have to be. I'm lucky to get the hour. He's refused all

requests for an interview since his retirement. Not surprising. He
must have been hurt bad by those nasty reviews of his farewell a
couple of years back. He's been in complete seclusion ever since."

"What did they say that upset him so?"
"Said things like, 'He should have retired ten years earlier – that

he'd destroyed his reputation by continuing to sing long after he was
past his prime – that all his great acting and depth of interpretation
couldn't compensate for cracked high notes and a wobble wide enough
to drive a truck through!' Bitchy mean things like that."

"And why were you, Mr. Lesser Porter, given the big fat honor of

an hour of the great man's time?"

"He said he was impressed by the rare insight I had revealed in my

article in Opera Quarterly about the tragically brief career span of the
high voices – tenors especially. I pointed out that some aging
sopranos manage to move down to the mezzo parts successfully. And
elderly bass-baritones can still sing the great comedy roles. But no
veteran tenor to my knowledge ever made a successful switch to
baritone when his top notes were gone. Then I went on to list a
couple of dozen conductors and instrumentalists who are still active
and greater than ever in their eighties and nineties. And therefore it
follows that a tenor who has had to devote so many years of study and
preparation before he is ready, only to have so relatively few years at
the peak of his form is, in my view, an essentially tragic artist."

"I'll drink to that," said Bobby, and he grabbed my glass of milk

and took a swallow.

"Go on, finish it."
"No way. Milk's fattening."
He lit a cigarette and pushed the pack to me.
"We really ought to start out."
"We got time for a smoke. I figure we got no problem with traffic

heading out to Long Island at midday. No trouble getting back either.
All the traffic will be going the other way."

"That's smart figuring," I said, and instantly regretted it. That all

too familiar wound was showing through his lovely blue eyes again.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Not so smart, really. Even a dummy like me can..."
His voice faded out and he sat quietly, gazing at the perfect smoke

ring he had blown into a shaft of sunlight shining through the kitchen
window. Damn it! I had tried to train myself never to use words such
as 'smart' or 'dumb' or 'bright' or 'stupid' – or any word that puts an
estimate on a person's degree of intelligence. Bobby had been brought
up to believe he was slightly retarded. It was the one thing about
which he was most sensitive.

O. K., so perhaps his IQ was significantly below average. But what

of it? He was beautiful and sweet natured. And I loved him so.

I lit a cigarette and tried with a notable lack of success to blow a

smoke ring. I wanted desperately to say, 'Teach me how, Bobby,
teach me how you do it.' But I knew it would sound patronizing.

Bobby wasn't with me anymore. He was back, way back, in Texas

with his asshole stepfather.

"Bobby, stop it, stop it right now. I really meant it. I was worrying

about being on time and you were – aware that we wouldn't get stuck
in traffic this time of day."

He snapped out of it at once. He smiled – that warm, radiant

guileless country-boy smile that healed all my loneliness – all my
regrets – and said: "That was smart of me, wasn't it? And it was
smart of me to hurry you up so I could get some food into you, wasn't
it, Les?"

"You're damned right it was," I replied, as I reached across the table

and squeezed his muscular arm.

"Let's finish our cigarettes, then we'd better hit the road," he said,

and I watched as he blew another perfect smoke ring into the noonday
sun.

"You gotta teach me how to do that," I said, confident that my good

natured giant was back with me and fully aware that I would forfeit
my life before I would hurt his feelings.

"Oh I don't know, Les, it takes a real smart guy to learn how to

blow good smoke rings."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

He broke into his high-pitched, little boy's giggle which, as always,

was a startling contrast to his deep, masculine speaking voice. That's
what he was: a sweet little boy in a big, muscleman's body.

We were like George and Lenny in Steinbeck's Of Mice and Men.

We protected each other. Bobby, as Lenny, protected me, as George,
by acting as my bodyguard. It was not at all an unnecessary role. We
first met on the night he rescued me from a gang of fag bashers in
Hell's Kitchen. Short, thin, and none too masculine looking it wasn't
the first time I had been physically assaulted while cruising the streets,
hoping to find my impossible Mr. Right.

I, on the other hand, protected Bobby/Lenny from the inevitable

consequences of his intellectual shortcomings. Although I was two
years younger than he (and with my baby face I looked like a
teenager), I managed to play the role of benevolent father figure.
Many a time I had felt obliged to intervene when some wise ass
bastard tried to exploit him. Although he had been a hustler he never
acquired the necessary street smarts.

As we got up to leave I was seized with an almost overwhelming

need to put my arms around him and tell him how much I loved him.
But, as I had done many times before, I suppressed the impulse. Rare
were the times I dared to hug him or express any physical affection
whatever. A nice butch pat on the back or a brief squeeze of a bicep
was the most I could get away with. I knew him so well. Early in our
friendship he had told me of the men, the many men, who had offered
their 'friendship' as bait to get him in bed. Then, when their lust was
sated, they had dropped him without the slightest regard for his
feelings.

Too many gay men were like that in those days (still are in this post

Stonewall age, sad to say) and I was determined not to risk a move
that might betray the trust and mutual respect it had taken us so long
to achieve. Whether Bobby might in fact be gay was beside the point.
If he was, it would have to be he who made the first move. I had no
doubt he knew I would be ready and waiting.

Jerry Connors scoffed at what he called my pose of nobility and

self-sacrifice. A case of pure and simple masochism, my carrying a

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

torch for a guy who was unattainable. And letting him move in with
me when he didn't have a job and couldn't pay his share of the rent.
And didn't seem to be trying very hard to find a job. And didn't seem
to mind too much being my kept boy.

Jerry was dead wrong, of course. I tried to tell him how Bobby

busted his chops helping me out. He did all the shopping, cooking,
laundry, and house keeping, while I footed the bills, playing piano for
voice teachers and Opera workshops in addition to the small fees I
earned writing articles for music periodicals. I could not and did not
tell Jerry or anyone else that Bobby was not capable of holding a
regular job. He would get very upset and walk out when he was
criticized or made fun of. He had tried many jobs – menial, low
paying jobs, all of them – until I convinced him he didn't have to be
humiliated by sons-of-bitches who didn't understand him – understand
that he was special and he shouldn't be judged by – jerks – or by
supercilious queens like Jerry Connors.

Nor did I tell anyone I had stopped having casual sex with available

guys – that I was living a celibate life with a man who had awakened
in me a capacity for unqualified love and commitment I didn't know I
possessed. Or was I kidding myself? Was Jerry right about his
judgment of me?

Of course I was sexually frustrated. Of course I fantasized having

sex with Bobby. Constantly! In some of my fantasies – accompanied
by frenzied masturbation – I would cast him in roles utterly alien to
his nature: Bobby – looking exactly like Bobby but transmogrified
into a sexually aggressive brute, bending me to his will, making me
his willing slave.

So there were times, such as his bedtime push ups which he

performed always in the nude, when I went quietly crazy with desire.
But I never for a moment lost sight of what he gave me in return for
his keep. However irrational of me, I felt his presence in my life – the
way we took care of each other – was nothing less than my salvation.
It was enough. My kinky lusts could damn well stay in the closet. Or
so I thought.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

We didn't talk much on the road. Bobby needed all his

concentration for driving. "Can't chew gum and walk at the same
time, " he said. But he was a good driver who had kept in good repair
the World War II Army Surplus Jeep he had driven all the way from
Texas. Now, in the late 1950's, the beat up old machine, with holes in
its canvas top to let in the rain, was still running.

We arrived at Paul Kleist's address (which turned out to be a

mansion such as Fitzgerald endowed his hero in The Great Gatsby)
with a few minutes to spare. Just enough time to have a last cigarette
with Bobby before I went in to face the music.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER III

"I hope you won't be smoking when he comes down."
He pushed an ashtray toward me as a wordless command to

extinguish my cigarette at once. I would have done so had he shown
me the slightest courtesy during the twenty minutes I had been kept
waiting.

My retaliation was quick and not altogether uninspired. I flashed

the creep my most winning smile, flicked an ash into the tray, said
"thank you," and went on puffing, as if he had graciously provided the
ashtray for my convenience. It required all my will power to refrain
from blowing smoke in his face.

He was still standing there, looking down on me.
"I wonder if I could tax your hospitality to the extent of asking for a

glass of water?"

He hesitated for several moments as if trying to decide if my

request was reasonable. Finally he said: "Mr. Kleist does not grant
interviews, you know. Not since his retirement. He has made an
exception in your case and I hope you realize how fortunate you are.
Let me remind you again that the interview must be over by five as his
personal physician will be arriving at that time. And Dr. Anselmo is
never late. Five on the dot, Mr. Porter. Five and not a minute past."

"My appointment was for four. It is now twenty-two after. Perhaps

you will be good enough–"

He turned abruptly and left the room. Was he going to fetch the

water I had asked for? I doubted it.

What, I wondered, had I done to inspire such insufferable rudeness?

And who was he? What was his relationship to Paul Kleist? Aside
from doing everything possible to alienate a freelance writer who had
arrived precisely on time for an appointment made a week earlier and
confirmed by telephone that morning, what was his official function
in the household? Butler? Secretary? Live-in lover? An all-purpose
combination of the above?

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

It was definitely he with whom I had spoken that morning. I

recognized his voice. On the phone he had sounded courteous,
friendly, cheerful even.

"Oh yes, Mr. Porter, Mr. Kleist is expecting you at four. How nice

of you to call to confirm. Mr. Kleist will be so pleased. He's looking
forward to meeting you. His only regret is the weather report: another
beastly hot day. Worse than yesterday. I hope the drive out won't be
too uncomfortable. But you know, it's cooler out here than in
Manhattan. Yes, see you then, and thanks again for calling.
Goodbye."

And when he opened the door in response to my ring he had a smile

of welcome for me already fixed on his boyish, rather too pretty face.
But seconds later, as his gaze streaked me from head to foot and back
up again, the smile collapsed into a hostile glower.

I could only assume there was something about my physical

appearance that offended him or that he found in some way
threatening. For the change came before I had uttered a word or taken
a step to enter the house. Perhaps it was our resemblance that
unsettled him. Not that we looked too alike. Nobody would have
thought we might be related. But we were very much the same type:
short, thin, not handsome, but what in the gay world is invariably
called 'cute' (a word I detest!). The major difference was our ages.
He appeared to be a still youthful looking early to mid thirties: a good
ten years my senior. But, like myself, he would always be a boy –
never a man – never mature – a juvenile – then an aging juvenile –
then a little old auntie who might or might not have acquired the
dignity and common sense to avoid using make-up.

Whatever the cause, it was a case of hate at first sight on his part,

and it didn't take long for the feeling to become mutual. He swished.
He pouted. His histrionic facial expressions and body language
demonstrated clearly that he was thirty plus going on five.

But I, on the other hand, was twenty plus going on fifty. To

compensate for looking too much like a kid, which was not
necessarily a professional advantage in that conformist era, I had

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

developed a defensive persona of maturity and sophistication that I
was inclined to overplay when in fact I was nervous and insecure.

He conducted me through a grand foyer complete with a chandelier

fit for an Opera house, past a staircase on which Bette Davis could
have played the most dramatic scene of her career, and into a hot,
humid drawing room slightly smaller than Grand Central Station
where he seated me in what I suspected was the least comfortable
chair in the room. He offered me nothing to drink. He abandoned me
only to pop in and out from time to time, playing now-you-see-me-
now-you-don't, as if hoping to catch me trying to steal something.

After twenty minutes of waiting for the great tenor to appear I was

ready to give up. Not so much as a hint of breeze was coming through
the open windows. And the late afternoon sun was shining through
the filmy draperies to give the room the atmosphere of a greenhouse.
I was getting hotter, thirstier and angrier by the minute. Time was
running out. There seemed no point in remaining another second.

I got up to leave. But for some unfathomable reason I sat down

again and lit a cigarette. That was when Twinkle Toes (I didn't even
know his name) appeared on cue with his no smoking admonition as if
he could hear the faint little flick of my Zippo lighter from any room
in that enormous mansion.

I'm sure my refusal to put out my cigarette infuriated him. And he

punished me for it by turning his back on me and walking out when I
asked for water, only to return a short time later without the water.

He stared at me a long moment. Then, somewhat to my surprise,

he announced: "He's coming down now."

I quickly stubbed out my cigarette. Too late, however.
"Someone is smoking!"
"It's Mr. Porter. I told him not to, Paul, really I did!" he yelled

hysterically as he rushed to the foyer to intercept Paul Kleist before he
entered the drawing room. Although both men were out of my line of
vision I could hear their conversation through the double door that
Twinkle Toes had left open in his flight.

"Who?"
"Mr. Lesser Porter, come to interview you for Opera Quarterly."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Oh – why – yes, of course. The appointment was for four, was it

not?"

"Yes, Paul."
"How long has he been here?"
"Since four, Paul."
"It is now half past. Why didn't you wake me, Conrad?"
"I didn't like to. You were sleeping so soundly after a bad night."
"That is nonsense and you know it. An appointment is an

appointment. It appears you have some reason for wanting me to
sleep through it."

"Er – very well – yes, you're right. I've had a look at him. He's not

anything like we expected. He's only a kid – some student or other
who's trying to make a name for himself at your expense. Let me
send him away, Paul. Please."

"When did you take it upon yourself to make these decisions for

me, Conrad?"

"I'm only thinking of you, Paul."
"A certain desperation combined with your customary duplicity

tells me otherwise, dear boy. I think I'd better take a look at him."

"There isn't time. Dr. Anselmo is coming at five."
"You can entertain the good doctor with a well made cocktail and

your charming company in the library."

I was hearing Paul Kleist's speaking voice for the first time. His

singing voice in its prime I knew as if it were part of me. I owned
every record he had made.

"As for Mr. Potter, I'll decide for myself if he's worth my time."
"Porter."
"What?"
"His name is Porter, not Potter."
"Potter, Porter, whatever. A kid he may be, but I assure you he

doesn't write like one."

Deep speaking voice. More like a baritone than a tenor.
"Paul – please!"
"Get out of my way, Conrad, or I swear I will knock you down."
"Alright. But you'll be sorry."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Stop pouting and fetch me a whiskey highball. Plenty of ice. You

have given Mr. Porter something to drink, I hope."

"No, I have not."
"I thought I had taught you some manners. I see you must need

more lessons."

Footsteps on marble floors. Approaching. I was already standing

and waiting with what I hoped was an appropriate air of deference.

Enter Lohengrin.
"Mr. Porter. I am sorry to keep you waiting."
I was far far away at the other end of the room and uncertain

whether I should walk toward him to meet him halfway or stay where
I had been put by that odious little Toy Boy whose name I now knew
to be Conrad.

And lo and behold, there he was – again! – following close behind

his meal ticket with an exaggerated air of protectiveness and
solicitude, which seemed hardly necessary as the man who was once
hailed as the greatest Tristan of his generation appeared to be a
healthy, vigorous man in his late sixties, at most.

"So glad to meet you at last. May I call you Lester?"
"It's Lesser, sir. My friends call me Les. And yes, of course, please

do."

I was so spellbound by his powerful presence I could not move a

step from where I stood. When he came close enough to get a good
look at me a certain glint in his eyes told me he liked what he saw.

"Well well. Do sit down, Les. I will stand for a moment or two if

you don't mind. I've taken a nap and I need to move around a bit until
the old circulation kicks in. Conrad, why do you hover? Make
yourself useful. Mr. Porter and I will require something cold to drink.
I'm having a whiskey highball. What would you like, Les?"

"Whiskey is fine, sir."
"You heard that, didn't you, Conrad? Your ears are keen. They

hear everything, do they not? Even things they are not supposed to
hear. Fetch the drinks, then make yourself scarce."

When the chastened Conrad left the room Paul Kleist said: "I must

apologize for Conrad. You can understand why he didn't want me to

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

see you once he had seen you. He is very jealous of any very young
and attractive man I may happen to meet. Some years back, when he
was about your age, I employed him as my dresser at the Opera. He
proved useful in many ways, and I kept him on as my houseboy when
I retired. He has no family. His father kicked him out when he
learned his only son was gay. He has attached himself to me as a kind
of surrogate. But now that he is no longer in the first bloom of youth
he is terrified that I might want to replace him with – how should I
say? – a newer model? So his increasing possessiveness and
pathological jealousy, I fear, will one day drive him to the self-
fulfilled prophesy. In plain words, if he doesn't stop carrying on so
I'm going to throw him out. I hope you are not offended by these
revelations. I mean – you are gay, are you not?"

I would have resented the question from anybody else. The

question, put to me on such short acquaintance in an age in which
homosexuality was still a crime. But he was not just anybody. He
was the greatest Wagnerian tenor in the world, and no other tenor had
yet succeeded in replacing him. The spell he had once cast as Parsifal
was there at close range, surrounding him like a nimbus.

"Yes," I replied.
"So am I. But I ask you, can you imagine anything so bizarre as a

man waiting until he is my age to come out? Although I have known
about myself since I was a choirboy I have had few opportunities to
do anything about it. The Opera world is nothing like the Ballet
world. Almost all male ballet dancers are gay, and all the world
knows it, and nobody seems to care. But Opera singers are mostly
straight. So too the managers who engage us. And they are generally
as prejudicial as everyone else in this bigoted world. I did not dare let
it be known. I did not dare stray from the straight and narrow. It
would have meant the end of my career and possibly my life. I am
speaking of my heyday in Germany now – the period of the
systematic persecution of homosexuals in addition to Jews,
Communists and Gypsies. Here in America, if we are not sent to
concentration camps as in Nazi Germany, or flogged as in England,
we suffer discrimination in other ways that are sufficient to ruin our

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

lives, such as being silently and discreetly blackballed from working
in our chosen professions. Yes, even the Opera."

"But surely not you: the possessor of the rarest type of voice. And

you had no competition. You would have been in demand in all the
major Opera houses of the world regardless of your sex life."

"You think so? There was a certain baritone. American. I shall

not mention his name. Young, handsome, with a huge voice,
incredible range. He got rave reviews for his debut as Kurvenal in
Chicago. There was no doubt that he was on his way to international
stardom as a dramatic baritone. He was born to sing Wotan. Instead,
his career ended abruptly one night in London when, after his
sensational appearance at Covent Garden, singing Iago to my Otello,
he was photographed by one of his own admiring fans kissing a
seventeen year old boy in the back seat of his hired limousine. The
adoring fan sold the picture to one of those sordid scandal magazines
that are read by more people in England than here – and taken more
seriously."

"I think I know the baritone you're speaking of. I have his

recording of the Dutchman's 'Die Frist Ist Um'."

"And he was only twenty–seven when he made it. He was thirty

when he committed suicide. So is it any wonder I remained celibate
rather than risk exposure? But none of this is suitable for Opera
Quarterly. At least I hope you don't plan to include anything I have
said so far."

"Of course not. But I'm honored you should trust me enough to

reveal such personal information."

"I am an astute judge of character. I knew I could trust you the

moment I entered this room and saw you standing there – so sweet
and shy. And so very attractive, if you don't mind my saying."

"I don't mind at all. But time is running short. We should begin the

interview proper. I have brought my tape recorder with me. Do I
have your permission to turn it on now?"

"But of course. Is that it? That little silvery box beside the ashtray

with one cigarette butt in it?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"It is. There. It's on and recording. And trust me, Mr. Kleist, if

anything of a personal nature should happen to come out in the course
of the interview you can rely on me to edit it out. And I apologize for
smoking in you home. I was nervous and fearful that we might not
have enough time to do a proper job of it. Please forgive me."

"Well I might forgive you and I might not. It depends. Smoking.

Such a nasty habit. It should be discouraged in one's boyhood, as it
was in mine. But it is never too late. Perhaps I should discourage you
from smoking here and now by means of a suitable punishment. A
punishment you will remember the next time you feel the urge to light
one of those ridiculous cylinders. Perhaps I should order you to take
down your trousers – and your underpants too if you are wearing any
– expose your delectable buttocks to my lustful gaze – then bend over
my lap for a proper spanking."

"Mr. Kleist, let me remind you that you are being voice recorded."
"So what? I was jesting, of course."
"Of course. But can't you tell me something I can actually put

down in my article on your career."

"I have, actually. I am strongly opposed to cigarette smoke

anywhere in my vicinity."

"I am sorry."
"Oh, my dear boy, think no more of it. Besides – what does it

matter now? I am retired from the stage and need no longer worry lest
a whiff of cigarette smoke should spoil my high note. But it might
interest your readers to know it was in my contract that nobody in the
company, not even the General Manager of the Opera House, was
allowed to smoke in my presence. But all of that is past. Go ahead
and smoke if you like. As I said, what does it matter now?"

"Thank you, no, I wouldn't smoke in front of you for all the world.

Can I start with some questions?"

"Of course, might as well. Do you need that I should sit close to

the machine?"

"With your legendary resonance, Mr. Kleist, the recorder will pick

up your voice from anywhere in the room. Sit where you'll be most
comfortable. Or walk about the room as you speak, if you wish. The

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

machine is on and recording. The interview has begun. It is said,
Paul Kleist, that no tenor in your time or since has had a voice as big
as yours."

"Ah yes, the biggest tenor voice in Opera, they said. That much is

true, I suppose. But I assure you I never shattered glass like they said.
They also said it about Caruso but it never happened. Pure myth.
Publicity. You'll puncture that silly nonsense in your article, I hope."

"You already have. It's on the tape."
"Good. Oh dear, it is very hot in here today. I am sorry. I am

arranging to have air conditioning installed quite soon. I avoided it
when I was singing. Terrified of colds, like all singers. It was in my
contract that I never be booked into a hotel room with air
conditioning. But now, what does it matter? One of the happy
consequences of retirement is that I can at last enjoy the so many
comforts and pleasures I dared not risk when I was singing. What
most men consider all the good things of life. Air conditioning is bad
for the voice. So too electric fans. But high humidity, heat and much
sweating are good for the voice, however miserable they made me on
the Spring Tours with the Metropolitan. Can you imagine what it was
like during a heat wave in those huge auditoriums in Dallas and
Memphis in the costumes I wore for Lohengrin and Tannhauser? I
had to drink gallons of orange juice to keep from dehydrating and to
keep my blood sugar up. And I loathe orange juice. The heat was
enhanced by the stage lights and the bodies of five thousand human
beings en masse. There was this Finnish bass doing his first Met tour.
I should remind you the tour started in the Spring but it extended well
into the dog days of Summer. During a matinee in Memphis the
Finnish bass drank four bottles of cold beer before he went on. I tried
to warn him but he would not listen. He made his grand entrance as
King Marke in the second act of Tristan and Isolde. You know that
excruciatingly long narrative Marke has to sing? He fainted dead
away in the middle of it. Ha. I love beer too. But I gave up
everything I loved for my art. Even love itself. Ha. No alcohol, no
tobacco, no late night parties. Even laughter is bad for the voice, did
you know that? Laughing irritates the larynx. On the other hand

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

weeping is good for the voice. It relaxes all the right muscles. As
does vomiting. It is true. Vomiting is the best possible exercise for
the diaphragm. So my only allowable indulgences were weeping and
vomiting. Where is that silly boy with our drinks. Conrad! Where
the deuce has he gone? I'm sorry, where was I?"

"For the sake of your art you had to make many sacrifices – all your

adult life, in fact."

"Long before. I was an alto in the Apollonius Boys Choir. Quite

famous in Europe before the war. We performed in concert. Traveled
all over the continent. It was great experience for me – so young – a
child and already a professional. But what a hard life! They would
not let us do anything. No fun at all. Unnatural for young boys.
Rehearse, study, perform, eat, sleep. A private tutor was engaged to
make us keep up our school studies. We were kept busy from early
morn 'til bedtime. And can you believe this? Even our sleep was
supervised. Watchful eyes. A light was always on. We couldn't even
– you know – do what all boys do. We felt like convent girls."

He laughed, and I laughed with him. But I didn't fail to notice that

his laughter was forced. Nor would I forget the darkness and pain I
saw on his heavily lined face as he spoke of a lifetime of renunciation.
Like a priest. Like a penitent.

"Oh, dear dear dear, this is going very badly, is it not?"
"Why no, you are being very candid, and I appreciate it."
"But so much of what I am telling you cannot be put into a proper

musical periodical such as Opera Quarterly. The editor would never
print it. I mean – really! – I have just introduced the subject of
masturbation."

"Let me worry about the censorship aspect. Say anything about

your life that you feel the urge to bring up. There are ways to word
these matters discreetly. Leave that to me."

"Well – in that case – would you like to hear about how we were

punished if we got caught masturbating?"

"Yes. I personally would be very interested."
"I thought you would be."
"Did you indeed?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Yes. Something about you. I am very observant. Very intuitive.

Besides – as an intelligent man – and a gay man – you must
acknowledge a link between corporal punishment and sex – or sexual
arousal, at least."

"I won't deny it. Go on."
"When in the dead of night there was observed to be a certain

movement beneath the bedclothes of one of us – remember the night
light and the watchful eyes – there was of a sudden a violent invasion
not unlike the Nazi Storm Troopers. But instead of being dragged off
to the Gestapo, the offender was seized and dragged over to the
Whipping Bench where he was stripped of his nightshirt and bent into
a position that was highly provocative. Can you picture it? Totally
naked. His wrists bound. His legs spread wide. His round, firm
buttocks well elevated for all the rest of us to see. Then he was
whipped with a leather strap. Thirty strokes. And what did the rest of
us do while we watched? Surely you can guess. We, all of us,
masturbated – timing our release to the final crack of the strap. And
ever since – I have associated undressing for punishment with
undressing for sex. In point of fact: I cannot to this day see a
desirable young man without imagining how good it would make me
feel to tear off every stitch of his clothes and take a whip to him."

At that point I was sweating profusely. And not just from the heat.

Good thing I was wearing tight jockey shorts under my suit trousers. I
would not have wanted that dirty old man to notice the huge erection I
had sprung from hearing his colorful account of naked discipline in a
boys' dormitory. Nor would I have wanted to confirm his 'intuition'
that I thought often of such things – fantasized about them – even to
the extent of projecting Bobby into the role of a Nazi Torturer who
had me stripped naked and at his mercy!

Suddenly he was the ever-so-proper host again, feigning concern

for my discomfiture.

"Oh, how thoughtless of me! You are suffocating! I should have

told you – Conrad also – Oh, where is that boy with our whiskey
highballs? What could be taking him so long? Con-RAD!! – He
should have told you – I should have told you – urged you – because

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

of the heat – do not sit there so uncomfortable. Do, please do, take off
your jacket. Take it off right now, and be more cool. Oh, is the
machine still on?"

"Yes, but it's o.k. I can edit out the dull parts."
"The dull parts – like my ordering you to undress. Not so dull, I

dare say. And you have not done it yet. Why do you hesitate to
remove your jacket when your host has granted you permission to do
so? Indeed, when you host has insisted. Are you so shy and repressed
and unduly modest that you prefer to sit and suffer this unbearable
heat rather than make yourself more comfortable? I shall not continue
this interview until you take off your jacket."

The white shirt I was wearing was extremely sheer – quite

transparent, in fact. And copious perspiring had caused it to cling to
me. When I took off my jacket – at his command! – it was as if I
were wearing nothing underneath.

"Ah! You do not wear an undershirt. I like that. I like it very

much."

He was staring at my nipples – and licking his lips.
"And here are our drinks at last. Bravo Conrad! What took you so

long? Just put the tray down there. Yes, that is right, thank you,
Conrad. You are dismissed. Goodbye Conrad. Goodbye goodbye.
Wave goodbye to Conrad, Les. Go on, wave wave wave. This is how
we wave goodbye to the waiter. He won't be needed anymore. Here –
drink up, my boy. Cheers. Now, where were we?"

"A lifetime without the pleasures most of us enjoy."
"Not at all. My life is far from over. And in the years remaining I

shall make it up to myself for all the sacrifices I was obliged to make
for the sake of my art."

"Does that mean you've no intention of taking pupils? – of passing

your art down to some worthy youngster who, under your guidance,
might follow in your footsteps?"

"Oh must there always be that kind of crap in these interviews? I

am expected to sound humble, am I? 'My talent is a sacred gift from
God, and I am duty bound to pass it on to some worthy youth that he
might follow in my footsteps.' Oh such pious, hypocritical garbage!

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

Let me tell you exactly what I intend to do with my time remaining:
eat, drink and fuck. And you can spell it out in your article in Opera
Quarterly – my exact words: eat, drink and fuck. Don't you
understand? I was cheated out of what should have been my best
years – my mature prime – by stupid journalists nurturing the
American public's hatred of Germans. I owe nobody. Nothing!"

"You are referring to your long delayed American debut at the

Metropolitan."

"Of which the less said the better at this point in time. But yes!

The long, drawn out 'denazification' process during which I was not
allowed to sing. I was never political. I was an artist who happened
to be born a German. Was it my fault that that madman, Adolf Hitler,
fueled his insane doctrines by linking them to the music dramas of
Richard Wagner? Was it my fault that I was his favorite tenor? I was
everybody's favorite because I was great. Would an American artist
snub the President of the United States by refusing a command
performance at the White House? And what would have become of
me had I made such a gesture of defiance? So I was demonized by
the New York Press because, as they put it, 'I sang for Hitler.' As if I
had a choice."

"But they did clear you eventually, and you made your American

debut at the Met in Tristan und Isolde."

"Too late! After too many years of total inactivity during which

time I suffered a nervous breakdown. That was kept secret at the
time. But what does it matter now? Who cares any longer?"

"I care. And my readers will care when I tell them how you were

made a scapegoat."

"I knew I could count on you to set the record straight. But let us

tell the whole truth. I made two serious mistakes. One: I sang too
long. I should have retired earlier. Two: I should not have chosen
the heaviest of all my roles for my first appearance in New York."

"Tristan."
"Correct. My great recording, made at the peak of my powers in

1939, had just been released in America. Everyone expected me to
sound like that. Alas! I was sixty years old and still suffering from

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

the debilitating effects of the breakdown. The one tenor in all the
world I could not compete with was the tenor I had been in 1939.
And I was upset by the picket lines out front. The nasty little puppet
patriots carrying the nasty signs saying things like 'DON'T LET
HITLER'S PET SING AT THE MET!' It was not until the last minute
that I knew the curtain was going to go up. I sang poorly and the
reviews were a disaster. But I had a contract and I continued. I
improved. I regained some of my old powers. But the critics never
let up on me."

"You were irreplaceable."
"Yes, and I took full advantage of it as long as I could. Did you –

you are so young – did you ever see me on the stage?"

"Yes, once, your final season, and my first year in New York. I

saw you as Herod in Salome. And the critics praised your Herod,
surely you recall."

"Yes, you are right. They forgave the state of my voice because

Herod is a character role. It is alright to scream your way through it
because the man is an hysteric."

"They praised your acting and your profound interpretation. I've

read all your reviews."

"Have you indeed?"
"Spent much time at the library doing research on your career. I've

bought all your available recordings. It's uncanny how you sound like
a baritone in the low and middle range. Then you soar up to the top
notes – so clear and brilliant – without a sign of strain."

"I started out as a baritone. When my voice changed it seemed

certain I was a baritone. The breath control I developed as a boy alto
made it possible for me to progress swiftly and I made my operatic
debut as the Baptist in Salome. But I assure you I did not wear a
loincloth like some of these slim young baritones do today. I was
always self conscious about my weight. And when I found my top
notes and switched to tenor I got fatter than ever."

"But you're not fat."
"Not now. Dr. Anselmo put me on a diet last year. He wants to

keep me alive for some reason. I have lost forty pounds and am

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

actually quite fit now – for my age. You don't have to sit there
wondering if you dare ask. I will be celebrating my seventy–third
birthday on the sixth of September."

"You don't look it."
"Thank you. The weight loss helps. Too bad I did not look slim

and reasonably romantic on the stage. But the pressures of
performing – the wear and tear on the nerves. Add to that the
relentless ordeal of dieting and – boom! – I knew singers who lost
their voices trying to get thin. But I learned to carry my weight with
poise and dignity. I refused to sing Siegfried on the stage. I recorded
the role and sang it in concert. But I positively would not wear those
skins and put on a curly blond wig and do all that running and
jumping and dragon slaying. Siegfried is a teenage boy and I was
terrified of being laughed off the stage. Too bad, because vocally the
part was perfect for me."

"You said a moment ago you plan to devote the rest of your life to

eating, drinking and..."

"Fucking."
"Right. Well aren't you afraid the eating and drinking will put back

the weight you've worked so hard to lose?"

"Possibly. But not the fucking. They say lots of fucking keeps you

slim."

"And smoking too, I hear. Whatever else it does that's bad for us it

certainly doesn't make us fat."

"How true. I never thought of that. Should I maintain my weight

by taking up smoking?"

"Oh, I shouldn't think so. It's habit forming. Really. Once you

start it's hard to stop. My friend – er – a friend of mine – he stopped
for awhile and started gaining weight. So the best thing is not to
start."

"Advice from a youngster! Well well well."
"Oh I'm sorry. I shouldn't–"
"No no no, it is charming to have a young man around me who

cares about my health. Charming. This – uh – friend of yours – did
he start again?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Smoking? Yes. He says it helps him keep his weight down."
"How does he look?"
"Sensational."
"Give me a cigarette."
"You're kidding."
"I do not kid."
"I don't want to be the one who gets you started."
"Oh, I see, you are going to look after me. It is what I need. A

really intelligent and sensible young man to take care of me. One who
happens also to be just my type: boyish and so pretty."

"Are you making a pass at me, Mr. Kleist?"
"Call me Paul. Not necessarily, Les. But I should love to see more

of you. Take off your shirt for me."

Suddenly I felt a cold wind on my chest and on my back. I had

taken off my jacket at his insistence. Damned if I would take off my
shirt. For a moment I thought the sudden chill was my nervous
reaction to his wanting to see me with my shirt off. But it was
actually due to a sudden change in the weather. Through the open
windows that had provided no relief until that moment there came
cold gusts of wind that blew the floor-length curtains far into the
room. At the same time a clock somewhere chimed five times. The
room darkened perceptibly for a moment only to brighten fitfully to
staccato flashes of lightning. When the thunder clap came seconds
later it nearly knocked me out of my chair. Then came the rain with
torrential force and the room was dark as night. I felt unsettled to say
the least, but my host was clearly unperturbed.

"My-oh-my, what on earth could be the cause of this so sudden

change in the weather?"

"Dr. Anselmo."
It was Sweet Buns again, come to announce in the manner of a

stiffly formal butler the arrival of Paul Kleist's personal physician.

Enter Mephistopheles.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER IV

For a moment he was a shadow in the doorway. Then Conrad

turned on the chandelier in the foyer which backlighted him in a
ghastly halo, giving him the appearance of a cloaked and hooded
apparition from the middle ages. But then Conrad turned on the lights
in the drawing room and I saw that he was wearing a long black
mackintosh and a wide-brimmed hat. These he removed with a
theatrical flourish, tossed them to Conrad, and said:

"What the devil?! Shut those windows. It's raining, or haven't you

noticed?"

Conrad rushed to obey the formidable doctor's command but his

equally formidable master stopped him.

"No! The rain is most merciful. It cleans and cools the fetid air.

Let the so refreshing breeze fill the room for awhile before shutting
the windows."

Conrad glanced nervously from one man to the other as if uncertain

which to obey. It was then that I began to wonder if there were any
other servants in the house.

"I shall be very distressed if you catch yourself a cold, Paul."
"What does it matter anymore? Stop fussing and allow me to

introduce Mr. Lesser Porter. The dear boy is interviewing me for a
music magazine. Mr. Porter, this is Dr. Theodore Anselmo, come to
scold me for my new found excesses."

"How do you do, sir?"
"Charmed I'm sure. Yes, Paul, I was about to inquire what is that

amber liquid you are consuming?"

"Whisky. Won't you have one while you are waiting?"
"Waiting for what?"
"My interview. We are not finished, are we Mr. Porter?"
"Well – no sir – we have digressed a lot. I have a list of questions.

We've hardly begun."

"There, you see, Theo, we are running a little late. Would you

mind awfully waiting a short while?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"It appears I shall have to, in which case I'll have a whisky, thank

you."

"Conrad, a whisky highball for Dr. Anselmo, and refills for Mr.

Porter and myself."

"I shall have mine in the library. You will want to be alone with

Mr. Porter, I'm sure. But don't take too long. I've a meeting in town
and in this rainstorm I shall have to drive slowly. By the way – there
is a military vehicle parked in the drive. Did you know that?"

He strode to the nearest window and looked out.
"The driver is a husky blond youth and the rain is pouring in on him

from large holes in the canvas top. I believe the vehicle in question is
called a jeep."

"Oh my God!"
"What is it, Les?"
"My friend! He is supposed to pick me up at five."
"Well from the looks of him he's been here since the storm began.

He appears to be soaking wet. I do believe he might be catching his
death of a cold."

"Well then by all means let us bring him inside and dry him off.

Conrad! Get an umbrella and go outside and rescue Mr. Porter's
friend."

"Oh, no sir, it's alright. I'll just dash out and Bobby and I will drive

back to town. We won't impose on you."

"But our interview!"
"Perhaps we could reschedule. That is if you don't mind.

Otherwise I'm sure I can write something interesting using the
information we already have on tape."

Hastily I turned off the recorder and grabbed it and my jacket,

anxious to get out of there. Some instinctual alarm caused me to
panic at the thought of bringing Bobby into that house.

I ignored my host's protestations as I hurried to stop Conrad who,

umbrella in hand, was heading for the front door. He already had the
door open when I reached him.

"No!" I shouted, as I grabbed his arm and thrust him back into the

foyer.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"I'm sorry, but it won't be necessary. My friend has come to pick

me up. We must go back to the city."

I dashed out and when I reached the jeep I was rain soaked. Bobby

was in even worse shape. He was shivering. The rain was pouring in
on him. He had taken off his T–shirt and was trying vainly to wring it
out.

"Let's go!" I screamed, as I jumped in beside him. I had not put my

jacket on. Instead, I had wrapped it around the tape recorder before I
dashed out. And now my thin white shirt was soaking wet. So too
were my pants and jockey shorts.

My irrational panic increased as Bobby tried again and again to get

the motor started, without success.

"What's the matter?"
"Can't you tell? It just won't start."
"What's wrong with it?"
"I guess it's half drowned. Like me."
"Keep trying."
"I am. I don't wanna flood it. It's old, Les. Gotta treat it gentle."
"Oh shit!"
"Calm down, Les. It ain't a case of life and death."
He sneezed and began to shiver worse than before.
"Christ, Bobby, I've got to get you inside and out of this

downpour."

I looked across the drive and there he was – Kleist – standing in the

doorway and beckoning to us. His broad, operatic gestures were
urging us to come inside. It appeared we had no choice.

And running out to us was Twinkle Toes with his trusty umbrella.

By now I was beginning to feel sorry for him. And when he spoke
this time his manner was considerably more polite.

"Mr. Porter, please come back inside and bring your friend. Dr.

Anselmo says it's madness to drive in this storm. The roads will be
flooded. And Mr. Kleist will be much offended if you don't accept his
hospitality."

The umbrella was useless in that raging wind. We ran, the three of

us, and when we were inside Paul Kleist slammed the door shut.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

Bobby was a sight! He had left his wet T–shirt in the jeep. He was

half naked. His wet jeans were riding low on his slim hips. His hair
was a mass of wet ringlets. Never had I seen him look so vulnerable –
nor so eerily beautiful.

"Why I do believe it is Neptune himself, risen from the sea and

tempest tossed to my doorstep."

"No, Paul, you're quite wrong. He is Poseidon."
"What is the difference, Theo?"
"Plenty. Neptune is Roman. Poseidon is Greek. We have here a

Greek God, judging from his face and physique."

"This is my best friend, Mr. Robert Hoffman," I declared

emphatically, as if Bobby needed to be defended from mythological
references.

"Hoffman! A fine German name. You see, Theo, we are both

wrong. He is neither Roman nor Greek. He is pure Aryan. So blond
he is! Ubermensch. What a Siegfried he would make! Well, Mr.
Hoffman, we must must must get you into some dry clothes right
away. You too, Les."

Bobby coughed. Once, twice, three times. Never had I heard him

cough so loudly.

"Oh I don't like the sound of that."
"I do. It is like the roar of the Minotaur in the Cretan Labyrinth."
"Dr. Anselmo is jesting, of course."
"I was jesting, of course."
"Dr. Anselmo is my personal physician. He got me through many a

performance when I had a bad cold. His cures are quite miraculous.
But what are we standing here for? Conrad, take these boys up to one
of the guest rooms. Get them out of their wet things. Give them
plenty of towels. Let them take hot showers. Make certain they have
soap, shampoo, anything they need. And give them dressing gowns to
wear. One of yours for Mr. Porter and one of mine for Mr. Hoffman.
Then, boys, the doctor will be up to see you."

Half an hour later Bobby and I were warm and dry and feeling no

pain from the hot, strong whisky toddies that Dr. Anselmo himself
prepared for us.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

I was recovered completely from my panic attack and feeling rather

ashamed that I had treated my host and his doctor so ungratefully
when it was now apparent that they were, both of them, despite their
eccentricity, making every effort to provide for our health and
comfort.

My brief exposure to the storm caused me no ill effects but Bobby

had a bad cough which Dr. Anselmo cured in a remarkably short time.

He brought his medical bag with him into the guest room where

Bobby and I sat in our borrowed dressing gowns.

"Now drink down those toddies to the last. They are not only

liquor, water, sugar and spice. They include a highly remedial blend
of East Indian Palmyra saps together with a secret ingredient I brought
back with me from Haiti. The natives there believe it can revive the
dead. Although I hesitate to endorse that claim I can assure you it
prevents a cold from developing if taken at the first symptoms. I have
visited Haiti a number of times as part of my research on
phenomenology. Amazing, some of the things the Haitians know that
the rational bound Western mind cannot accept. How are you feeling
now, Mr. Hoffman?"

"Who? Me? Oh. Swell."
"No more chill?"
"No, sir, the hot shower and the drink really fixed me up."
"Your cough is gone too, it seems."
"Yes, sir, I never felt better."
"You sound good. Where did you get that beautiful voice?"
"Aw, I don't know."
"You don't know your voice is beautiful?"
"Well – Les says it is."
"Les is right. I detect an accent. Are you from the South?"
"Texas, sir."
"Ah, Texas, of course. And where are you from, Mr. Porter?"
"I don't know."
"I believe you are – how do they say? – pulling my leg."
"Oh no, sir, Les wouldn't do that. He means he's really from all

over. His folks were show people and he was born on the road."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"But not in a wardrobe trunk, I assure you."
"Les was born on a train. A show train!"
"Really."
"It's true. My Dad delivered me himself. But he forgot to take

notice of what state we were in at the time. All we ever knew is that I
was born in the dead of night somewhere between Denver and
Chicago."

"Ah, so you traveled with them as a member of the troupe?"
"No sir, they knew Vaudeville was dying out and they wanted me

to get a good education. The sent me to – some good schools."

"And you became a writer by profession."
"No, not really. Writing is a sideline. I earn my living by playing

piano. Mom and Dad were singers but I showed more aptitude for the
piano. I was trained at Curtis and Julliard."

"Your parents must be very proud of you."
"Well – they were, I suppose. They're gone now."
"Oh, I'm sorry to hear it."
"They had a good life. They died the way they always wanted –

together – instantly – painlessly – in a car crash – on their way to visit
me my first year in New York."

"They were professional singers, you said. What kind of music did

they sing?"

"Duets from Operettas. They dressed and made up to look like

Nelson Eddy and Jeanette MacDonald and sang all the hits from their
movies. They had both trained for Grand Opera but they stuck to
Vaudeville because it was steady work and they wanted to make
enough money to send me to conservatory. They were hoping I
would succeed as a concert pianist."

"Of course. And do you concertize?"
"No sir, I'm not that good. I mean – the competition is fierce. I'm a

good enough accompanist however. I keep busy accompanying for
voice coaches, recitals, Opera workshops. Not a lot of money but I
like it and it pays the rent."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Les has got Opera in his blood. Don't you, Les? He taught me all

about it and now I love it too. He took me to the Met to hear Madame
Butterfly and I – I – fell in love with – with – those sounds."

"Yes yes yes and those sounds stirred something within you and

made you want to sing."

"How did you know?"
"I can here it in the overtones of your speaking voice – the almost

sensual pleasure you experience from the basic act of blowing air over
your vocal chords to produce words that vibrate throughout your
entire body. From the shape of your head and the expansion of your
chest I suspect that you are a perfect acoustical instrument. Not just
the bone structure and the musculature, which in your case are quite
spectacular, but the cavities."

"The cavities?"
"Yes, the anatomical chambers: the chest, bronchial tubes, neck,

throat, mouth, nasal passages. Even high up in the head behind the
eyes. All the empty spaces where the voice resonates."

"Well I guess I'm your man, doc. They tell me I'm empty headed."
"Cut that out, Bobby."
"Well I won't say I'm empty headed but you know darn well I'm

tone deaf."

"I wouldn't call it that."
"What would you call it then, Les?"
"An intonation problem."
"You see, doc, he puts it a nice way because he's my friend. The

plain truth is I can't sing. Not that I don't like to try. I try all over the
place and everybody breaks up laughing."

"Hypnosis has been known to improve pitch problems with singers

if the cause is not the result of faulty voice production."

"Oh I don't wanna be hypnotized, doc."
"Don't worry. I've no intention of subjecting you to anything like

that. But I would like your permission to examine your vocal chords
with my laryngoscope. It will be painless. I will spray your throat
with a soothing palliative so you won't gag. May I do that?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

He seemed to be asking both of us. Very observant man. He had

picked up on our mutually protective relationship. We both nodded to
indicate our consent.

This was a far different man from the flamboyant eccentric who

made a joke of Bobby's cough, saying it was like the roar of the
Minotaur in the Cretan Labyrinth. His professional bedside manner
was soothing and reassuring.

"Do you both go to the same doctor in Manhattan?"
As he was in the act of spraying Bobby's throat I felt it was

appropriate to answer for both of us. Customarily I refrained from
prompting or answering for him. Even if a question was put to both
of us I let Bobby reply first as a rule. Better he should sound foolish
on occasion than for me to treat him like a child in front of others.

"We don't have a regular doctor actually. We – I should say I – go

to the Polyclinic when I'm sick. It's near our place midtown."

I looked away as Anselmo inserted the laryngoscope into Bobby's

throat. I had never seen one of the things and I felt squeamish. In
addition, I could not avoid associating such deep throat intrusion with
the act of fellatio – Bobby seated on the bed – Anselmo standing over
him – their knees touching.

"Polyclinic. Polyclinic."
His voice sounded far away as he muttered the word 'Polyclinic'

several times – slowly – meditatively – as if to conjure up some
ancient memory. After a long moment of silence he spoke in his
normal voice:

"That's where Rudolph Valentino died. Amazing. Absolutely the

most amazing thing I've ever seen."

I looked at him then, and at the examination in progress. Anselmo

was peering intently through his instrument. Something about what
he had just said didn't sound right.

"You mean – you were there when Valentino died?"
"What? Oh no – no no no – that was too far back even for me. I

was in school then. In Heidelberg."

"I misunderstood you. I thought you said something about it's

being the most amazing thing you've ever seen."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Oh it is, it is. I'm seeing it now and I'm telling you I've never seen

anything like it. I'm talking about this young man's pair of vocal
chords. They are an inch long. Don't move please, Robert. I won't be
much longer. Say 'ah' for me. Say it again and hold it like a tone.
Yes yes yes incredible! The phonation! You're being very
cooperative. I appreciate it. Only a moment longer, I promise you.
Les – is Robert subject to colds particularly? – or hoarseness?"

"I've not known him to be sick a day – with a cold or anything else.

He lives a very healthy life. Works out in the gym at the YMCA three
days a week. And watches what he eats and drinks."

"He smokes. I can see the signs. Not so healthy. There's a slight

irritation of the pharynx. But no infection, I'm glad to see. Do you
both smoke?"

"I'm afraid so, yes."
"Naughty boys. You should perhaps be spanked with your trousers

down?"

I was taken aback by that remark. Kleist had said as much to me

earlier. Were they both of them disciples of pants down discipline?
And I didn't need to hear the subject brought up at that particular
moment because I had nothing on under Conrad's skimpy little robe.

The good doctor removed his disturbingly phallic instrument from

Bobby's throat in time for Bobby to reply:

"Shucks, doc, no bare butt spanking ever stopped me from

smoking."

"Oh really? I take it you are speaking from personal experience."
"I sure am. My stepdad used to catch me smoking – he'd march me

straight to the old woodshed. He'd strip me bare ass naked and tie me
over the sawhorse and whip me with his razor strop. Fifty lashes!
But I'd just smoke all the more to rile him."

Never before had I heard him make light of his stepfather's sadism.

Was that old emotional wound beginning to heal or was Bobby just
showing off by bragging about his boyhood bravado?

"Ah yes! And, of course, the punishment made the forbidden

pleasure all the more pleasurable. That's how it goes for lusty young

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

boys. How old were you when this old fashioned woodshed discipline
was being administered?"

"Aw, I was just a kid when it started. The last time he did it to me I

was seventeen."

"Seventeen! I'll wager you were already a big, strong man by that

time."

"Yes sir, I was. That's why it was so shameful! A grown man,

buck naked over a sawhorse, getting his ass whipped! What made it
worse was – wow! – he invited a couple of my buddies to come into
the shed with us and watch! Just to shame me more. I could take
anything he dished out, and he knew it. But having my buddies see
me getting whipped without a stitch of clothes on! That was the last
straw. I made sure he could never do that to me again."

"Really? How?"
"I ran away."
Bobby had never told me any of those colorful details. Now he was

telling them to a man he had met only an hour before. Perhaps it was
because the man happened to be a doctor. But in any case I felt a
twinge of jealousy. I felt also a swelling of my cock which caused me
to adjust Conrad's skimpy little bathrobe more securely around my
waist.

"Ah, you ran away! How adventurous! To where did you run?"
"New York."
"Of course. It seems to be the ideal refuge for many of us. Have

you any family or old Texas friends you still keep in touch with?"

"No sir – Les is all my family now. He's the only person who ever

understood me and liked me just as I am."

"Well, if some others should take an interest in you, why not give

them a chance?"

A discreet knocking at the door.
"Yes, come."
The door opened a crack and we heard the voice of Paul Kleist:
"I don't wish to disturb you."
"You're not, Paul, come in. We are finished here."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"I wanted to let you know that Anna and Martin have come aboard

and are preparing supper."

"Come in, come in, I want you to look at something."
He entered the room rather timidly, as if he were no longer in his

own house.

"And the boys are dining with us. I insist. I can promise a good

table. I was hoping you could cancel your meeting due to the weather
and stay to dine with us. Then you could drive the boys back to the
city in your car. That is if their car still refuses to start. If it's not
running I can call Carrington's garage early in the morning and ask a
repairman to come over and fix it. Then Conrad can drive it back to
them and return by train. Better still, the boys could stay the night and
return tomorrow in their own vehicle after it's repaired. The storm has
subsided somewhat but it is still raining steadily. I have been
watching the six o'clock news on the television and they report
flooded roads and other hazardous driving conditions. I urge you,
Theo, to cancel your meeting and stay to dinner."

"Paul, will you please stop talking and come over here. I want to

show you a phenomenon. I have looked down the throats of some of
the greatest singers of the Twentieth Century but never have I seen a
larynx like the one Robert possesses. You don't mind if Herr Kleist
has a look, do you Robert?"

"No, not at all. Look all you like, Mr. Kleist."
Bobby was obviously pleased to be the center of attention. He was

completely relaxed in the company of these two men and more than
willing to open his mouth and take the laryngoscope down his throat
once again so that Kleist could marvel at the sight of what Dr.
Anselmo had called 'a perfect acoustical instrument.'

Again Bobby was urged to say 'ah' repeatedly – soft, loud, high and

low – while the two men engaged in a technical discussion of what
they saw in Bobby's throat, using terms that were incomprehensible to
me. The spoke of Bobby's 'extraordinary laryngeal vestibule – the
margins of the ventricular folds – the transition from the respiratory to
the stratified epithelium – superior and inferior arcuate lines – the

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

ventricles of Morgagni – the supraglottic space – low isotonic inner
tension' – etc. – !'

And all the while I had the impression that Bobby was being treated

like a specimen in a laboratory. Not that he minded. Far from it. He
loved every minute of it.

Paul Kleist and Dr. Theodore Anselmo were in perfect agreement

regarding my friend, Robert Hoffman, as 'A perfect acoustical
instrument.' Their consensus seemed to be that were it not for the fact
that he couldn't sing he could be the greatest dramatic tenor the world
has ever known.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER V

When Anselmo telephoned to inquire if the meeting he was

scheduled to attend that evening had been cancelled he was not
surprised to learn that the storm had indeed forced a postponement
and he announced with apparent delight that he was free to accept
Kleist's invitation to stay for dinner.

I had wondered earlier why there were no other servants visible in

the mansion besides Conrad. It was at dinner time that the mystery
was solved by the appearance of Anna and Martin, a married couple
who served as cook and house keeper.

Through some exchanges between Kleist and Martin while the

latter was serving dinner I gathered that the couple lived in a cottage
on the estate and came into the great house only at certain prescribed
hours to perform their duties. Besides what I assumed about Kleist's
relationship with Conrad I wondered what other secrets he didn't want
his servants to be privy to.

Despite the excellent food and wine provided by our host, together

with his gracious efforts to entertain us with amusing stories about
some of his operatic colleagues, I felt unaccountably nervous and
uncomfortable throughout the meal. I thought perhaps it was only
because I was once again wearing clothes that belonged to Conrad.
Kleist advised me that Anna would do her best to dry and press my
suit and shirt after dinner but that it might be advisable for Bobby and
me to accept his invitation to stay overnight.

Bobby was enjoying the evening immensely. Kleist had loaned

him a brand new white silk shirt which he said he had never worn.
When Bobby thanked him for the third time and told him how
wonderful it felt against his skin Kleist told him he could keep it with
his compliments.

"Believe me, dear boy, it looks much better on you than it ever

possibly could on me."

The shirt really didn't fit Bobby at all. It was too narrow in the

shoulders and too wide at the waist. But I lied and said it looked just

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

dandy on him because I knew it was the costly silk that impressed
Bobby and made him happy.

He was wearing his own jeans which had had time to dry over a

chair near the gas stove while we were under Dr. Anselmo's care in
the guest room. Adding to my discomfiture throughout the meal was
my bizarre impression that Bobby was still himself only from the
waist down and that from the waist to neck he had become a
caricature of the man whose shirt he was wearing. Equally distressing
was the sensation that I had turned into a clone of Conrad!

I had never seen Bobby so relaxed and comfortable in the presence

of other people. I thought perhaps his euphoria was due to the wine
and gourmet food he consumed with great abandon after sticking to
his diet for so long. Somewhere around his third glass of wine and
fourth buttered roll he whispered in my ear that he felt it would be
awfully rude not to eat and drink all that our host had put before us.
He also whispered urgently that he would be thrilled to sleep over in
that opulent guest room in that fabulous mansion.

These whispered confidences were clearly overheard by the others.

Bobby was charmingly unaware that even his whisper had an uncanny
resonance that projected to every corner of the room as if it were
amplified by an invisible microphone.

As for his desire to stay over, I hated to have to remind him that I

had a gig, accompanying Antonia Campi's voice students the
following day, starting at ten AM, and that I would be running the risk
of being late if we didn't get back to the city sometime that night. But
when I saw the look of disappointment on Bobby's face I decided to
telephone Madame Campi and tell her the truth: that I was stranded on
Long Island indefinitely due to the rainstorm and couldn't possibly
show up for her lessons. If I called her immediately she would most
likely have time to engage a substitute accompanist.

When Kleist told Martin that we would have coffee in the music

room I assumed we were to be treated to an after dinner concert
composed of some of his best recordings. But when we were seated
and coffee had been served Kleist turned to Bobby and announced:

"And now, my boy, you must sing for your supper."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Oh really, Paul, that's cruel. It's too soon after dinner. You never

sang after eating a large meal. You always said it puts a singer at risk
of abdominal cramps."

"Your memory is faulty, Theo. I never ate a complete meal before

singing a full length Opera. Just a cup of broth or some fruit juice.
On the other hand, I frequently was asked to sing at dinner parties and
I never refused. I sang one song – something short and not too taxing.
And that was that. If an encore was demanded I surprised the guests
by doing some of my clever impressions of popular American
personalities."

"It would astonish you how good he is. You wouldn't imagine a

European could have such an ear for American accents. He can do
anyone from Jimmy Durante to Franklin Delano Roosevelt."

"I can do Eleanor too."
"I'm not at all surprised," I said. "I noticed at the start of our

interview that you speak flawless English without a trace of German
accent."

"Thank you. But I must remind you that English is a second

language for educated Germans. We are drilled in proper
pronunciation from earliest childhood. Our tutor in the choir made us
place our tongues against our upper teeth and say 'The, this, that,
those' until our teeth fell out. Or until we got it right, whichever came
first."

"Education is beside the point, Paul. Such skill at mimicry as you

possess cannot be taught. You could have a second career in
nightclubs and on the television doing your remarkable
impersonations."

"I seriously doubt if the American public would accept an elderly,

former Opera singer as a popular entertainer. Especially one who was
accused of being a Nazi. No, my days before the public are over, and
you know it."

"That may be so. But at least you can give the present company a

little demonstration for their amusement on a rainy night. Come,
Paul, give us a bit of Jimmy Durante. Or that marvelously eccentric

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

novelist from the deep South. You know. The one who wrote Other
Voices, Other Rooms."

"Oh, you mean Truman Capote."
"Yes. Do him."
"I will. But only under one condition."
"And what is that?"
"Mr. Robert Hoffman must sing for us first. Now Robert, don't

look at your friend with that fearful expression of appeal. I heard you
say emphatically that you cannot sing but I want to hear you try. It
does not matter whether you can sing on pitch or not. I want to hear
the quality of your voice. The sound is all I care about. Dr. Anselmo
and I can listen and determine if your pitch problem is – how should I
say? – physical or mental. Come now. Go to the piano. Plant your
feet. And sing something. Anything. And, Les, you must accompany
him. Go on. I shall not take 'no' for an answer."

Was getting up and going to the piano my first serious mistake? Or

was it my going to that house in the first place?

I did it because I knew Bobby wanted it. I could not imagine any

harm in it. If Bobby wasn't embarrassed then what right had I to be
embarrassed for him?

I went to the piano and Bobby followed and together we did our

key shifting, beat skipping routine on Mario Lanza's "Be My Love."

After Bobby's very loud, long–held final high note on what was

supposed to be C but was, in fact, somewhere between C sharp and D
there was dead silence that continued for some moments.

The silence was broken when Paul Kleist turned to Dr. Theodore

Anselmo and said, quite seriously:

"It is not fair."
Conrad appeared at the door. I had not seen him since dinner. He

had sat with us at the table, not speaking a word. After dinner he had
excused himself, saying he was tired and wanting to go to bed. He
was wearing the robe he had loaned me earlier while I was now
wearing one of his shirts (a nelly, hot pink number) and a pair of his
skintight pants – clothes I would not under normal circumstances by
caught dead in. No! Not in that buttoned down decade when any

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

grown man who dressed like that was labeled Queer At First Sight.
Most disturbing was the fact that they fit me perfectly.

"Yes, what is it, Conrad? I thought you had retired for the

evening."

"I had. I was asleep. I heard – I wondered – who on earth? – I

mean – I've never heard anything like it."

"Nor has anyone else, I dare say. But it is nothing for you to be

concerned with. You may go back upstairs now."

"Can't I stay, now that I'm up?"
"No. You have displeased me today. I shall deal with you later."
"But I'll be sleeping."
"Then I shall wake you."
"Oh Paul! You're so cruel!"
"And you love it. Now get out."
Did I see tears welling up in Conrad's eyes a moment before he left

the room? I thought so but I couldn't be sure from where I sat at the
piano. By then my resentment of Conrad had changed altogether to
pity. And Kleist's contemptuous treatment of him revealed a side of
the old man's nature that I didn't like at all.

And what did he want from Bobby? In the case of most gay men

the answer would have been obvious. But not with Paul Kleist. No, it
wasn't sex he wanted from Bobby. Even with Bobby close by, the old
man's libidinous gazes were fixed on me exclusively. It was obvious
that he wanted me as a replacement for poor Conrad. 'A newer
model,' as he had put it. But I could not fathom what earthly use he
might have for Bobby if his sexual preference was for an altogether
different physical type. My type!

A moment before Conrad entered the room Kleist had said: "It is

not fair." Now he turned to Anselmo and said it again. To which the
doctor replied:

"So what? Can you have arrived at your stage of life still thinking

life is fair? Of course it isn't. It isn't fair to you that the life
expectancy of your voice is a couple of decades shorter than – well –
the rest of your life. But it isn't fair to this young man either – that he
should be so phenomenally endowed with more voice than any fool

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

singer should need for a world class career and yet – you'll forgive
me, Robert, I'm not saying this to hurt your feelings – and yet be so
hopelessly ill equipped in matters of intonation, rhythm, and all other
aspects of basic musicianship. I mean – if the lad didn't care it
wouldn't matter. But it's obvious he cares very much. Such terrible
sincerity! It's heartbreaking."

"At least you didn't laugh!" cried Bobby. "You're the only people I

ever sang for who didn't laugh at me."

"They were not laughing at your voice, actually. Your sound is

gorgeous. You did not sing a single note that was ugly in quality of
tone. They were laughing at the intrinsically comical effect of very
loud, sustained high notes sung wildly off pitch. It's a device that
comedians who parody opera use to get laughs. Oh I wish you would
allow me to hypnotize you. Not tonight, it is getting late, and I soon
must be going. But think about it. I have had success using hypnosis
on singers with problems such as yours. And I will charge you
nothing. It will give me personal satisfaction to help you because – if
I succeed – the musical world would hear for the very first time in
history a dramatic tenor with a sound as dark as a baritone who can hit
notes to high C and above, full from the chest!"

"The doctor is right!" declared Kleist. "You are in fact a baritone

with a range extension as high as the highest tenor."

"Indeed! There has never been a voice like yours. And, let me

assure you, your tendency to go sharp is actually a healthy sign.
There is not the slightest effort or strain because your breath support is
in fact overdeveloped. The sheer exhilaration you experience when
sustaining a high note causes you to ride the overtones so freely that
the center of the pitch rises until it is a half step sharp – or more when
you get carried away. The good news I am trying to get across to you
is that there is nothing whatever wrong with your vocal production on
a physical level. All you need is a period of rigorous ear training –
preferably under hypnosis."

"And some basic rhythmic exercises that I can teach you. Your

sense of rhythm is no worse, I assure you, than a world famous lyric
tenor who could not for the life of him negotiate a simple syncopated

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

passage in La Traviata until the conductor literally beat it out on his
head with his baton for a full five hours. Oh my dear boy, place
yourself in our hands and your impossible dream shall come true.
And you, Les. Dear Mr. Lesser Porter. You shall have to revise our
interview which, although a mere two hours or so past, seems already
like ancient history. You must correct what I said about refusing to
teach. I most surely would take a pupil like Mr. Robert Hoffman, who
definitely has what it takes to be my logical successor."

Bobby shook his head wildly and cried, "Oh no! No no no you

don't understand! I can't – I'm slow – too slow – in my head. Les
doesn't like me to say it but it's true. I don't have the brains it takes to
learn all those words in foreign tongues. I'm too slow."

"All the better! Most singers try to progress too quickly. Slow is

better. Words and notes can be taught a little at a time. Day by day.
You say you are slow but you have no idea how stupid some of our
legendary tenors are and have been. Now and in the past. Stupid and
arrogant, which makes them almost unteachable. But you, my boy,
are modest, sincere, honest and receptive. Right now you are – you
are–"

"In shock, I dare say," declared Dr. Theodore Anselmo. "Say no

more tonight, Paul. Let him think it over and discuss it with his good
friend. Oh, but look at him, Paul. We have upset him. Such a pained
expression. And look at Mr. Porter – the faithful friend, Lesser. He is
also in pain. He feels his friend's pain. They feel each other's pain –
like the Corsican Twins. We have dropped a bombshell and they
don't know what to make of it. But there is a remedy, Paul. You must
get their minds off of the bombshell. Relieve their tension and state of
shock by fulfilling your promise."

"What promise? I never make promises unless they are in writing."
"Such short term memory! It's not like you, Paul. My dear Robert,

I leave it to you to remind our forgetful host what he promised to do
in return for your very obliging song rendition."

Bobby remained silent for a long moment. I knew he was

struggling to overcome the incredible suggestion that he might
actually become Paul Kleist's successor on the Operatic stage. He

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

turned to me as he often did when he was at a loss to reply to
something said to him on a social occasion. But I could not for the
life of me help him out at that moment because my own mind was just
as blown away as his. Through the numbness – as in a delayed
reaction – I felt the vague stirring of rage. Surely they were having a
joke at Bobby's expense. And that was the unforgivable sin. And yet
– was it not possible that it was I, myself, who underestimated
Bobby's capacity for learning? Or overestimated what it takes to
learn? Were there not, indeed, incredibly childish if not downright
stupid tenors "who have resonance where their brains ought to be," as
Anna Russel put it, and were coached painstakingly until they could
stand and deliver like well oiled singing machines? And did not the
audience, if not the critics, forgive them a thousand and one musical
crudities if they could bat those top notes out over the heaviest
orchestrations to send chills up the listeners' spines?!

Suddenly Bobby spoke up – all his boyish charm restored:
"I remember! Mr. Kleist promised if I would sing for him he would

do some of his – his–"

"Impersonations!" I shouted, much too loudly, as if a tightly wound

spring in my head had snapped in two.

"Yes, you can't wiggle out of it, Paul. You simply must give us

Eleanor Roosevelt."

"I don't feel like Eleanor tonight."
"That is, as young Americans say these days, 'a cop out.' So who

do you feel like tonight?"

"I feel like – and it is utterly exhilarating, I assure you – quite like

being newly born – a second life – a young, strong fresh new start for
me – because it is unfair – unfair to me – ME! – Paul Kleist – whose
life and art were truncated by war and politics. And now is a chance
to right the wrong and give back to me the years of my prime to which
my many sacrifices entitle me. And you know full well what I mean
and what you must do, Dr. Theodore Anselmo of Heidelberg and
Haiti."

"Shut up, Paul, you've had too much wine on top of too much

whisky and you don't know what you're saying."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"On the contrary, it is you who are pretending not to know what I

am saying. IT IS NOT FAIR!"

He buried his face in his hands and shook all over as if he were

having a seizure. But then the spell passed as quickly as it came. He
picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

"This coffee is cold," he said, in the petulant whining voice of a

spoiled child.

"Of course. You didn't drink it while it was hot."
"We have both of us been thinking the same thing all evening and

you know it."

"That does not make it appropriate to discuss the matter – in

technical terms, I mean – in front of the boys. Here. Tonight."

"Quite right, Theo. I meant only that it would be like starting a new

life were I to take a pupil. And – and – pass on to some deserving
young man all my – knowledge and lifelong experience. To lose
myself in that commitment. To overcome the feeling of being a
washed-up has-been by – putting everything I have – everything I am
– into a protege who is – receptive. But you are right, Theo, we
should not discuss it further this evening. But do think about what I
would expect from you. I would need you to monitor the progress by
means of – tests – medical tests – the inner ear – possibly some slow
motion films of the vibrations of the vocal chords on specific notes of
the scale – like those x–ray charts and films you showed me of my
own voice when I was... But enough. Enough! I am tired and not
making much sense."

"Oh sir!" cried Bobby, "You don't have to do your in persons

tonight if you're too tired."

"In persons?"
"I mean–" once again he looked to me for assistance.
"Impersonations," I said, again, rather irritably, for I, too, was tired.

In addition, I was DYING for a cigarette!

Even the good doctor looked tired. Bobby, on the other hand,

appeared to be the only one of us who wasn't tired. And if he was also
having a nicotine fit he seemed willing to bear it indefinitely.

"I am not too tired to do one very special impersonation."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Oh good!" cried Bobby, with his childlike enthusiasm. "If you

don't feel like Mrs. Roosevelt then do that funny writer fellow. I saw
him on the TV talking about his grandmother and his book about
crazy Southern folk."

"Oh, you mean Truman Capote."
"Yes. That's him. Let me hear your im – im – do him."
"But, dear boy, I'd much rather do you."
"Me?"
"Why not? Let me think a moment. Let me get in the mood.

Alright – a deep breath – and here is my impression of Bobby
Hoffman, lately of the state of Texas."

"Paul. Don't. Use you head. It would be a serious mistake to – I

mean – you might offend him. Nobody likes to be imitated."

"Quiet please. I am concentrating."
After a long pause I heard Paul Kleist speak in Bobby's voice:
"If you don't feel like Mrs. Roosevelt then do that funny writer

fellow. I saw him on the TV talking about his grandmother and his
book about crazy Southern folk."

It was then that I wanted desperately to grab Bobby by the hand and

drag him out of that house and get back to New York City by any
means possible, even if it meant we might have to hitch hike.

Instead – I sat there, determined not to spoil Bobby's evening, and

said to Paul Kleist:

"I agree with Dr. Anselmo. Show Business is being deprived of a

great comedian."

Bobby turned to me and asked, "Is that the way I talk?"
"Sort of. It was clever, I admit."
It wasn't clever. And it wasn't 'sort of.' Nor was it a caricature – an

exaggeration for theatrical effect. It was so completely Bobby that I
felt momentarily terrified. When the terror passed I knew and felt one
thing only: I loathed Paul Kleist! The great tenor I had idolized was
an appalling human being.

And yet – what had he actually done to make me hate him? Why

should his convincing impersonation of Bobby strike me as a presage
of Calamity? Why was I convinced that his desire to collaborate with

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

Anselmo in grooming Bobby to be his replacement could only be self-
serving, if not malign?

Dr. Theodore Anselmo rose and announced: "Now I really must

say goodnight and take my leave. Can I give you boys a lift back to
town? The rain seems to be letting up considerably. Enough to drive
safely, at least."

"Theo, that would be most impractical. They do not want to return

to town without their own vehicle. You were not listening when I was
outlining our available options in the bedroom. You were hypnotized
by your own laryngoscope. The boys are spending the night here, and
that is final."

"Nothing is final. Not even death. Since my visits to Haiti I have

concluded that death is nothing more than a temporary
inconvenience."

Rather too aggressively I said to Anselmo:
"I've heard both Haiti and Heidelberg mentioned more than once.

Where are you from originally?"

"All over the world – East and West. And in me the twain has met.

But to return to practical matters of the moment, it would seem
sensible to me – now that it has stopped raining altogether – for you
boys to go outside and try your motor."

"Why don't you try your own? Chances are it too has drowned in

the great Summer Storm of 1958 and you too will be obliged to stay
the night."

"I wouldn't want to put you out."
"Nonsense. This house has fifteen guest rooms ready and waiting

for guests. How could you be putting me out?"

Anselmo sat down again as if he had already decided to remain for

the night regardless of the condition of his car.

"Why is it, Paul, that you still have no car of your own?"
"You know very well, Theo, that I do not drive. I never learned to

drive. I never had the need nor the desire to learn. A limousine and
driver were always at my convenience when I was singing at the Met,
but I am sure you must recall I lived at the Ansonia hotel then – as did
many of my old colleagues – for convenience."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"I thought only that it might be good for you to learn to drive now

that you have time on your hands."

"I do not have time on my hands. Time has me in its hands. And

to where would I drive? I never go anywhere. If someone wishes to
see me, and I am agreeable, he can jolly well come here. I am not in
retirement merely. Nor am I in total seclusion. Rather I should say I
am in a condition of self imposed exile."

"Is the condition permanent?"
"That is up to you."
"Paul – it is not so easy. There is much danger."
"You succeeded with that little girl and her grandmother."
"Your memory fails you. The old woman died."
"How can you say that? You of all people! She was twelve years

old and had her whole life before her."

"Of which one are we speaking, my friend?"
"The one who survived, of course."
"And who exactly was the one who did not?"
"We must talk about this further, Theo."
"Yes, we must talk, I agree. About how you are deliberately

blinding yourself to the consequences. I must somehow make you
comprehend–"

"Oh my dear Doctor Anselmo, I do comprehend. I am not blind to

the dangers or the consequences. What you do not seem to
comprehend is that I simply do not give a damn."

They felt perfectly free to conduct that extraordinary conversation

in front of Bobby and me. They knew we hadn't the faintest idea of
what they were talking about. And if we did, they knew we wouldn't
believe a word of it. Like vampires, they knew their safety was
insured by the fact that sensible, civilized beings don't believe in such
things. Later – much later – far too late, in fact – I would recall their
remarks about the little girl and her grandmother and wonder how I
could have been so determined not to disappoint Bobby that I failed to
recognize something that had to be either complete insanity or pure
evil of a supernatural kind.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

I think I was single-mindedly obsessed with the fear of losing

Bobby. I think I knew he was already hooked and that to object
strongly to his having anything further to do with those two men
might drive him from me.

And, as it happened, the jeep still wouldn't start. Nor would Dr.

Anselmo's 1959 Cadillac. The Great Summer Rainstorm of 1958
cancelled our preferences. Whether we wanted to stay overnight or
not no longer mattered. Dr. Anselmo retired to his guest room and
Bobby and I retired to ours.

Bobby slept soundly in the huge King-sized double bed (with black

satin sheets, no less!) that we shared. But I did not. The bizarre
events of the preceding hours extended deep into the night. And when
I finally dozed off I had a nightmare.

Or was I awake and hallucinating?

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER VI

Bobby undressed and got into bed.
"Oh wow! Les, hurry up and get undressed. You gotta feel these

crazy sheets against your bare skin. Never heard of black sheets.
What'll they think of next? Bet they cost a lot. So soft and smooth
against my naked body."

We, both of us, were accustomed to sleeping naked. But not in the

same bed. I knew what that meant. It meant I wouldn't be able to
sleep at all unless I jacked off before getting in bed with Nature Boy.

"Are they silk?" he asked, rubbing the fabric against himself – all

over – in the most sensuous and provocative manner.

It was then that I gave in to an irresistible impulse. Instead of

feeling the top sheet on my side of the bed I caressed a portion of it
underneath which was Bobby's muscular thigh.

"Satin," I said, with a certain tightness in my throat. It required all

my willpower to take my hand away from those rippling muscles
swathed in satin.

"Bobby, I gotta ask you, how do you feel about us sleeping in the

same bed with both of us naked?"

"Aw Les, no problem, the bed's plenty wide. Room enough for

three guys."

"Who would the third one be? Conrad perhaps?"
Bobby giggled and said, "Oh boy, what a treat! Poor little guy –

gets treated like a slave."

"Maybe he enjoys that."
"Yeah, maybe. Takes all kinds. Some guys are really heavy into

pain. I heard James Dean liked to have guys stub cigarettes out on his
chest. They called him the human ashtray."

"Please! You're giving me a hard on."
"Oh yeah, that stuff turns you on, I forgot. I'm sorry."
"Don't mention it. But speaking of cigarettes..."
"Oh yeah – you got any? Mine got soaked in the rain and I had to

throw 'em away."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Mine are ... where? Did I leave them in my jacket pocket? – or did

I – Yes, I must have – they're still downstairs. I'm sure I left them and
my lighter on the coffee table when I..."

"I'll go down and look for 'em. We gotta have a smoke, for gosh

sake."

"No, I'll go. Why should you have to put clothes on when I'm still

dressed?"

"Gotta admit I'm too comfortable just the way I am. And – Les –

when you're back and we can – just relax in bed with our smokes –
there's something we gotta talk about."

"Bet I can guess what it is."
"Bet you can, at that."
"Are you worried about what I think of the idea?"
"A little, I guess. You don't like those guys very much, I can tell. I

mean – you're suspicious."

"Sure, we can talk about it all you like, Bobby. But I won't make

you wait until I get back from my tobacco search to put your sweet
mind at ease. Yes, I think they're deadly serious and they made some
points that sound convincing enough. Although I have some
misgivings about their motives – whether they can be trusted – the
way they jumped to conclusions so fast – some of their weird double
talk – like they were hiding something – Kleist getting carried away,
saying too much, and Anselmo trying to control him. One minute
they were talking about the same thing, or so it seemed, and a minute
later they were contradicting each other – Finally lapsing into some
kind of code that was not meant for us to understand – Anselmo
warning Kleist about some kind of danger. Danger to whom? To
him? To you? I suppose he meant the stress of teaching might
endanger the old man's health. I'd like to think that's what he meant. I
can't imagine what possible danger there could be to you aside from
the possibility of setting you up for a big disappointment."

"I'd take that risk, Les, really I would, and gladly, just for a chance

it might work out. I want to try. So bad. It's my dream and you know
it."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Sure I do. And I'd feel entirely comfortable had he just said he'd

like to teach you and see how far you could go. But he acted like
there was no doubt he could take you all the way. Well – still – Give
it a try. It's not as if you're obligated to him in any way. If either of
us smells a rat along the way we can pull out, and there's nothing they
can do to make you stay with it. Don't sign anything. No kind of
contract. Not for a long time, at least."

"You mean you're with me on this?"
"I'm with you, whatever you want. You know that. I would never

discourage you."

"I've got nothing to lose."
"So it seems. It had better stay that way, is all I'm saying."
"What the heck did they mean by that bit about the little girl and

her grandmother? What did that have to do with giving me voice
lessons?"

"I have no idea. That was the really weird part that bothers me.

The old woman died. Died of what? Then there seemed to be some
confusion about which one died. I couldn't make heads or tails of it.
They're a weird pair. Hypnosis as an aid in ear training. I'd like to
ask Madame Campi about that. And I'd like to do a bit of checking up
on Dr. Anselmo's credentials. But don't let that bother you. You just
go along with the lessons and let me know if anything they have you
do seems fishy. Does that sound agreeable to you?"

"Gosh yes! Completely!"
"Shall we have a smoke on it? To celebrate?"
"You bet. I'm plumb having a nicotine fit."
"Likewise."
"Bet he'll make me quit."
"He cannot make you do anything without your full consent.

Remember that."

"Yes, Master."
"I'll be right back. Don't do anything funny while I'm gone."
"Oh – you mean – like jacking off?"
"Oh Hell, you can do that if you like. But it might be more fun if

you wait for me."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Get outa here."
"And what will you do should I – accidentally – when I'm sound

asleep – roll over on top of you?"

"I will very gently roll you back to your side of the bed."
"I was afraid you'd say that."
"Go get those darn cigarettes before I turn you over my lap and

spank you."

"With or without my clothes on?"
"Without, of course. When I spank you, boy, you'll be Buck

Naked!"

I didn't bother with the tedious task of unfastening buttons. I pulled

Conrad's form fitting shirt up over my head and flung it across the
room. Before it hit the floor I was starting on the pants. Part of the
thrill was my acute awareness that I wasn't wearing any shorts
underneath. Hell! In those nelly tight pants of Conrad's there wasn't
any room for shorts.

In less than two seconds I was totally naked and approaching my

'let's pretend' sadist with my head bowed in shame and my hands
cupped over what was definitely not a 'let's pretend' hard-on. Then,
without a second of forethought, I lapsed into an exaggerated
imitation of Conrad:

"Oh, Paul! You're so cruel! But I know how you love to spank me

without a stitch on! And if that's the only way I can get you to pay
attention to me, I'm more than willing to provoke you. Oh Paul! My
Lord and Master! Spank me! Spank me hard! I do so deserve it!"

"Cut that out, Les. Cut it out right now or I will beat your ass – so

hard you'll need to put five pillows on your piano stool before you can
sit on it."

"What do you think I want you to do, you slow witted oaf?"
I couldn't believe I said that. What was happening to me in that

house? I didn't dare look at Bobby to see in his eyes what I had done
to him with those words.

I looked away – and fixed my gaze on the open window far across

the room.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"It seems the rain has stopped completely," I said, as if it were an

announcement of the utmost importance.

When finally I looked at Bobby he was sitting on the side of the

bed. His feet were on the floor. His sleek, slick satin cover had fallen
aside, leaving him totally exposed.

I tried to say 'I'm sorry,' but I couldn't. There was a lump in my

throat. I couldn't swallow it or spit it out. I couldn't even breathe.

Just when I felt as if I were going to pass out Bobby started

laughing. It wasn't his usual high-pitched, childish giggle. It was a
deep, booming laugh, full from the chest. I was too stunned to feel
the relief that such good-natured laughter encouraged.

When his laughter subsided Bobby said, "Well it's about time."
"What? – what?..."
"Time for me to stop being so sensitive and time for you to stop

walking on egg shells and biting your tongue all the time. Because we
both know I'm a dimwit. Say it. Say it! Dimwit dimwit dimwit! Say
it, darn you, or I won't spank you."

I threw myself on my knees, at his feet. I seized his hand, kissed it,

and said:

"Oh my dimwit. My beloved dimwit! I love you. Just as you are.

Be my sweet, beautiful dimwit to the end of our days. And I'll be
anything you will let me be. Never your lover. Ever your friend. I
worship you. I always have. Take my love, I beg you, on any terms
you will accept."

I was sounding like a bad English translation of an Italian verismo

opera. The hell of it was: I meant every word of it!

And Bobby took pity on me.
"Aw, Les. I love you too. Don't you know? I only wish I could –

be your lover all the way. I can't. And it's so unfair to you. How can
you live with me when I keep you so frus – frustate..."

"Frustrated."
"Yeah. I must drive you nuts."
"I am frustrated. And you do drive me nuts. But I don't mind

because there's no one else for me, and never will be. Oh Bobby! I
thought I'd never say these things to you. And I vowed I'd never ever

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

make a pass at you. Now I've done both. I've lost all my inhibitions.
All my self-control. Here. In this unfamiliar room in this strange
house. There's something about this house and the people in it – some
strange occult power that forces me to do and say things I've been too
cautious and fearful to do in the privacy of our own apartment."

"What is it, Les, that you've been afraid of at home?"
"Of losing you. Of driving you from me. Of saying or doing

anything that would lead you to think I was – like all the others who
led you to believe you had found a true friend at last – only to dump
you when they'd succeeded in seducing you. From what you've told
me about yourself I've gathered that all the men you've had sex
relations with – whatever form they took – were either the impersonal
johns who paid you for it or the sexual predators who deceived and
exploited you. No wonder you're blocked off from the possibility of –
of making love with the very man you love – who loves you in
return."

"You understand! Oh my God, I never thought anybody could

understand. Not even you. If I didn't love you I could. If you were
nobody it would be a cinch. I would fuck you and do anything else
you wanted. And even enjoy it. Until after I came. Then I'd feel
dirty like I always did – with all those others you spoke of so – so
right on. But loving you as I do – you being all the real family I've
ever known – it would be for me like – like..."

"Incest."
"Yes. Incest. That's the word I was looking for. I'm so screwed up

in my head it seems like sex and love are as far apart as any two
things can be. Maybe – someday – I can get it sorted out. Get it
together, I mean. Will you wait for me?"

"Do you still have to ask that after all I've just said?"
"I guess not. Thanks, Les."
"You're welcome, my adorable dimwit."
"I told you I'd spank you if you called me that."
We had run the gamut of operatic extremes from Orpheus to

Electra. Now, it appeared, we were ready to take on the kinky
atonalities of Lulu!

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Oh no you didn't. You said just the opposite. You said if I didn't

call you a dimwit you'd punish me by not spanking me."

"Oh – so I did. Well then I reckon I'll have to reward you with a

good, hard spanking. That wouldn't be the same as incest, would it?"

"Oh no, not at all. It's a perfectly natural family matter. You're

older than me. You're the Big Brother I look up to. And when your
little brother has earned himself a good bare bottom spanking you're
the right man for the job."

"Well then, little bro, suppose you just bend over my lap and take it

like a man."

I couldn't believe that one of my many masturbation fantasies about

Bobby – and all of them were about Bobby, of course – was coming
true. As I stood up I glanced at his cock to see if it was hard. It
wasn't. But that beautifully shaped weapon was so long, even in its
flaccid condition, that it dangled over the edge of the bed like an ivory
hued length of hose.

Obviously the situation was not a turn-on for him. He was merely

being obliging. Nor could he act the part of the sadist who enjoys the
infliction of punishment. His puckish smile told me he was amused.
And when I draped my nakedness over his own he began at once to
deliver playful little smacks to my butt that were – well – much too
mild. Were it not for my angry hard-on, stabbing his thighs as I
squirmed and wriggled on his lap, I would say we were like a couple
of naughty-nice little boys playing an almost innocent game – just
barely aware enough to make certain that nobody was around to catch
us at it.

And – low and behold! – there was somebody around to catch us at

it. Conrad was standing in the doorway – watching! I had not heard
him knock – if he knocked. I had not noticed the door being opened,
and I cursed myself silently for forgetting to lock it.

"What the hell!" I gasped, as I none too steadily got to my feet.
Unperturbed, he took his time looking me over – and looking

Bobby over – before he said:

"Oh do pardon me for disturbing you. I've come to ask a favor of

you. I hope you won't mind."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

He was almost as naked as Bobby and I. He was wearing only a

tiny red thong that was more revealing than a bikini.

"Oh that's OK," said Bobby, as he ever so casually got back in bed

and pulled the sexy black satin top sheet up to a point just below his
waist – leaving his huge navel exposed and winking to the rippling of
his belly muscles.

"We were just fooling around," he added, as he squandered upon

the unworthy intruder one of his most stunningly guileless smiles.

That smile alone – to say nothing about that face and that body –

was like a magnet. And, like a somnambulist, Conrad advanced
dreamy-soft toward the bed. As he passed me I took him by the arm
and turned him back around – toward the door.

"You want to ask a favor of me, Conrad, old buddy? Why, sure.

Let's just step out in the hall a moment. You'll pardon my birthday
suit but I noticed you're not exactly over dressed yourself."

"It will only take a couple of seconds. Why do we have to go out in

the hall?"

"Well, you see, it is Mr. Hoffman's custom to meditate before he

goes to sleep. We wouldn't want to disturb him, would we?"

Bobby giggled. He must have found my remark quite hilarious

because he was still giggling as I firmly escorted Conrad into the hall
and closed the door behind us.

With Bobby out of sight it was now my turn to be gaped at. And

when his open mouthed gaze, streaking up and down my nakedness,
fixed upon my still fully erect cock I experienced a pleasant sense of
power.

Because because because.
His kinky little thong revealed all too plainly that his sexual

equipment was no match for mine. Our physical resemblance stopped
short at that area of the groin.

Not that I was any match for Bobby in that department but – hey! –

who was?!

"So what is the favor you would have me do for you?"
"I have to get up very early in the morning to be at Carrington's

garage, soon as they open, and bring back a service man to fix your

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

car. And Dr. Anselmo's too. I have nothing in my wardrobe except
my very fine suits that Mr. Kleist bought for me. I'm terrified of
maybe getting grease or oil stains on them. I mean there's greasy stuff
all over the place. Even in the office. You simply can't walk into the
place without picking up grease. The only casual clothes I own – I
mean the only ones I wouldn't mind too much getting a little messed
up – are the shirt and pants I loaned you to wear while Anna was
pressing your shirt and suit which, I'm pleased to report, will be ready
for you before you go down for breakfast in the morning. Meanwhile
– as you won't be needing them while you're sleeping – could I please
have them back now? – so I can put them on – to walk all the way to
the garage – at the crack of dawn – to get the service man – so your
car will start – so you can drive back to Manhattan – tomorrow – after
breakfast – please."

"No problem. Wait here."
He waited in the hall while I fetched his clothes for him. Then I

waited and watched him until he had walked far far down the long
hall and entered a room that was, I presumed, either his own or
Kleist's. I didn't know or care whose room it was. I wanted only to be
certain that the coast was clear before I ventured downstairs – totally
naked – to get my cigarettes and lighter.

I didn't give a damn that I was naked. Didn't give a damn who I

might run into. Not even Anna, if she was still around. It seemed
there was a conspiracy going on to prevent Bobby and me from
satisfying our nicotine craving. Conrad's taking his clothes back was
the last straw.

No! – The conspiracy went beyond keeping us from smoking. Of

that I was sure. I strongly suspected that Kleist put his skimpy-
thonged little slave up to it, with a suspiciously flimsy excuse, just to
prevent my escaping with Bobby in the dead of night.

So now I was his naked prisoner! And I really didn't care as long as

I could get my damn cigarettes and get back up to Bobby.

Most of the lights were out but it wasn't as dark as I feared. There

was a dim night light, here and there. One at the top of the stairs.
Another at the bottom. None in the great drawing room. But so

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

what? Nothing to stop me from turning on a couple of lamps so I
could look around.

And there they were! – cigarettes and lighter – on the coffee table

next to the spot where I had put the tape recorder. The ashtray was
still there with my one cigarette butt in it.

So I hadn't left the pack of smokes in my jacket pocket after all.

Lucky break. But why was I having such difficulty remembering? It
seemed so long ago that I had sat there, taping an aborted interview
with Paul Kleist.

And where was my tape recorder? Did Anna have it? Would I get

it back with my suit? Did she give it to me when she took my suit
away to press it? I could not for the life of me remember. All the
things that had happened to me in that house seemed as if they were
spread out over a period of weeks. Or months!

I wondered if I would ever get that interview typed up and sent off

to Opera Quarterly. Suddenly I knew I would not – and that nothing
in my life would ever be the same. Worst of all – that there was no
turning back. Because the point of no return had already been
reached. And I knew why I had bolted from that room at the onset of
a sudden storm – fleeing in panic into the wind and rain.

I grabbed my cigarettes and lighter, turned out the lights, and

rushed from the room. I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. I could
not wait another moment to tell Bobby I was wrong. Dead wrong!
We could not – he could not – not possibly – be associated – Danger –
much danger – a matter of life and death! Better to disappoint him
now than sit by and let him fall into the abyss that awaited him –
awaited both of us!

But I stopped short at the top of the stairs. Stopped dead in my

flight – because of a sound I heard coming from the room I had seen
Conrad enter.

It was a sound I had never heard in real life. But I recognized it at

once – and unmistakably – because I had heard it so often in movies.
Heard and seen and remembered. Was I dreaming? Or was such a
thing really happening in that house?

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

What I heard was the cracking of a whip – loud as a gunshot –

followed by the scream of a young man.

Then again.
And again.
Ah yes! How many young actors who look great with their shirts

off had I seen whipped in movies as I sat alone in a dark balcony,
masturbating under a jacket draped discreetly over my lap?

I followed the whip cracks and the screams all the way to that room

and, much to my surprise, found the door ajar. Only much later did it
occur to me that the door had been left ajar deliberately – so that I
would hear and follow and see.

Yes. Surely I had been seen walking naked down that hall as if

searching, not for my pack of cigarettes, but for something else I
wanted that I was not yet ready for, however much I wanted it.

And how could I possibly have wanted it from a dirty old man?!
I was peeking into Paul Kleist's master bedroom which was

dominated by an enormous canopied bed. The canopy was supported
by four tall, sturdy phallic posts. Spread eagled between the two posts
at the foot of the bed was Conrad. He was completely naked and
being lashed by Paul Kleist.

At first I was terrified of being discovered. Then I realized it was

not Kleist and Conrad I was seeing, but their reflections in a full-
length mirror. The hall was dark and I was standing in deep shadow.
I could watch undetected.

I did not have to feel pity for Conrad. He was obviously enjoying

being whipped. His cock was stiff and absolutely perpendicular as he
twisted and writhed in response to every lash of the whip on his
shapely naked butt. He looked as if he were fucking the air.

On the bed were the tattered remnants of the tiny red thong that had

been ripped off after he was bound in a sexy spread eagle for a proper
naked whipping.

Doubtless this was a regular thing between the two of them.

Conrad was getting the kind of attention he craved. And when he
craved it he deliberately provoked his master until he got it.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

It was not quite the sexiest thing I had ever seen or imagined.

Something was wrong. Very wrong. The man with the whip was old
and ridiculous in his nightshirt – panting and sweating from his
exertions. He should have been young and powerful – beautiful and
naked.

He should have been Bobby!
And the naked boy bound hand and foot between the posts should

have been me.

Oh God! I pictured it as it should have been – and I came.
I didn't have to jack off. I didn't even have to touch myself. All I

had to do was reinvent the scene to my secret desire.

I fell to my knees, weak and shaken. I had made a mess on the

highly polished floor. What would Kleist think when he found a pool
of come on his threshold? Would he slip on it and fall as Herod slips
on the blood of Narraboth in Salome?

How convincing and spectacular was Kleist's fall when he played

Herod! And he remained on the floor – lying in a pool of blood – as
he sang:

"Ah! I have slipped
in blood! It is an
ill omen. Why is there
blood here? And this
body, what does this
body here? Do you
think I am like the
King of Egypt, who
gives no feast to his
guests but that he
shows them a corpse?"

It seemed that hours had passed when finally I was back in our

room. Bobby was sound asleep. I was glad. Quite relieved, in fact. I
didn't want to have to tell him what I had seen – and what had
happened to me when I saw it.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

I lit a cigarette and inhaled deeply. I walked across the room and

stood by the open window and smoked one cigarette after another as
Bobby slept, peaceful and undisturbed.

When at last I turned out the light and slipped in bed beside him I

too fell asleep, almost at once.

I slept until a hand on my bare chest aroused me. I opened my

eyes. And by the light of a full moon shining through the window I
saw Bobby standing over me – stroking his hands all over my nude
body.

"Bobby!" I gasped.
"No, not yet," he replied. "But soon, soon, I promise you. Be

patient a little longer and I shall come to you as you desire me."

But Bobby's voice was not right. It sounded tired from age and

overuse. Nor were his hands on my body quite right. They were dry
and scaly – like an old man's hands.

With a cry of revulsion I sat up in bed. I groped for the lamp on the

bedside table. I switched it on. There was no one there – except
Bobby – sleeping – his golden blond curls peeking out above the
black satin sheet he had pulled over his face.

I eased the sheet down to a point just under his chin. I gazed at his

face for some moments. I even checked to see that he was still
breathing.

I don't know how long I kept vigil over him before I fell exhausted

into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER VII

A knocking on the door awakened me to sunshine and fresh, cool

air. The heat wave was over and so was the rain that had cured it.

More knocking. But I was not eager to respond. I didn't want the

sight of my host or his consort to spoil the perfection of the morning.

But when I turned in the bed to see if Bobby was awake and

discovered that he wasn't there the perfection disintegrated without a
trace.

I leaped out of bed and opened the door wide, mindless of my

nakedness.

For a moment it seemed a perfect stranger was standing there and I

instinctively cupped my hands over my morning erection.

"It's alright, sir, its only me, Martin."
Standing close to him he appeared much bigger than I remembered

from the night before – which seemed ages ago.

"I'm afraid I've some bad news, sir."
I held my breath. Waiting. Waiting for him to tell me something

had happened to Bobby.

"If it's about my friend, tell me straight off."
"Your friend? – Oh, you mean the tall blond fellow. He's fine, sir.

He was up and out at the crack of dawn."

"Out? You mean he's left?"
"Yes, sir, but he'll be back. He left with the man from the garage.

In the tow truck. It was necessary to take your vehicle in to do the
repair work."

"So that's the bad news, is it?"
"Oh no, sir, not at all. They are very reliable. Whatever needs to

be done will be done. And Mr. Kleist has asked me to inform you that
he will take care of the bill."

"That sounds like good news."
"Why yes, I should think so, sir."
"Then what, may I ask, is the bad news?"
"It's your suit, sir. I'm afraid it's ruined. There was an accident

with the iron. My wife is very distressed. She takes pride in her

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

ironing. But somehow she got distracted and left the hot iron on the
seat of your trousers. It burned completely through. We will pay for
the cost of a new suit, of course."

"No no, I won't hear of it. I never liked that suit. It was so like a

uniform. The regulation dark blue with white shirt and striped tie.
I'm glad to be rid of it. Tell your wife to dry her tears and forget all
about it."

I was telling the truth. The suit was old and starting to turn shiny. I

hated it.

"That's most kind of you, sir. But we'll need to get you something

to put on. Nothing of mine would fit you, unfortunately. But Mr.
Kleist's – er – companion..."

"Conrad."
"Yes, sir. He is about your size. Perhaps – "
"No, I don't want to wear any of his suits. He mentioned they cost

a lot and I don't want to be responsible for anything of his. Haven't
you a pair of old dungarees? I could wear them with my belt to hold
them up – and – and – roll up the legs. I don't care how I look as long
as I can get back to town without getting arrested for indecent
exposure."

"If you don't mind jeans, sir, I could–"
"Jeans are fine. Would you get them for me, please?"
"Certainly, sir, right away."
"And my shirt."
"A shirt, of course, right away, sir."
He left and I lit a cigarette. But before I had finished it he was

back.

"Here you are, sir. Just in time, too, because breakfast is served in

ten minutes."

"Splendid. I'll just have time for a quick shower. I hope my friend

will get back in time."

"Oh, he has already breakfasted, sir. Quite early. Before the man

from Carrington's arrived."

That news didn't unsettle me. Bobby was often up and going at the

crack of dawn.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Well – thank you, Martin, I'll be down shortly."
"Very good, sir."
I threw the clothes on the bed and hopped in the shower. When I

was finished and ready to dress I picked up the jeans and discovered
they were Levis – very faded – tattered – and my size exactly. They
had to be Conrad's!

And the shirt. It wasn't the white dress shirt I had worn with my

suit. It was a sleeveless job – more like a vest – with no pockets and
no buttons. It came down only to my waist. The front was wide open
except for fine criss-cross string-laces that served only to call greater
attention to my exposed chest. Only a Queen who wanted to advertise
would wear a shirt like that. A Queen like Conrad.

The Levis were equally revealing. Skintight, with rips and holes

here and there to allow provocative glimpses of bare flesh – including
twin peek-a-boos of ass cheeks, the result of ripped-off back pockets.

And where the hell were my jockey shorts? Were they also a

victim of Anna's hot iron?

Oh hell! It was so obvious. I was being made to look the way

Kinky Kleist wanted me to look. Yes, that was his name from that
moment on. 'Kinky' suited him better than 'Paul.' Kinky Kleist
wanted to dress me to look like his fantasy of a half naked slave. And
as I studied myself in the mirror I had to admit that I looked sexy as
hell! Much sexier than Conrad could possibly look in that male whore
outfit.

Well – let the poor old fool get his kicks drooling over me at

breakfast. It would be his last chance because, after breakfast, I
would be out of there. Furthermore I would keep the indecent
exposure costume for its fetishistic appeal – maybe wear it some night
in Greenwich Village where gay guys could get away with costumes
strictly for cruising. Indecency as a come-on.

Conrad had lied about not having 'casual' clothes in his wardrobe.

Martin had lied about the hot iron. It was a household of liars. And
what the hell did I care?!

Dressed as Kinky Kleist desired me I went downstairs. Kleist was

alone at the dining table.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Ah! Les, dear boy, did you sleep well?"
"No, not at all, thank you, but I can take a nap when I get home."
"Have some scrambled eggs."
"No, thank you, just coffee."
"Dr. Anselmo asked me to say his goodbye. He left at dawn."
"I take it his car recovered from its watery malaise."
"Apparently. May I say you look delicious this morning?"
"You may say anything you please, Herr Kleist."
"You sound a bit peevish this morning."
"Do I? I'm sorry. I want to thank you for your hospitality but

please, sir, understand I am very eager to get home. I have my life to
live and my work to do. I've already missed one job today. I have
another one tonight at the Bel Canto Opera Workshop and I've no
intention of missing it. My livelihood depends on my being reliable.
I'm sure you, of all people, appreciate that."

"But of course, dear boy. We can expect Robert back with his

vehicle in good repair at any moment. Meanwhile I should like to talk
about his voice lessons. When do you think he could start?"

"You will have to discuss that with him. It is entirely his affair. He

is a free soul and can do as he wishes. I've no say in it whatever."

"But I'm sure he will want your consent."
"He has it. I made that clear to him last night."
"I'm so pleased. I think – I really think a lesson every day would

produce the best results."

"If Bobby wants to drive out here and back every day that's entirely

up to him."

"Oh, but that would cause too much traveling back and forth. And

so unnecessary when he could live here – indefinitely. So much more
convenient. Naturally I realize how close you two are. I shouldn't
want you to be separated for the duration of his training. So I thought
perhaps you would take a job working for me."

"As your houseboy, no doubt."
"Certainly not. As piano accompanist, which is your profession, is

it not? I can play. A little. But not well enough to do justice to the
piano scores of the Operas I have in mind for Robert. Oh it would be

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

ideal! You could both move in here and we could all work together. I
will pay you well. I will pay you more than you are earning at
present. That plus free room and board would make it possible for
you to save your earnings."

"It appears to me, Herr Kleist, that you move very fast. For

instance, how can you be sure that I'm good enough to do justice to
the scores you have in mind for Bobby?"

"You told me you play for Antonia Campi's students. I know of her

and her outstanding reputation. She would not engage you were you
not highly competent. In addition you are a Julliard graduate, are you
not? You don't have to audition. You are hired here and now to play
for your Bobby, comfortable in the knowledge that you do not have to
be separated for a moment, as you will be living together as usual."

"And our lives would be entirely in your hands."
"Not at all. You will be free to go anywhere you like when we are

not at work. Nor would we work more than three hours a day at most.
Not for the world would I push him too hard or too fast. And think
upon this: If you live here while our Robert is in training you could
keep close watch – a constant vigil – to make certain that the boy you
so obviously love comes to no harm. I say this because I know you do
not yet trust me entirely. And I do not blame you. Why should you
trust me on such brief acquaintance? In addition it will give you
peace of mind to hear with your own ears the steady improvement in
his singing from day to day. When you hear for yourself what I know
he is potentially capable of you will know that I want for him only
what he so desperately wants for himself. Then, Mr. Lesser Porter,
you will thank me."

I didn't want to reply. I didn't want to say another word to that

man. And, thank God, I didn't have to – because I heard the happy
horn of Bobby's jeep honking outside, announcing his arrival. I
rushed outside to meet him.

"Great news, Les! They gave this old girl a complete overhaul.

Everything works."

"That's swell, Bobby. Let's leave right now."
"Sure. Hop in. Where did you get the sexy outfit?"

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"The tooth fairy," I said, as I leapt into the jeep.
"Oh but – shouldn't I say goodbye to Mr. Kleist?"
"I've just said goodbye for both of us. Please, let's just go."
I couldn't believe we were actually on the road, headed back to

Manhattan. Bobby, who usually didn't talk while he was driving,
talked nonstop all the way. I closed my eyes. I tried to doze off. I
didn't want to listen to Bobby's prattling about his operatic career or
impossible fantasy there of. When I realized that sleep was
impossible I tried to drown out Bobby's voice by playing piano pieces
in my head. Always I had been attentive to Bobby. Now I wanted
only for him to shut up and drive.

I experienced a moment of exhilaration when we arrived home.

But it was short lived. Before we opened the door to our apartment I
heard the phone ringing. Somehow I knew the call was not for me.
And with a certain turning of my stomach I knew who was calling.

Bobby spoke as softly as possible, obviously not wanting me to

hear. I helped him by going into the kitchen and making as much
noise as possible, brewing coffee and frying an egg. He had eaten
breakfast. I had not.

When I finished eating and had the dishes washed and dried he was

still on the phone – whispering.

Damn it! I could hear that stage whisper all over the apartment. I

felt torn in two. I wanted to hear and I didn't want to hear.

I decided to go for a walk. To think. To have some time to myself.

We were running low on coffee. That was a good excuse. I wrote a
note and put it in front of him:

Gone to the deli.
And I walked out. I didn't know when I'd be back. What plans

were they making? Why did Bobby feel he had to whisper? Sharing
secrets with Kleist?!

Then it struck me: Kinky Kleist knew I would refuse his offer to

take a job as accompanist and live at his place by Bobby's side. He
figured I would be reassured of his benevolent intentions. Then,
knowing I would refuse, he and Doctor Quack could proceed with
their diabolical plot – whatever it was.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"The old woman died."
"How can you say that? She was twelve years old and had her

whole life before her."

I remembered that exchange in the music room between the elderly

singer and his alleged 'throat specialist.' But my mind could not make
the leap required to grasp its meaning. I didn't even believe in
Astrology much less the paranormal – the supernatural – witchcraft –
voodoo – etc. I thought all that stuff was bullshit.

But all my instincts told me – screamed at me! – that the clever

Kraut had Bobby hooked – that Bobby was already slipping away
from me – beyond my power to protect him.

"You know what you must do, Dr. Theodore Anselmo of

Heidelberg and Haiti."

What could Anselmo do to poor Bobby besides stick his God

Damned laryngoscope down the boy's throat to examine his Perfect
Acoustical Instrument?!

As I wandered aimlessly around Hell's Kitchen I asked myself

'What is the worst that could happen if I put my foot down and
forbade Bobby to have anything further to do with the dubious team
of Anselmo and Kleist?'

Three possible consequences presented themselves for my

consideration. All three seemed equally unhappy, to put it mildly:

Bobby would see me as jealous, possessive, and selfish – leading

to:

His decision to leave me for whatever catastrophe awaited him

under Kleist's control. Or:

He would obey me by abandoning his fervent hopes and dreams

and resign himself to remaining with me with his heart broken and an
eradicable black cloud over our relationship.

But – if I could find something to back up my intervention – some

proof to validate my distrust of the whole affair...

I resolved to make some phone calls the first moment Bobby was

away – at the Gym – shopping – whatever. A lawyer? Private
investigator? Could I scrounge up enough money to pay for
professional assistance?

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

Could Jerry Connors help me? Even though we were hardly best of

friends, Jerry knew a hell of a lot of people. One of his former lovers
was a detective on the police force, for Christ's sake! And he bragged
about having had a mad affair with a dashing young doctor at
Roosevelt Hospital. Perhaps through Jerry and his contacts I could, at
the very least, get sound advice about the best way to conduct my own
investigation before I started dialing numbers from the telephone
directory. I could just imagine the frustration:

"Yes. Is this the number to call to inquire if a man who says he's a

doctor actually has a license to practice? No? Well can you tell me
what number I can call to get that information? – I'm sorry, I can't
hear you clearly, would you repeat that? – I still can't understand you,
could you take the clothespin off of your nose and say it slower? –
Well same to you, Madame!"

Christ! I was only a musician. Why should I have to know

anything about how to expose quack doctors who practice voodoo in
Haiti? – And broken down old tenors who promise big time careers to
none-too-bright young men who can't carry a tune in a bucket?

There was a gay bar in the far west outskirts of Hell's Kitchen, near

the waterfront. I hadn't gone there since Bobby and I got together.
They were just opening when I arrived.

It was the kind of bar that opened for the lunch trade – 'mixed' as

they say – when gay-friendly straights of both sexes joined the gay
(mostly male) regulars at certain hours – then got gayer and gayer
until the rough trade and the reckless queens packed the joint from six
o'clock cocktail hour until four AM closing.

I was quite aware of my indecently revealing outfit that had turned

me into a Conrad Clone. I had not bothered to change into something
that reflected the person I liked to think I was. Nor did I know
whether I was being reckless or merely indifferent. I had received
plenty of outraged stares while walking the streets. Luckily, I had not
encountered a single cop. I sat at the bar and ordered a beer. The
bartender hesitated – looking me over – shaking his head.

"Sorry buddy, you can't come in here dressed like that. You could

get us raided."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

I slipped him five bucks. A big tip in those days. I got my beer. I

drank it and tried to think. I drank too much and couldn't think.
Where the fuck would thinking get me? I drank beer until I was
definitely drunk.

The place was filling up. Mostly men. An hour or so later it was

men only.

A semi-attractive blond man approached me. If I squinted my eyes

through my alcoholic daze I might with some effort have succeeded in
pretending he was Bobby.

"Hi! I'm Joe and I have a hotel room half a block from here."
"Hi! I'm Conrad and I have the clap."
How fast he disappeared! I could almost see a puff of smoke where

he had been.

Bobby was the only man for me. The last thing I wanted was a pale

imitation.

But why so nasty? It wasn't like me. But then I wasn't like me.

Anymore. I was Conrad. Half naked. Feeling like the silly bitch I
was.

Silly bitch, helpless now to intervene on behalf of the man I had

formerly been able to protect.

What time was it? How long had I been sitting there getting drunk

in the afternoon? I had to go home. But I couldn't. Not until I could
figure out what to do. Not until I could clear my head. Sober up.
Take charge. Gain control of the situation.

Come on, boy. Get up from the silly barstool. Go to the pay

phone. Call home. Tell Bobby where you are. Ask him to come get
you.

I staggered toward the phone booth. Bumped into a guy. Spilled

his drink.

"Sorry. So sorry. Buy you another. Got to get to the phone. Help

me, please. Where the fuck's the phone?"

Nice guy. He steered me to the phone. Even dialed the number for

me. Held on to me so I wouldn't fall on my ass. Some queens are
really very nice. Help another queen out when he's too drunk to stand
up.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

The phone rang. And rang. And rang.
Bobby wasn't home. Bobby would never be home again. Bobby

had fallen off the edge of the earth and nothing I could do would save
him.

I started crying. A crying, drunken helpless useless faggot. Never

had I loathed myself as I did that day in that bar.

"Come on, fellow. It can't be that bad. You've just had one too

many. You live near here? I'll see you home."

I told the nice stranger where I lived and he walked me home. He

kept his arm around me, supporting me all the way.

"Do you want to go to bed with me?" I asked the man.
"No, you're too drunk. I just want to get you home safe. You

worry me. What's your name?"

"Conrad."
"Well, Conrad, take some advice like a sensible guy. Two things

about you that could get you arrested: One, you're publicly
intoxicated. Two, you're half naked. These are bad times for gay
folk. Drunkenness and indecent exposure could land you in the clink.
Lucky there're no cops around. You're in sorry shape. What
happened? Your lover walk out on you?"

"Don't know. Gotta get home and find out. He's under the

influence."

"You mean – alcohol?"
"No. I mean the devil."
"You're sure about that?"
"Sure as hell. Will you – will you – help me upstairs? I don't think

I can make it alone."

Nice guy. Helped me into the apartment. Wanted nothing from

me. Wanted only to help out a poor drunken queen who was falling
apart. Helped me all the way in and eased me down on my bed.

And left.
Damn my uptight, buttoned down soul! Without realizing it I had

been a homophobic homosexual ever since I came out. Never had I
had a gay friend I could trust. Always it was competitiveness and
one-upmanship. Rivalry. Who among us can be the most brilliant? –

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

the most desirable? – the best put-down artist? – the most brittle and
bitchy and glacial and piss-elegant?

How dehumanizing was our arsenal of defenses!
In those days! – the God Damned days of the most conformist and

repressive decade of the twentieth century.

And all along there were, out there, some brave, strong, gay men

who refused to let their sick society make them sick. Strong, sweet,
generous, unselfish gay men like the stranger who saw me home
safely and walked out of my life before I learned his name. But I
never looked for his kind. Oh no. I gravitated only to the types who
conformed to my own negative attitudes regarding gays and gay life
in general.

Except Bobby, onto whom I projected – what? – all the impossibles

I could dream up to feed my masochism and self-loathing.

I tossed and turned and sweated and felt sick.
I sat up and saw the note Bobby had left on the bedside table. My

eyes didn't want to focus. Finally, with much difficulty, I managed to
decipher the three words Bobby had printed in the uncertain hand of a
child:

Gone to JIM
What?! Who the hell was Jim?! He had left me for a guy named

Jim!

It was too much. I passed out.
Oblivion. Sometimes there was nothing sweeter.
Bobby woke me up in time for me to show up (barely on time and

still half drunk) for my gig at the Bel Canto Opera Workshop.

Bobby had gone to the gym. Yes – the gym at the Y.M.C.A. Not

some guy named 'Jim.' In my delirium I forgot that the poor guy
couldn't spell for shit.

Drunk and emotionally exhausted, I still managed to play Bellini's

La Sonnam-bula about as well as I played it sober. Maybe a little
better. So overwhelmingly relieved I was that Bobby was still Bobby!

And as long as Bobby remained himself I could go on being Lesser

Porter. God help us, I was far more dependent on him than he was on

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

me. But in a few short weeks he would be Bobby no longer. No, not
at all! And I would grovel in the shadow he left behind.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

PART TWO

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

CHAPTER VIII

We were in that house on Long Island about seventeen hours. And

yet the changes of half a lifetime affected everyone gathered under
that roof – with the possible exception of the servants who, perhaps, to
their salvation, lived in their own little house apart. It was not only
Bobby who would never be the same – and I because of him – but
also Kleist, Anselmo, and Conrad. None of us could ever return to
what we were before that stormy afternoon and night.

I was curious to know whether Conrad left of his own accord,

having read the writing on the wall, or if Kleist threw him out, already
certain that his successful ensnarement of me as Conrad's replacement
required nothing more than a brief passage of time. For the
murderous body snatcher knew that even when I discovered there was
nothing left of the Bobby I loved except his outer shell I would follow
it to the end, knowing that the creature I hated most in all the world
resided within.

As for Anselmo – he had bragged about his knowledge of the

occult and yet, when the subject of the old woman and her
granddaughter was first introduced, I perceived in his manner more
than a little guilt and remorse, leading me to suspect that he was not
entirely willing to commit another murder.

Is 'murder' the right word? Should it be called 'indirect

manslaughter'? How about 'transferential homicide'? Or just plain,
old fashioned 'body snatching'? Except, of course, the body that is
snatched is alive, well, and young. What name should be given to one
who robs another of three quarters of a lifetime if not 'MURDERER'?!

Even if the child had not died when her grandmother's heart

stopped – even if her grandmother's body had survived the
transmigration of souls, and stayed alive another ten years, what kind
of living horror would it have been for the child to go into a trance
only to wake up in the body of a decrepit old woman? And what kind
of life would await an old woman, risen, reborn, with all her wisdom
and corruption, art and guile, twelve years old going on ninety?!

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

It did appear that Anselmo was reluctant, at first, and I wondered

what his star patient 'had' on him to use as blackmail if he didn't get
what he wanted. The old incident in Haiti, perhaps? Or something
else, dating back to the Nazis and their Crimes Against Humanity.
They didn't get them all rounded up for the trials at Nuremberg. Some
escaped, fled to other countries, changed their names, assumed new
identities for new, quietly respectable lives.

I could only wonder how one human being could actually possess

another. And to this day I still wonder at what point I knew beyond a
doubt that Bobby was no longer Bobby.

Every morning he drove out to Paul Kleist's house and didn't return

until nightfall. At least he declined to spend the night there and I was
grateful to have him with me at all. Always he was cheerful and eager
to keep me informed. When he was with me in the evenings he was
affectionate, attentive, in every way his old sweet self. He gave me
many moments of reassurance that perhaps my fears after all were
unfounded.

It was Bobby who told me Conrad had left. Kleist told him nothing

more than that "Conrad is no longer with us." No further information
was forthcoming and Kleist, in his nice-Nelly fashion made it clear
that further inquiries were unwelcome.

As it happened, I ran into Conrad on 42nd Street. With Bobby

gone all day, taking his singing lessons (presumably) from Kinky
Kleist, I had to do the shopping myself. I bought our meats and
vegetables at the markets along 8th Avenue. There was a fruit stand
across from the bus station where I could get the melons Bobby liked.
It was there, on the corner of 8th and 42nd that I saw Conrad. He was
wearing pants so tight they looked as if they had been painted on him.
He was leaning against a lamppost in the classic streetwalker's pose. I
knew from Bobby's stories that hustlers didn't have to wait for
nightfall to ply their trade. Sex was a twenty-four hour a day business
in New York City. (Still is, of course.)

I went up to him and spoke his name in what I hoped was a friendly

enough manner without sounding too phony.

"Conrad! I'm glad to see you. I want to talk to you."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

He stared at me a moment. Then he cupped his hand over his well

displayed basket and said:

"Ten dollars."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean I charge for my time. Talk to me or fuck me. It doesn't

matter as long as you pay me."

There were no tears in his eyes now. Only hard, cold ice.
"I'm sorry for what happened, Conrad. I want nothing to do with

Paul Kleist. I never intended for you to get hurt."

I started to walk away but he caught me by the arm and said:
"He's into bad things. Him and his evil doctor. He wants you, yes,

but that's not why he threw me out. It was because I know too much.
He didn't want me around to find out more. Go away. I've said too
much to you already. Please understand, my life is in danger."

When I hesitated he turned and walked quickly away – west –

toward the river.

I finished my shopping and went home, determined to tell Bobby as

soon as he arrived about my encounter with Conrad. But he was in
such high spirits, talking away the moment he entered the apartment,
leaving it impossible for me to get a word in edgewise. I could not
bear to dampen his ebullience. I gave in to him – nodding, smiling,
sharing his joy, or pretending to.

"He says he will put everything he has into me!"
"How generous of him," I managed to reply, which was the longest

sentence I succeeded in uttering that evening.

Once again I justified my refusal to puncture the boy's lovely pink

bubble: Conrad, I told myself, was just being histrionic.

From Bobby's exuberant and spontaneous demeanor I gathered that

Kleist had not discouraged him from relating to me in considerable
detail exactly what went on during his lessons. Nor was I taken
unawares when he told me he had not done any actual singing at all.
Instead, his teacher concentrated on a regimen of exercises, such as
sitting at a table on which was placed a lighted candle which the pupil
was directed to agitate by blowing a focused stream of breath through
pursed lips in such a way that the flame bent into a horizontal shape

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

without going out. This, according to Kleist, was an ideal exercise for
modifying the breath to produce thoroughly supported pianissimo on
high notes without resorting to falsetto. From what I had gathered at
the voice lessons I attended as accompanist I knew it to be a valid
technique, especially for large voices being trained for the heavy roles
of Verdi and Wagner. But not once during that exercise or any of the
others did Kleist allow him to utter a singing tone. He was instructed
to save his voice.

There were lessons given over entirely to stage movement, the

purpose of which was to develop agility. Kleist, always a large,
heavyset man, had learned to be light on his feet and to move on stage
with a grace that belied his weight. He told Bobby it wasn't enough to
possess a beautiful, perfectly proportioned body. "One must train his
entire central nervous system to respond with feline grace to the
contrasts of stillness and movement that the score indicates," Kleist
said.

"One must be able to lie flat on one's back and sing a high B

pianissimo. One of the hardest things to do is stand still as a statue for
ten minutes or longer, then make a sudden dynamic gesture on a
specific chord in the orchestra."

And to that end he was conditioning Bobby's muscular body, using

some of the fundamentals of classical ballet.

But no singing.
Then came walking and running – barefooted – in dance shoes – in

sandals – in oxfords – in boots.

Nor was fencing neglected. Nor falling down a flight of stairs. Nor

being shot or stabbed or poisoned.

But still – no singing. He had to save his voice.
Save it for what?!
"I shall put everything I have into you."
For me to understand what Kleist meant by that remark I would

have had to believe in the supernatural. And I couldn't – or wouldn't –
until it was too late.

Dr. Anselmo joined Kleist twice a week to give Bobby 'Hypno-

Therapy.' I thought the purpose was supposed to be strictly to correct

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

Bobby's pitch and meter problems. But the hypnosis was being put to
an altogether different use. The sessions were being taped, using my
portable recorder that I had left behind. I told Bobby to bring my
machine home. It was my property and if Anselmo wanted to make
tapes he could at least provide his own machine. The next evening
Bobby came home with the recorder. But the following evening he
announced that Kleist had invested in a costly new machine of the
latest design, and the tapings would continue.

Then I did something that was – well – not at all nice. I urged

Bobby to steal one of the tapes and bring it home to me. I made it
sound like a harmless game – "Wouldn't it be fun to learn what you
say while in a hypnotic trance?" – so as not to upset Bobby with my
unalloyed suspiciousness.

As a child, Bobby had been quite adept at stealing and his skill did

not desert him now. How he accomplished the theft I never asked.
But with a big boyish grin he handed me the tape he had purloined
and I played it through to the end.

Was I relieved or disappointed? I could not trust the duality of my

own reaction. Surely there was nothing on the tape to use against the
two men I resented most bitterly for what I perceived to be their
potential power to take Bobby away from me. (Whether to his harm
or benefit remained to be seen.)

The God Damned tape was nothing more than a long, boring, anti-

smoking, post-hypnotic suggestion by Anselmo with brief responses
from Bobby:

"And now you know that you really don't want to smoke. Do you?"
"No."
"No what?"
"I don't want to smoke."
"Correct. And if you light a cigarette it will taste like shit. Won't

it?"

"Yes."
"Yes what?"
"It will taste like shit."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

A perfectly legitimate use of hypnosis to help a smoker kick the

habit.

On the same tape, Anselmo went on to implant by means of post-

hypnotic suggestions an aversion to junk funds and candies of the sort
that people who have quit smoking are prone to indulge.

"You don't like ice cream, do you?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"It makes me fat."
"Correct. And should you take one bite it will taste so vile you will

have to spit it out. Won't you?"

"Yes. Ice cream tastes bad."
"Good. Very good indeed. And you love carrots and celery and all

the other low caloric food I have advised. Don't you?"

"Yes. Hate ice cream. Love carrots. Hate cake. Love celery."
"Excellent."
Damn! Nothing in the least diabolical on the tape to use in

evidence against the mysterious doctor.

Why wasn't I glad? For Bobby's sake. Was I the diabolical one?

Motivated purely by jealousy and possessiveness?

So the tape proved only that Anselmo was trying to help Bobby

quit smoking without gaining weight.

But when were the pitch problems and faulty sense of rhythm going

to be cured by hypnosis? Weeks went by and still he had not sung a
single note. Not even a scale or a vocalise.

There was ever increasing emphasis on nutrition. What to eat and

what to avoid. He began bringing home various food supplements –
powders, pills, juices, etc. – nothing that couldn't be found in any
pharmacy or supermarket. It appeared that Bobby was being built up
to his absolute peak of health and vitality. He was even cautioned
against sex in any form, including masturbation, like an athlete kept
celibate before the Big Game.

The exercises for building breath support to its optimum capacity

continued on a daily basis. At the same time he was told to

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

discontinue the kind of gym workouts that had been his custom. He
was encouraged to concentrate on toning rather than bulk.

"We don't want a weight lifter's body," Kleist told him. "We want a

body more like that of a Russian Ballet Dancer – very masculine, but
also very supple and agile – able to leap with dash and verve when we
slay that dragon in Siegfried!"

And I began to see the results. Bobby was becoming more

beautiful every day. Even his face was taking on a more 'chiseled'
appearance, the high cheekbones more prominent, the skin stretched
tighter over the bone structure. He was taking on the look of a
magical, Scandinavian God. Carrot juice and apricot juice gave his
skin a pink and amber hue and his hair, by contrast, glowed with
platinum highlights.

But still – nothing close to music was introduced. No opera scores

were studied. No languages learned. All the work was concentrated
exclusively on his body – his lungs, his muscular coordination, his
stance, his poise – above all, his preternatural beauty!

Gargles, expectorants, throat sprays, and medicated lozenges were

added to the arsenal of megavitamins and protein supplements he was
instructed to consume daily.

Then came the day – the amazing day! – that Paul Kleist paid us a

visit in our railroad apartment. Oh, how jolly and convivial he was as
he unloaded a huge shopping bag full of goodies – tins of high protein
meats from all over the world – cheese made from yak's milk –
canned kumquat juice – mysterious others.

How did Kleist travel from Long Island to Hell's Kitchen? He had

broken down and bought a limousine. And hired a chauffeur to go
with it. And the grand old man climbed the three flights of stairs to
our apartment without having a heart attack (I regret to say).

As soon as he entered the apartment I noticed he had put on a lot of

weight. Like so many overweight people he had stuck to a diet long
enough to slim down noticeably, then stopped dieting only to regain
quickly every pound he had lost – and more! He caught me staring at
his bloated belly. As if he was the happiest man alive he chuckled,
patted his belly and said:

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

"Yes, I am fat again. You noticed right away. But it really doesn't

matter anymore. I should care about this tired old body of mine? I do
not. Not any longer. I have so much to look forward to. Like a kid
who has learned he is soon to be given a brand new choo choo toy. I
have some goods for your kitchen. Which way is the kitchen?"

He insisted on putting the tins and jars in the kitchen himself. He

opened all the cabinets and drawers and busied himself while
crooning "a place for everything and everything in its place."

He went into the bathroom, opened the medicine cabinet to make

room for bottles of strange elixirs.

But when he went into the bedroom, opened the closets and

examined their contents, it began to appear that he was familiarizing
himself with our apartment.

Why?! Was he planning to move in?! Well – yes – in a manner of

speaking that was what he was planning to do. He was going to 'move
in' in more ways than one.

Then I remembered:
"Be patient a little longer and I shall come to you as you have

always desired me."

My dream! – if it was a dream – in which hands I had thought at

first were Bobby's caressed my naked body. I uttered his name in the
dark. And the voice of Paul Kleist replied: "No, not yet, but soon,
soon, I promise you."

In the days that followed I went through the motions of conducting

my investigation of Kleist and Anselmo and failed utterly to come up
with a single item of evidence to use against either man.

I questioned Antonia Campi about Paul Kleist. Her reply was fair

and impartial. She told me she did not like Herr Kleist because of
stories she had heard from several of her colleagues who had sung
with him at the Metropolitan. Although the stories indicated that he
was a man of obnoxious and unsavory habits she had heard nothing
that would suggest that he was capable of committing a serious crime.

"Of course he was generally despised for making no effort to resist

the Nazis when he was the toast of Germany," she said. "But then –
how can any of us who were safe in America be certain of what we

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

would or wouldn't do if we found ourselves in that dreadful situation?
No doubt it was for him a matter of self-preservation."

For Dr. Anselmo she had nothing but praise. He was very well

known among prominent Opera singers who went to him for the usual
vocal problems. He had salvaged the career of one of her best friends,
a soprano, who had lost her voice due to nodules of the vocal chords.
The good doctor had removed them surgically with no ill effects and
after a brief recuperation the soprano had resumed her distinguished
career at the Metropolitan.

Nor was there any hint of malfeasance in the report I received from

Jerry Connors. Anselmo was properly licensed and had never been
sued for malpractice. His record and his credentials were immaculate.

So I was alone and without a scrap of evidence to support my

conviction that Kleist and Anselmo were immersed in evil. Nor could
I rid myself of the suspicion that I was somehow complicit in that evil
– subconsciously at least – for I had longed from the beginning that
Bobby should come to me as I desired him.

When finally I had in my hands a bit of evidence that something

was not at all right it was too late. Although I didn't know it, the
transmigration had already been accomplished. While the fiend
within performed his impersonation of Bobby so skillfully that I
myself did not perceive a particle of change, I heard something on one
of Anselmo's 'sleep tapes' that aroused my suspicions anew.

Every night Bobby (I still call him Bobby because I refuse to give a

name to the THING he became) went to sleep playing one of
Anselmo's tapes made on the new recorder Kleist had purchased. But
it was being played on my old portable. And in the dead of night,
lying awake and listening to Anselmo's voice droning on and on about
diet and exercise and serenity of mind, etc. – I thought I heard a soft,
muffled, hum of voices – two voices – in a far distant,
indistinguishable conversation. I thought at first this background
interference was nothing more than a neighbor's radio or television.
Then – as the muffled voices faded in and out I strained my mind to
blot out Anselmo's monologue in an effort to identify the ghost
voices. A pause in Anselmo's speech together with a corresponding

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

increase of the background volume revealed to me the unmistakable
voices of Paul Kleist and Bobby Hoffman. Even after the machine
had shut itself off at the end of the tape, I stayed awake for hours,
planning what I would do with that tape early the following morning.

I knew enough about tape recorders to realize what had happened.

Anselmo had neglected to use a new tape. He had recorded over a
tape made earlier. The slight discrepancy between the tone head
alignments of my machine and the new one left a trace of the original
recording – faint, but audible.

This time I wouldn't need Jerry Connors and his contacts. A friend

of mine was a professional sound engineer who worked for Columbia
Records. I knew he had the equipment and the know-how to enhance
the ghost voices and tune out Anselmo. I took the tape to him, told
him what I wanted, and the following day he called and told me he
had achieved a fairly listenable enhancement of the original recording.

I felt like some kind of spy as I sat with headphones over my ears

before a huge console in Steve's studio.

What I heard didn't surprise me. It simply made me want to die.

Bobby was obviously in a hypnotic trance, answering questions posed
by the man who wanted me to believe he was giving Bobby singing
lessons. The tape began with Anselmo telling Bobby to listen to
Kleist's questions and answer them as thoroughly as possible. I
listened in a state of benumbed despair as Bobby, prompted by Kleist,
related his entire personal history. Kleist was especially intent on
learning everything he needed to know about Bobby's relationship
with me – all the details of Bobby's history and habits, likes and
dislikes, that I was familiar with.

But now that I possessed the proof I needed what was I to do with

it? What would it mean to the police? Only that I, Lesser Porter, was
some kind of nut. That's all it would mean. Who could intervene?
Some witch doctor who was on my side? Hell, I didn't know any
witch doctors aside from Theo Anselmo.

That was what Conrad knew. That was why Kleist threw him out –

and threatened his life if he told anyone. But Kleist didn't have to kill
Conrad to keep him quiet. After all, who would believe him? Every

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

sane person knew there were no such things in the mid-twentieth
century.

Then came the day in early Autumn when the piano arrived,

together with an enormous crate containing Paul Kleist's complete
library of Opera scores. Both the piano and the crate came in through
a window, hoisted by a crane from the street below.

And later that same day Bobby came home in tears. I had never

seen him cry. For a few moments I thought Kleist had broken the
boy's heart by calling the whole thing off.

"Some people can sing. Some people cannot. Impossible.

Impossible."

What movie was that line from? Why, Citizen Kane, of course,

when the voice teacher hired to train Susan Alexander throws up his
hands in despair because all his skill cannot turn that tiny squeak of a
voice into an Operatic Soprano.

But no. That was not the reason for Bobby's pitiful sobs as I held

him in my arms and begged him to pull himself together long enough
to tell me the cause of his profound grief.

Finally, with tears streaming down his golden cheeks, he said:
"Paul is dead."

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100

CHAPTER IX

I sat in the elegant office of Paul Kleist's attorney. The reality of

the occasion was already to me a half remembered dream. The late
Paul Kleist left everything he possessed to his protege, Mr. Robert
Hoffman – except his piano which he bequeathed to me.

Bobby was there – dressed in black.
Anselmo was there. He offered me his 'heartfelt condolences.'

Why? Kleist was not a loved one of mine.

I had asked the dark doctor a question at the funeral. Now I asked

the same question again:

"Why was the coffin closed? If he died of a heart attack then surely

he was not disfigured."

"I told you, didn't I? It was his wish and I followed it. He had

gained an enormous amount of weight. When the heart attack
occurred he was at the top of the stairs, preparing to descend. You
remember the stairs, I'm sure. He fell on his face and crushed his
nose. And his dentures – they broke and cut his mouth. His upper lip
was cleft in two. Altogether it was best, we thought, he thought, and I
agreed, that a closed casket was more agreeable than an attempt at
cosmetic reconstruction at the hands of the undertakers."

"It sounds to me like the two of you discussed it after he was dead."
"I think not. I think it can logically be assumed that he said nothing

at all after he was dead."

He was so damned unflappable! But then – aren't all witches?

"Logically assumed" – indeed! – as if anything at that point was
logical. Even the sequence of events – the chronology of bizarre
occurrences – their time frame – was all askew. Why had the piano
arrived before the reading of the will? Before death. After death.
The continuity of all things going on around me had turned surreal –
like a dream in which past and present – indoors and outdoors – city
and countryside – all merge and flow with a logic of their own that
turns what we think is reality into an embarrassing joke.

"Come, let me buy you boys a drink, " said the doctor in his most

amiable tones. "You can break your regimen just this once. All

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

101

artists should relax their discipline once in a great while, and you've
been so good, yes, a really good boy and you deserve a break. I know
a quiet, intimate little cocktail lounge a few steps from here. I've
some important things to tell you, and you'll want to hear."

"I want a martini," said Bobby, when we were seated in a booth in

the cocktail lounge of the Algonquin hotel.

"Then you shall have it. One."
"Same for me," I said, as I started to light a cigarette.
"Tut tut, Mr. Porter, shouldn't smoke in the presence of a

professional singer."

"No, let him be," said Bobby. "And give me one too, Les. Now do

not give me that disapproving look, Theo. I am not going to start the
habit. I meant to say: I am not going to start smoking again. But it
will be nice to have just one with my one cocktail."

Three cocktails arrived and two cigarettes were lit. Bobby inhaled

deeply and emitted a great sigh of satisfaction with the cloud of
smoke.

"There is something you did not count on, Theo," said Bobby, after

he took a sip of his martini.

"And what could that be? I wonder."
"This body – my body – is long addicted to tobacco. It will not be

easy to refrain from smoking. Right away I felt the craving. It is in
the bloodstream – or perhaps the very marrow of the bones. With all
the rest that is so splendid – so perfect for my purpose – I have
acquired also the nicotine addiction."

"I left nothing unaccounted for, my dear Robert. That is why I

supplied the sleep tapes. That is why I worked so hard to implant the
suggestion under hypnosis – early on, if you recall. And well
before..."

"Before what?!" I demanded.
"Why – before he began the advanced lessons in singing, of course.

Which brings me to the first of the subjects I wanted to discuss. The
day before he died, Paul mentioned he thought Robert should learn at
least one French heroic role. He never sang French roles himself, but

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102

he thought Robert would be a superb Samson. You would like to sing
Samson, wouldn't you Robert?"

"I shall sing it. But I must improve my French. Les, you

accompany for Louis Jacquard's classes, do you not?"

"I do."
"I understand he coaches a lot of Met singers for French roles.

Perhaps I shall prepare Samson with him."

With me he still spoke like Bobby. Now, in the presence of the

dark doctor, he spoke like – the OTHER.

"When I sing Samson I shall wear nothing but a loincloth in the last

act when I bring the temple down. I have the perfect physique for the
part and I see no reason why I should not show it to the audience.
And I have some staging ideas I should like to introduce to the
director."

"Ideas you got from Paul, I presume," said Anselmo.
"Of course, but like any good student they are my ideas now. I

have thoroughly absorbed them."

Paul Kleist was speaking through Bobby's mouth. When through

his tears he told me that Paul was dead I had no doubt that it was my
Bobby I was holding in my arms. But then – I had forgotten what a
great actor Paul Kleist was.

"You will need a manager," Anselmo continued. "An artist's

representative whose clients are the top stars in the musical world.
But you are, as of now, unknown. We can't interest a man like
Edward Lancing until after you make your debut. But then! – Ah! –
then – they will, all of them, come begging to represent you."

"It is unfortunate that Paul's manager is retired. It would be so

much easier to do business with a man of long acquaintance."

It was then – that moment – that I looked at Bobby – not as a

stranger – but as a devil I knew only too well – who had assumed the
shape of the golden boy I would gladly have died for.

Anselmo observed the look I gave the beautiful, evil creature seated

beside me. But he continued speaking of things he had insisted we
should hear:

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

103

"Then there is the matter of your residence. The greatest

Wagnerian Heldentenor the world has ever known, whose repertoire
shall extend to Samson of the French wing, and Otello of the Italian
wing, among other non Wagnerian roles that require the utmost vocal
power – a major international Opera star who, I predict, will be the
first Opera singer since Enrico Caruso whose every move will be
reported on the front page of every newspaper in the world, and will
be of interest even to those who hate Grand Opera – I say – such a star
– as famous as any movie star – shall no longer live in a crummy
tenement in Hell's Kitchen. Therefore I have taken the liberty of
engaging a suite for you at the Ansonia. And here's a bit of luck: It is
the same suite Paul lived in for the ten years he sang at the
Metropolitan. His brand new limousine is yours too, you know, and
the chauffeur as well, if he meets with your approval. You know
Paul's taste in boys. He's quite pretty, I assure you. And discreet. But
get rid of that old dilapidated jeep you've been driving. You are
already a wealthy man, Robert, and you'll be more so with the fees
you'll earn from all the major Opera houses in the world."

Throughout Anselmo's speech Bobby was groping me under the

table! It was Bobby's hand on my cock! It was Bobby's leg pressing
hard against mine. It was Bobby! Bobby! Bobby! And I was
spellbound. And destroyed.

We had had little time together since the night he came home to tell

me Paul had died. He filled his days shopping for an entire new
wardrobe that befitted a devastatingly handsome new star on the
horizon.

He rented a studio in which to vocalize and PREPARE. He would

not let me listen. "I want my voice to be as much a surprise to you as
it shall be to the audience," he explained. And I stayed away.

In the evenings he poured through his scores, making new notations

in pencil to join those that had been made decades before. He even
went to the piano and played certain passages he wanted to restudy to
search out a new interpretation, singing them very softly an octave
lower.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

104

To see and hear Bobby at the piano and 'marking' from operatic

piano scores was unsettling, to say the least. Almost as unsettling as
hearing him speaking on the phone with Anselmo – in GERMAN!

He didn't have to wait for his 'inheritance' to start throwing money

around, spending wildly, stopping just short of lighting his cigarettes
with hundred dollar bills. He already had Paul Kleist's money.
Because he was Paul Kleist.

He was not ungenerous to me, although he bought me only what he

wanted me to have – such as tit-clamps, cock-rings, handcuffs,
manacles, and abbreviated genital thongs in various fabrics from silk
to leather. But he had not yet touched me. That was why his hand on
my cock under the table in the bar was the shock of my life!

He had not, as Paul Kleist had promised, come to me as I had

always desired him. Now I knew he would. Soon. That very night.
And I no longer cared that he was no longer the sweet boy who could
not bring himself to have sex with me because it would be like incest.
I would not be able to resist my brand new DEMON LOVER!!

Still, Anselmo talked on and on, coolly unconcerned with carnal

grapplings under the table.

For I now had Bobby's gigantic cock out of his pants and in my

hand – jacking him off!

"As for the house on Long Island – you can sell it or keep it. It's up

to you, of course. Although there will be extended periods in which
you will be too engaged, here and abroad, to occupy it, you might
want to keep it for a retreat. Such a splendid showplace! Ideal for
entertaining. Everyone who is anyone will be thrilled to be invited to
the Long Island estate of the great Robert Hoffman. Oh! I nearly
forgot: I suggest you consider your billing. You might want to spell
you name with two N's, in the German manner: Robert HOFFMANN
– like the great pianist, Joseph Hoffmann, or the great romantic
German writer, E.T. A. Hoffmann. It would give you more class."

But Bobby and I were oblivious at that point. Anselmo had to be

quite firm to regain our attention:

"You boys! Stop what you are doing long enough to listen to my

final point for the afternoon. It is perhaps the most important point of

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

105

all insofar as Robert Hoffmann's immediate future is concerned. I
have accepted the post of house physician at the Metropolitan Opera,
starting with the new season coming up. They have been after me for
years because so many of the singers on the roster are patients of
mine. Until now I have been too busy with my research on
phenomenology to accept. But now is the time. The old house
physician, bless his old bones, succumbed to a stroke only last week
and the post is now available. I can be there to monitor you, Robert,
when you take on those roles considered voice killers. Like Tristan
and Siegfried. Sometimes things in life really do work out."

Bobby sighed and said: "Theo, you have done well. You have

surpassed my most hopeful expectations. I do not have to tell you,
you shall be amply rewarded."

"We shall have to discuss the matter of my 'reward,' as you put it,

on a future occasion. For now, I must be off. I've an appointment at
the Met for an orchestral rehearsal of Lakme which opens the season,
starring that insipid little French coloratura whose art is about as
satisfying as a meal composed entirely of lime Jell-O. But four nights
later is the first performance of Tristan und Isolde since the retirement
of the late Paul Kleist! As everyone who matters knows – there has
not been a tenor voice for the role of Tristan. Even in his decline Paul
was the only man in the world who could get through it – to the end –
without total laryngitis. And the management has asked me to listen
to that light-weight little Felix Anthony rehearse the part of Gerald,
for which his voice is well suited, to offer my opinion of whether he
can get through the part of Tristan, for which he is obviously
inadequate. But he managed to sing the role in some of the smaller
houses in the German provinces, and the Met has engaged him. Only
because he is the least unlikely choice of the moment. And the Isolde
is none other than Alma Angstrom, who is said to be the greatest
Isolde since Kirsten Flagstad, making her American debut at the Met.
One last thing – I have tickets – house tickets – for the three of us to
attend the performance of Tristan und Isolde. Don't forget. You
simply must be there to hear Madam Angstrom, and to hold your
breaths until Mr. Anthony's final gasp. If he makes it to the end. And

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

106

– guess what? – Ha! – he has no cover – no understudy – I mean,
there is no one who can cover him. So perhaps the title of the Opera
should be changed to Isolde. Just Isolde. Ha! And now – farewell.
Don't have another cocktail, Robert, and definitely not another
cigarette. Les, I rely on you to keep Robert in line. Here's money for
the drinks plus tip."

At last he was gone! Bobby turned to me and said:
"Are you wearing underwear today?
"Of course. Jockey shorts. Why do you ask?"
"Go – right now – to the Men's room. Take them off and throw

them away. You will wear no underwear from now on, do you hear?
Except the kinky little thongs I desire you to wear just for me. The
kind of thongs I made Conrad wear. You will wear them now. But
never under your pants. You will wear them – and nothing else –
when I decide you should be punished. Then I can enjoy the exquisite
pleasure of ripping them off of you – and taking a whip to your
delectable bare ass."

Like a somnambulist I obeyed him.
I had bought a new suit at a shop in the village that catered to the

few bold men who went in for that daring skintight look long before
the sexual revolution of the seventies. Bobby offered to pay for it but
I was not quite ready to be his kept boy. I was still grasping the few
remaining threads of my identity as Lesser Porter. Nevertheless, the
suit was tailored precisely for the kind of crotch and buns display I
had vowed to avoid. And just the kind of Male Whore's advertising
outfit that Conrad would wear. It appeared that I was willingly
dressing for the role I was expected to play for Paul Kleist. Going
into that Men's room to discard my under shorts was my final
surrender.

I was Conrad's replacement!
When I left the booth I tossed my shorts into the waste bin with the

used paper towels. I looked in the mirror and got a narcissistic thrill
from the spectacle of my huge, lewdly displayed cock!

I left the men's room and returned to the table where the beautiful

creature who was no longer my Bobby waited. He had ordered two

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

107

fresh cocktails and was smoking another cigarette. I said nothing. I
sat down beside him and sipped my cocktail while he groped me
through my indecent pants.

The look in his eyes! No longer were they Bobby's eyes. They

were the eyes that had undressed me when I sat with my tape recorder
trying to conduct an interview in that stifling room that fatal
midsummer afternoon on Long Island.

"Very good," he said. "It appears you will make a properly

obedient slave."

I no longer loved the blond giant seated beside me. I hated him

beyond any capacity for hatred I had previously possessed. But
instead of killing my desire for him the hatred fueled it. I wanted to
have sex with him and then kill him. It was then that the most
horrible fact of the case dawned upon me.

"He's dead, isn't he?"
"What?"
"You killed him. Or Anselmo, at your request."
"Killed? Who? Whatever are you saying?"
"When Kleist had his fatal heart attack. Bobby was already there.

In him! The shock! The horror! It was my Bobby – in Kleist's body
– who fell down the stairs and died. It is my Bobby – dead in that
coffin – buried in the earth – Bobby! – Rotting in Paul Kleist's rotting
body!"

"Keep your voice down!"
"Murderer! You and that Haitian Witch Doctor from Heidelberg.

Both of you! Murderers!"

He clapped one of his huge hands over my mouth. With the other

hand he grabbed my balls and squeezed. I screamed into his hand and
the waiter came running.

"Do not be alarmed. My friend has a touch of epilepsy. I shall take

him home at once."

He threw a roll of bills on the table, adding to the generous tip left

by the dark doctor.

When we were outside he said to me:

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

108

"Not another word out of you or I'll smash your face like I smashed

his."

Grasping my arm in his powerful grip he marched me back to

where we had parked the jeep.

"This is the last time we shall have to ride in this pile of junk. It is

a chauffeured limousine for us from now on. Get in and drive."

"Of course. That's right. You never learned to drive, did you,

Paul? That's why I've been doing the driving since you died."

He slapped me. Hard.
"I told you to shut your mouth! Wait 'til I get you home, boy. I

will teach you some lessons you will remember. Or else! Now
drive."

But I wouldn't keep my mouth shut. Even as I drove with a

bleeding lip I hit him with a question that unsettled him.

"What did you mean about smashing my face like you smashed

his?"

"I was not going to tell you. Believe it or not I intended to spare

your feelings. But you are such a little masochist, forever searching
out the worst. And why should I not tell you? You can go straight to
the police with the information, and from there straight to the Psycho
Ward. For only a nut fit for a straight jacket would go to the police
with such a tale. Do you still want to know?"

"Yes. I must know."
"Be it on your own head then. Watch where you are driving. You

almost ran over that portly elderly chap in black."

"I saw him, I saw him! Talk. Tell me!"
"When I awakened and saw in the mirror the new me I realized I

was like the snake who sheds his used up old skin for the shiny new
one within. And then I looked and saw the bloated mass of desiccated
flesh I was rid of at last. I was seized with loathing. And when he
opened his bleary old eyes and looked at me. And opened his
toothless old mouth and spoke – actually spoke! – in a half delirium, I
don't wonder – I knew I had to silence that mouth and shut those eyes
– forever!"

"What did he say? Tell me. TELL ME!"

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109

"Oh, you really want to suffer, don't you? Very well, remember

please you asked for it. He spoke your name: 'Les,' he cried, 'Oh Les,
get me out of here.' I failed to comprehend whether he meant out of
my elegant Long Island Estate, or out of the hand-me-down old body
we had given him in exchange for his. He was staring in horror at his
withered old hands. He screamed in his hoarse, broken old voice. I
knew he wouldn't want to live like that so I took pity on him. I picked
up a lead paper weight – an object I had little affection for as it
represented in miniature one of the gargoyles on the roof of the
Cathedral of Notre Dame – and with it I smashed his ugly old face.
Again and again I struck my own remains until nothing remained
except blood and spilled brains. That is why the coffin was closed at
the funeral. Now – you are sorry you asked, are you not? – Well – I
am now waiting for you to cry and be histrionic all over the place."

No. I didn't cry. The dead don't cry.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

110

CHAPTER X

When he got me home he said: "I could never live in this dump. I

can hardly wait to move into the Ansonia. Thick walls. Soundproof.
I can vocalize full voice without any complaints from neighbors. In
addition, you can scream your head off when I whip you. Until then I
shall have to gag you. We do not want the police coming to your
rescue and spoiling our fun, do we?"

"What a pity you wasted so much time and effort that day you

showed up here – so fat and ugly – to go through our things – Bobby's
and mine – to familiarize yourself with the apartment – as if you
intended to deceive me, which you could have with your superb
impersonation. Why did you bother learning to speak like him?
Texas accent and all – which you have seldom put to use since that
first night when you cried yourself to sleep over the 'death' of your
friend, teacher, and benefactor."

"I will need to impersonate Robert to enjoy my new career. But

first I needed to convince you that I was Robert to assure myself of
my skill. But, you see, I am not just Paul Kleist, reborn as a retarded
hick from the sticks who God, in his folly, saw fit to endow with the
voice of the ages – then top the joke by making him tone deaf as well
as stupid. No! I am both! I am the best parts of the two so different
men. Why does God, in his infinite absence of wisdom, give slender,
tall, handsome basses and baritones such gorgeous voices only to see
them obliged to hide their physical assets behind old age makeup, fat
suits, and humpbacks? – while the tenors, who are supposed to be the
romantic leads, are almost always cursed with the same unsightly
deformities that the low voice males have to assume with putty, foam
rubber, and bald wigs?

There are a few exceptions, of course: Don Giovanni and the

Toreador in Carmen. But how often is the audience insulted by the
spectacle of a twenty-five year old father singing a duet with his fifty-
five year old son?! I tell you I am righting the wrongs for all of us!
Artists who strive! I am punishing God!"

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111

"Thank you so much, Herr Kleist. I understand you more fully

now. You are a Nazi. You think you are entitled to commit murder to
serve your ends."

"How, pray, do you figure me a murderer when your Bobby, as you

knew and loved him, is still alive and well? Look at me. He is here,
your Bobby, in me! In equal measure. You should praise me for what
I have done. I have taken a useless, stupid Texas hick and validated
his existence. Everything good about him is HERE – joined to my
superior intellect and my accumulated musical knowledge of seventy
years.

"I – I! – the great Paul Kleist! – have given him – a no good street

hustler and social parasite – a new lease on life in which his body,
together with its perfect vocal instrument – so useless to him – will
serve music through me for many many years to come."

"And what role am I expected to play in order to serve music for

years to come?"

"You will be my dresser, for one thing. As Conrad was when he

was young and malleable. Before he got – too – how shall I say?..."

"Possessive?"
"Ah, yes, the very word I was looking for: 'possessive.' In addition

you will be my piano accompanist when I need to practice. Travel
with me, of course. See to luggage, hotel reservations, the like. I
shall not be too demanding. And you will live in style, believe me.
The best of everything."

"Haven't you forgotten to include my main duty?"
"Tell me, dear boy. What is it you think will be your main duty in

my service?"

"Sex Slave."
"It is what you want, is it not?"
"Not with you!"
"Who then?"
"The sweet, gentle boy who no longer exists. The boy I love whom

you've stolen from me. Body and soul."

"Yes. Precisely. Body and soul. And here I am – your Bobby – as

you have always desired me."

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112

He was dressed in blackest mourning. With amazing speed he tore

his clothes off and posed before me. I had never seen him naked with
a full hard-on. My God! It was a foot long and thick as his wrist.

The spectacle he presented did not arouse me. It revolted and

terrified me. Without Bobby's soul, his physical perfection was
violent and obscene. Because – because – it wasn't human. There
was not a single flaw to reveal the vulnerability of humanity. He was
Hitler's dream come true. Not mine. He was the perfect Superman
sculpted from ice. Fit for Der Fuhrer's banquet table. But – damn it!
– why hadn't he melted now that the feast was over?

I screamed out my loathing and fear:
"No! NO!! Get away from me!!! You can never be Bobby. You

can only be a filthy Nazi Son-Of-A-Bitch who, with the help of the
Devil, has assumed the shape of an innocent angel whose feet you're
not worthy to kiss! Get out of my life, you bastard! Or I swear I'll
kill you!!"

I ran for the door – but with the speed of an Olympic runner he beat

me to it and stood before me, blocking the way.

I ran – from room to room – in that railroad apartment – as he

pursued me – an evil grin distorting his features – his cock swinging
like a rubber truncheon. When he had me cornered in the kitchen I
pulled out a drawer where we kept the knives. I seized the biggest
butcher knife I could lay my hands on and sliced the air with it – in
front of his vile grinning face – back and forth – frenzied – like a
crazed madman – which is what I was at that moment – a madman!
For I had every intention of killing him. And then myself.

It was easy for him to disarm me – overpower me – bend my arm

until I dropped the knife. Then, in a flash, he threw me to the floor
and sat on me.

"You little fool. You are getting what you have always wanted and

it is blowing your feeble little mind."

He seized the butcher knife which had fallen on the floor so

conveniently near. I screamed! Thinking he intended to stab me with
it. Instead, he proceeded to cut my clothes off.

"My suit!" I cried, "You're ruining my new suit!"

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113

"I shall buy you a hundred suits, and cut them all off of you when it

pleases me."

He stood up long enough to sweep the condiments off the kitchen

table. Sugar bowl, salt and pepper cellars, and mustard jar went
crashing to the floor.

My belt was among the cut-off strips of clothes that lay in a pile

amongst the other debris. This he seized and tested it against the table
top. The crack sounded like a gunshot.

I was totally naked. And ready. Hoping it was a dream. A wet

dream. I would come soon, and awaken without alarm. And hoping it
was not a dream. The stuff I had dreamed from the first coming of
puberty was coming now.

He hauled me to my feet and threw me over the table. Using strips

of my shirt and trousers he bound me to the table – ankles and wrists
secured to the four table legs.

Then – CRACK! – he proceeded to whip me on my upturned naked

ass!

Again! – again! – and again! – until I lost count.
When I started screaming in agony he used the sleeve of my shirt to

gag me, securing the rolled up ball with my necktie.

Then the whipping continued until I was on the verge of passing

out.

He went to the sink and filled a saucepan with cold water. He

returned to me and poured the water over my head.

I knew what was coming next and I screamed into my gag.
"Oh, is your gag too tight, dear boy? Here, let me remove it. You

will be much more comfortable with my cock down your throat. It is
the same big, stiff cock you have been dying for. Take it. Take it!
TAKE IT!!"

He was raping my mouth. I knew my ass was next. When he

pulled his wet cock out of my mouth and moved behind me I began to
cry. I sobbed as never before in all my life.

"Yes. Weep. It will help to loosen you up. Weeping. It was my

only indulgence. Weeping. And vomiting. Good for the voice. And
torturing my slave. It will ease the tension for me."

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114

With a single brutal thrust he rammed the full length of his

enormous cock into my butt-hole.

But the blinding pain lasted only a moment to be replaced by a

zonked-out bliss beyond anything I had ever imagined.

"You are mine, are you not? Say it! Say it!"
"Yes, Paul, I am yours."
He came quickly. And when he pulled out of me he uttered a sigh

that was like the lowest note of a contrabass.

I thought it was over. What more did he want after the torture and

rape?

I must have blacked out for a moment. I don't remember being

released from my position of bondage over the table. When next I
was fully conscious and aware of what was happening I was tied to
the kitchen chair in the manner portrayed in World War Two movies
wherein the handsome Yank P.O.W. – stripped to the waist – is
tortured for information. Except I was totally naked – as always in
my best SM fantasy. NAKED for TORTURE at the hands of my
SADISTIC ENEMY!

My arms were tied behind the back of the chair. My legs were

spread wide apart. My ankles were bound to the back legs of the
chair. The entire front of my body was exposed to my tormentor's
instruments of pain.

Never could I have hoped or dreamed that my fantasy of torture at

the hands of my Dream Boy would become a reality.

But there he was! And he had stripped himself naked to torture his

horny victim.

He disappeared briefly only to return with a box containing the

'gifts' he had purchased for me. They were, all of them, instruments
of torture – exact duplicates of the ones used by the Gestapo on the
naked bodies of handsome young French students – many of them
teenagers! – who were members of The Resistance during the German
occupation of Paris. Oh yes! I had read everything I could get my
hands on about Gestapo Tortures. Some of the published accounts
were pornographic. At least they had that effect on me. For I was
compelled to masturbate as I read them.

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115

And how the hell did Bobby Paul obtain such items in America in

the 1950's? There were no stores that sold 'sex toys' or SM equipment
as there are today. But there were underground sources via mail order
that catered to sado-masochists. On the back pages of soft core, so-
called 'physique magazines' there were discreetly worded
advertisements for 'police restraints' and 'persuasive devices for
military interrogation,' etc.

There have always been ways and means of getting anything you

want in spite of the law if you've the nerve to break the law, and the
smarts to get away with it.

Paul Kleist, reborn as a young and powerful Nazi Superman, had

both the nerve and the smarts.

So – Now! – he stood in front of the chair to which he had tied me

– NAKED FOR TORTURE – exhibiting his huge erection – while he
delivered a speech – a monologue – more demonic – more insane –
than anything I had heard from the old Paul Kleist. It was as if the
possession of Bobby Hoffman's body had pushed the already
disturbed personality of the elderly man completely over the edge –
into the blackest heart of the abyss.

And he was taking me with him.
Even worse! – I had given up all effort to resist. Like an audience

of one, captivated, spellbound by a pornographic play, I stared at his
cock and listened to his every word:

"You little cockteaser! You took off your jacket that sultry day

when we performed that farce of an interview at the climax of a heat
wave. But when I ordered you to take off your shirt you demurred.
Why? The shirt was transparent. You had worn it deliberately to
provoke me. I could see your big, round sexy nipples right through
the sheer material. I knew then what a cock teasing little whore you
are. Your body! Half boy – half man. So sweet and innocent in your
Sunday School best suit. Ha! With the pants so tight I could see
everything you have – front and back. You pious little phony!
Advertising your charms and denying me access to them. Well, I'll
show you. I'll show you. Yes. When I am finished with you, you
will know, and the whole world will know, that you are nothing but a

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116

Sex Slave to a Real Man who puts you to your proper use. Do you
know? Can you possibly imagine what I am going to do to you?"

"You're going to torture me."
"Yes. And what else?"
"–kill me?"
"Possibly. One of these days. But for now I am going to adorn

your creamy white chest with the symbols of my complete mastery
over you. You will never again be able to take off your shirt without
showing the world that you belong to a man who is stronger than you.
Have you not guessed it yet?"

"No, no, tell me, what are you going to do to my body?"
"I am going to pierce your nipples with a long, sharp needle and

insert rings in them. You will wear them for the rest of your life. The
perfect slave boy can always be recognized by the rings in his nipples.
I shall give you no anesthetic. You shall feel the full pain of the
piercing. And the pain shall be like a huge capitol Y

that starts at

your nipples, joins at your navel, and continues down to your cock.
When it pleases me to do so I shall hang you by your nipple rings and
whip your nude body as you writhe and twist in your dance of pain.
Oh, I have read books – many books – in German – in French – in
Swedish – in Spanish – none in English, except for the mild,
hypocritical pants-down discipline exercises that deny the sexual
thrills even as they describe them.

"Books written by bold, honest men who tell us in no uncertain

terms how good it makes a Real Man feel to TORTURE NAKED
BOYS. To whip them – stretch them on the RACK – brand them on
their BUNS – hang them by their COCKS.

"Without apology. Without a shred of remorse. Because that is

what pretty, mindless, useless boys are for – to give pleasure to men
who are their betters.

"Those books to which I refer were circulated among the boys in

the choir wherein I started my singing career. We read them aloud to
one another during the long, boring train trips between engagements.
We took our cocks out of our uniform pants and jacked off as we
listened to graphic descriptions of how teenaged English and Irish

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117

pickpockets, and other pretty young scalawags from the soiled ghettos
of London, were sent to the penal colonies of Australia. How – when
they misbehaved or defied their masters – they were stripped totally
naked and strung up in pairs with their cocks bound together – and
LASHED!

"How they were bent over canons – two or three together at a time

– and branded on their bare butts.

"How – when they were sold into penal servitude their masters

pierced their nipples and inserted rings in them. And hung them by
their NIPPLE RINGS to be whipped and fucked.

"It was reality. The kind of reality that is sorely missed in today's

pious evasion of what men – Real Men! – are made of – and what we
men need to fuel our natural masculine aggression.

"Yes! Even artists. Most of all, artists. For the delicate filigree of

our work tightens the tendons of our brains and demands sexual
violence as an antidote – else we would go mad.

"And now I shall treat you to a torture more exquisite than anything

you have ever imagined. This little canister – look at it. It is so dainty
and pretty, this little tin box. So harmless in appearance. One might
think it contained a balm for chapped lips. But no. It contains an
anjati ointment invented by a German scientist who specialized in
ever more refined instruments of torture to be used by the Gestapo on
the totally naked bodies of handsome, muscular, extremely well hung,
young prisoners-of-war who wouldn't 'talk' – until they were
introduced to a torture such as the one I am about to introduce to you.
The unctuous adhesive substance in this little tin box is not in itself
painful. Indeed, it is used by bold sexual outlaws to enhance their
pleasure/pain during sado-masochistic intercourse. When applied to
the nipples it causes them to tingle with delightful stimulation. The
effect is not unlike having your nipples sucked and licked and gently
bitten. An erection is the inevitable result, of course. But the effect
most useful to the torturer is the spectacular swelling of the tits. They
erect and stand out like two eager little penises, begging to be worked
on. Then – Ah! – then – the truly excruciating sexual torture begins.
The needle! The piercing! Then the rings!

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118

"Oh my dear, naked BOY SLAVE, are you not aware that your

huge nipples were made by our Savage God for just that purpose?! I
knew it the moment I saw you in your outrageous see-through shirt as
you sat so demurely in my parlor. And when with such cock-teasing
false modesty you declined to take off your shirt so I could better feast
my eyes on your satin smooth BOY CHEST with its two gleaming
headlights – Ah! – it was at that moment that I vowed revenge. And
now, at last, I have you at my mercy – tied up – stark naked – and
ready for the serious nipple pain you so sorely need. Later, when your
nipples are healed, I shall go to work on your cock. Perhaps with a
fish hook. Enough! Let us begin."

Using his long, strong athlete's fingers he proceeded to rub the

abrasive unguent on my already erect nipples.

Immediately I felt the erotic stimulation he had promised with such

relish. My cock responded at once. It stretched to its fullest length
and stood straight up as if to kiss with its drooling, pulsating head, one
after the other, my abnormally distended tits.

Already the sexual thrill was enough to bring me to the edge of

orgasm. But then my BLOND NAKED GESTAPO TORTURER
reached down into the container, fumbled around for a few moments,
and withdrew the diabolical object he had been searching for. To my
horror I saw that he now held a long, sharp needle. It was at least four
inches long.

"No. No! Please, no," I begged. For the approaching reality of the

torture was fraught with a terror of unbearable agony that my
masturbatory fantasies sublimely disregarded.

"And now – unfortunately – I shall have to gag you again. For

when I pierce your nipples with this needle you will scream. But –
screaming into your gag will make its own thrilling music – like a
trumpet stopped with a Harmon Mute – or the lightest touch on the
nodal point of a string. Later – when we move into our apartment at
the Ansonia with its thick soundproof walls – to say nothing about our
retreats to my mansion on Long Island – I can enjoy the full throated
screams I shall wring from you in the cellar – which – by the way – I
am planning to convert into a fully equipped TORTURE CHAMBER.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

119

"But now – alas! – I see your tits are standing out a full inch from

you chest. They are primed and ready for torture."

I tried to protest – to beg for mercy. But the gag was in place again

and all I could do was steel myself to endure the ordeal.

I recalled an article written by a sensitive lad of nineteen who had

had his nipples branded with cigarettes repeatedly in a Japanese
Prison camp. He wouldn't talk, of course, and he truly felt the ordeal
had made a MAN of him!

I wondered if something similar might happen to me!!

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120

CHAPTER XI

I bit my tongue as he grasped my left nipple with his powerful

fingers. He pulled the large, firm, distended tit far out from my chest.
I stiffened every muscle in my body as he put the tip of the needle
against the base of the nub. Slowly – oh, so slowly – he began to
push. I could feel the flesh stretching – more and more until – Oh, my
God! – the flesh tore open as the tip of the needle penetrated the
sensitive skin. I screamed into my gag. I couldn't stand it! I needed
desperately for him to know I couldn't possibly stand it!

But he laughed and thumped the head of my rigid, absolutely

perpendicular cock. The message was clear: I couldn't stand it but
my cock loved it! We were two separate beings, my cock and I. Even
as I screamed into my gag I wanted him to grab my enraged cock and
jerk me off!

But I received no such mercy. Relentlessly my Nazi Torturer

pushed the needle completely through my throbbing nipple as my
twisting and gag-muted screaming continued unabated.

With the care of an artist – with an artist's all consuming

concentration – he adjusted the needle so that equal lengths protruded
from both sides of the abnormally enlarged nub. Then – smiling – he
took both ends of the needle in his hands and turned it back and forth
– left, right, left, right, again and again – as my nude body twisted and
shook for his pleasure. I wanted to die. I prayed that I might die. But
still my cock was standing up at rigid attention and leaking pre-cum!

Nothing I had ever felt or imagined had prepared me for the

riverine of pain that ran from my throbbing nipple down to my
throbbing cock.

My cock! My autonomous cock felt as if it might, at any moment,

explode and spray its boiling cum all the way up to the ceiling.

I let loose one more muffled gasp and then all went still and silent.

I had fainted.

But soon I was conscious again, and writhing. Not with pain but

with a strange and unlikely pleasure that was struggling up through
the pain.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

121

My God! He was on his knees before me. And I could not believe

what he was doing to me to revive me to full awareness.

HE WAS SUCKING MY COCK!!!!
But – like the Master Sadist he was – he stopped a second before I

would have enjoyed the merciful relief of a sexual climax.

"Welcome back to the living," he said. "It was very rude of you to

fall asleep in the middle of our game. But you should at least thank
me for waiting until you regained consciousness before continuing. I
shouldn't want you to miss the best part."

I looked down to see the needle protruding from my tortured

nipple. A thin trickle of blood ran down my chest – past my navel –
all the way down – into my pubic hair.

I looked up to see the alluring, glamorous fiend approaching me

again. A new panic gripped me when I saw that he had another
needle in his hand. My body began to shake in the chair to which I
was bound. The chair was on the verge of tipping over, so violent was
my shaking.

He reached out and pinched my right nipple. I prayed to God that I

might fall into a deep, permanent sleep. For I was sure I could bear
no more torture.

But I was wrong. My capacity for taking pain was being extended

beyond any normal human limits.

He waited – gazing deep into my eyes – pulling the tip of my nipple

as far out from my chest as was possible without ripping it off. Then
he went to work with the second needle. With horrible slowness he
forced it through my right nipple.

My chest was an unnatural sight. My firm pectoral muscles sat

high on my rib cage. Jutting out from those twin mounds were my
distended nipples. The trauma of being pierced by the large needles
had caused both nubs to swell to an incredible size. Both were bright
red.

Once more my torturer searched for something in the container

behind him. A moment later he held up two large golden rings. They
were thick and heavy in appearance and had an opening in the center.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

122

When he pulled the needles out of my tits I passed out again. But

this time he didn't wait for me to regain consciousness. It was
necessary for him to complete the operation before the punctured flesh
had an opportunity to close in upon itself. The rings had to be
inserted immediately upon the removal of the extra large needles.

For the next five minutes I was in and out of consciousness. I

remember – I remember – PLIERS! – that squeezed and squeezed
until the openings in both rings were closed.

I remember – Oh God, such agony! – I remember a blue white

flame jutting from a device that looked like a miniature blow torch.
The heat! – as the flame fused the ends of the nipple rings together.

"Look!" he commanded. "See for yourself what I have done to

you."

I looked down at his handiwork. It was a bad mistake. I should

never have looked. The sight made me sick and crazy. And strangely
aroused!

But he would not let me pass out again.
Ah! – God Damn Him! Once again he sucked my cock to keep me

alive and conscious until the pleasure almost equaled the pain.

THE RINGS NOW HUNG LIKE DOOR KNOCKERS FROM

EACH OF MY TORTURED NIPPLES!!

One would think I should have been horrified – revolted by the

sight of such supreme molestation of my nipples.

But I wasn't. I found the sight and feel of the huge rings suspended

from my swollen tits disturbingly erotic. And I knew the pain would
pass.

I begged – I begged – for the only thing that was left for me to beg

for. The only thing worth living for. I begged:

"Please – PLEASE! – SIR! – Let me COME!"
"Of course, dear boy. You took your pain well and you deserve to

be rewarded. You shall spend your sweet boyhood's seed for your
pleasure and mine. But you must understand that for a BOY CUNT
like yourself pleasure and pain are one and the same. Therefore I
shall oblige you by lashing your big, stiff cock until it shoots its pent-
up cum to the ceiling."

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123

He produced a whip. Tiny and quite beautiful.
"This whip is designed expressly for a young man's big, stiff

COCK! It is made of braided camel's hair. Your magnificent penis
can sustain hundreds of lashes without permanent damage. Consider
each lash a love bite from me to you."

At no time throughout the torture had my absolutely rigid cock lost

what promised to be its permanent erection.

And now – gently at first – then with ever increasing ferocity – he

LASHED MY FULLY ERECT COCK – methodically – up and down
from base to head and back again – repeatedly – until the happening
of the promised eruption was upon me!!

And when I passed out that time it was like a dream of blissful

surrender.

When I was once again conscious my entire world was changed. I

could not believe my good fortune.

Bobby was back! Not the devil who had assumed his shape – but

the real Bobby as I had known and loved him. The voice. The
sweetness. The guileless innocence.

I didn't care that it was Paul Kleist's superb impersonation of my

love that was dead and gone forever.

For even a pale ghost of my love was preferable to life without a

trace of him. Even knowing his sweet presence was a cruel hoax was
better than the HELL reality offered in its stead.

And the illusion was sweet indeed! After a period of euphoric

dreams in which Bobby and I were together once again with all the
understanding and rapport stronger than before, I awakened to find
myself immersed in warm, soothing water. I was in the bathroom. In
the tub. Bobby was bathing me. So gentle! Like a loving father
bathing his baby boy.

"Bobby?" I asked.
"You bet. Nobody else 'cept me, sweetheart. I'm gonna bathe you

real nice and put you to bed. I love you, Les. I've loved you since the
first second I laid eyes on you."

"Bobby?"
"Sure it's me. Open your pretty eyes and see it's me."

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124

I blinked, three times, and the fog lifted, and there he was – naked –

kneeling beside the tub – washing away all the pain and humiliation.

When he finished bathing me he lifted me gently out of the tub,

dried me off and carried me to my bed. Very gently, he rubbed a
soothing ointment on my pierced nipples to prevent infection.

"You get a good nap now. Then I'll take you out to dinner. Any

place you like. We'll celebrate, Les, just us two together – like it's
always been – like it always will be. You gotta know I love you with
all my heart and soul."

He was speaking in Bobby's voice. And looking at me with

Bobby's eyes.

He read my thoughts and said:
"You see now – I don't lie to you. I'm more Bobby now than

Bobby ever was. I'm Bobby. For you. Always. Look. Are these not
the hands of your Bobby? Are these not the eyes of your Bobby? Is
this not the voice of your Bobby?"

"Oh yes! Bobby – my darling! I've waited so long for you!"
"Sure you have. Waited for me to be all you've wanted me to be."
Then – still in the sweet, gentle tones of my Bobby he said:
"We'll have all the kinky, twisted SM sex you ever thought about

when you jacked off. And MORE! The nipple rings are only the
beginning. I intend to strip you and do things to your naked body you
never dared to dream of!"

"Oh Bobby! I am your slave for life!"
"I knew you would see it my way," he said.
Then he crawled in bed beside me and let me cry myself to sleep

with my head on his chest.

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125

CHAPTER XII

I spent the following morning packing our things for the big move

to the Ansonia. HE who owned me, body and soul, spent the day in
the big house on Long Island, selecting the things he wanted for the
suite in the city. The limo driver he 'inherited' from his former self
drove him out at the crack of dawn. The ice-cold, cutie-pie chauffeur,
with his platinum blond, flattop hairdo that looked as if it were made
of silver celluloid, would have been the perfect choice for the Youth
For Hitler poster boy.

In addition to driving 'Herr Hoffmann' he would do some heavy

lifting from house to car under his master's supervision. Nor would he
receive any help from Martin and Anna who had been given their
'walking papers' when they failed to show proper respect to a twenty-
five year old Muscle Boy from Texas who had become their new
master upon the 'death' of Paul Kleist. They made it clear that they
thought Herr Kleist was out of his mind when he drew up that last
minute will leaving everything to 'that overgrown child.'

Upon his arrival at the mansion Bobby Paul called me to announce

that he would probably return late that night or possibly stay the night
and return the next morning. In addition to that message he gave me
elaborate instructions to add to the ones he had already given me
regarding what to pack and what to throw out.

He expressed particular concern for the recordings of Paul Kleist in

his prime, all of which were on the old 78 RPM mode, made of wax,
and easily broken. He went on and on about how they should be
wrapped individually with cardboards placed between them. He
spoke as if they were his prized possessions. When I reminded him
that they were my records, and that I knew how to protect them from
damage in transit, he reminded me that, as his worthless slave, I
possessed no personal property whatever.

It was then that I discovered an interesting phenomenon: Over the

telephone he did not possess the same power over me that he did in
person. He seemed uncertain as to whether he should speak like
Bobby or Paul. So he switched back and forth from one voice to the

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126

other, sometimes in the middle of a sentence. Without the visual
power of his beauty and sex appeal he came across as little more than
the professional phony he had become.

"Yes Sir, Yes Sir, Yes Sir," I repeated, like the automaton I had

become, while deciding exactly how I would break into little pieces
every single one of my Paul Kleist recordings.

I thought it might be fun to hurl them into the beyond from the

rooftop. Or – perhaps the fire escape.

Ah – Yes! – the fire escape would be best. That way I could play

each and every one of them on my old portable phonograph one last
time as I crawled in and out of the window onto the fire escape.

Play, hurl, play, hurl, play, hurl – on and on into the Manhattan

hustle and bustle.

What about the 46th Street traffic below? Might not a record go

flying into the window of a passing car and injure someone?

Perhaps with a great show of skill I could sail all the records on thin

air directly onto the roof of the tenement across the street.

Or – with a great show of physical strength I might succeed in

hurling the God Damn Records directly West and into the mighty
Hudson River.

Yes! – I might succeed – for I had heard that people who go

completely insane oft times possess superhuman strength.

In any case, I resolved to give the project the very best that was in

me.

Disc. Discus thrower. Also phonograph disc. Thrower of

phonograph discs!

I recalled being highly turned on by a track-and-field event I had

once attended wherein the competing discus throwers wore only extra
brief shorts that were split up the sides. Ah! – the way they posed
before the big throw – all that bare MAN FLESH gleaming in the sun!

I had the perfect costume for my own one-man-phonograph-discus

throwing event on the fire escape. It would go so perfectly well with
the door knocker sized rings in my nipples. Yes, to be sure, it was
another 'gift' from my fascist sweetheart.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

127

Before he left that morning on his journey through the Valley of

Ashes to the House of Many Mansions he had thrown to me the
garment he insisted that I should wear until his return. He had warned
me of the dire consequences should I take it off for a single moment.

"All I shall have to do is gaze into your eyes. I will know from

your eyes if you are lying. Your eyes will betray you if you have
disobeyed. And your voice as well. I shall know your guilty secret
from the inflections of your voice."

Ah! – Yes! – He would be standing before me when he questioned

me. That was a different matter altogether. My little game of token
rebellion would end the moment he was in my presence.

So I had to wear the TORTURE PANTS until he gave me

permission to remove them. I would have to wear the TORTURE
PANTS on the fire escape for all of HELLS KITCHEN to see!

The TORTURE PANTS that 'went so well with the rings in my

nipples,' he said – he said – HE SAID!!!

The garment was so bizarre – so barbaric – a masterpiece of kink.

It was an exceptionally brief thong made of tanned hide. At first sight
I doubted it would be possible to put it on. Surely it was much too
small, I thought. But the look, the feel, the smell of the thing
possessed an overpowering fetishistic appeal. It was blatantly sexual.
It would leave me almost totally exposed. It was so brief and tight
that my balls and my oversized prick would be crushed with every
move I made.

And my prick began to stiffen at the very thought of wearing the

thing. Wearing it with nothing else on, of course!

The damned leather thong was intended to arouse and humiliate

me. To enhance my humiliation he made me strip naked and put the
diabolical garment on in front of the Youth For Hitler poster boy.

It was eight o'clock in the morning and I would have to wear my

TORTURE THONG throughout the entire day – and, possibly, all
night, should he decide to sleep over on Long Island.

I had to strain mightily to pull the God Damned thing over my

knees. I had to bend forward and tug hard to bring it up to my groin.
That's as far as it would go. I could not bring it up high enough to

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

128

cover my pubic hair completely. There was no room for my cock and
balls. My miserable cock – so painfully oversized – was jutting up,
stiff and pulsating. It took all of my strength to get it contained in the
much-too-small leather pouch. Even so, the head stuck out at the top,
pressed flat against my stomach, a good two inches above my navel.

And that was what I was wearing when the men – the big, butch,

rough, tough men! – came to take my piano out the window and down
to their moving van.

They saw me almost naked in that leather thong. They saw the

rings in my nipples.

They said not a word, but I could feel their disgust and their scorn

like blows from a hammer.

And yet – a dark, sneaky little part of me deep down inside thrilled

to my blatant exhibition of indecent exposure.

I felt – I felt – somehow – more than naked. Had I been completely

naked the men would not have been compelled to stare at my BIG
DICK. But in that impossible leather thong they could not not stare at
it.

I would have preferred to wait until nightfall to present myself on

the fire escape in my phonograph disc throwing costume but I knew
not when Bobby Paul might return. Surely, I did not want my athletic
event interrupted. If it was doomed to be interrupted I should have
preferred it be by the police – come to arrest me for indecent exposure
and performing a lewd act in public.

Would they place me under arrest? Would they put me in

handcuffs? Would they shove me into their – what is it called? –
'squad car?' – would they put me in the squad car as I was?! In my
near naked condition?! Would the uniformed brutes want to abuse my
tender white body? – Oh, I hoped so!

I didn't give a damn about the consequences. I was – BY GOD! –

the mad discus thrower of 46th Street!

And I did it. I played the first Paul Kleist record I laid my hands

on:

In fernen Land,
Unnahber euren Schritten,

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129

– and sailed it across the street where it smashed against a lamp

post.

I played another record:
Morgenlich leuchtend
In rosigem schein
– and a cute, teenaged boy caught it and ran with it and tossed it

faster, higher, farther than ever I could. Ah! I had an accomplice!

I played another record:
Wintersturme wichen
Dem Wonnemond
– and a crowd began to gather below – people of every conceivable

size, shape, age, sex, race and attitude. Soon they were joined by a
cop. Then the cop became two cops and the two cops split and
multiplied into four – or eight – (I was never good at arithmetic!)

But I knew my fantasy of being arrested, put in handcuffs, hauled

off to the precinct, and generally roughed up by big, butch, rough,
tough COPS was coming closer to reality with every breath I took.
And by that time I had learned that fantasies that turn into realities can
be living nightmares.

And my nightmare in the daytime started at once as a whole gang

of cops and outraged citizens entered my building and stomped up the
stairs.

I thought I heard someone shout: 'We're comin' to get you!' – but I

couldn't be sure. In fact, I cannot to this day be sure that the entire
episode was not a paranoid hallucination. I know only that I ran
blindly up the final flight of stairs and hid on the roof until Bobby
Paul returned right at dusk. I saw the big limo stop in front of the
building. I saw Bobby Paul emerge. I ran down to Bobby Paul and
confessed all.

Bobby Paul told me I was indeed a very bad boy and had to be

punished. But my punishment would have to be postponed until we
finished moving.

That was nice – very nice – It meant I had something to look

forward to beside the Opera.

THE OPERA!

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

130

I had almost forgotten that we were to join Dr. Anselmo for a

revival of Tristan und Isolde at the Metropolitan.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

131

CHAPTER XIII

It was important that Anselmo, as House Physician, should occupy

a seat on the aisle so that he would be accessible in the event of a
medical emergency. Next to him sat Bobby. Then me. Then a
heavily intoxicated priest who was already nodding off and snoring
before the prelude began. The alcoholic fumes he emitted with each
rasping exhalation were making me slightly dizzy, as if I too were
getting drunk from smelling his breath.

The three of us had dined in the elegant restaurant on the Grand

Tier. But we abstained from cocktails and wine. For once, we three
were in perfect agreement: One should never take a drink before
sitting through all four and a half hours of Wagner's Tristan und
Isolde. The work in itself is an out-of-body experience that requires
no mood altering substance for its nihilistic effect on the susceptible
listener. Indeed, alcohol is likely to nullify the effect in much the
same way that a person who has been drinking cannot be hypnotized
because of his diminished capacity for intense concentration.

Throughout dinner there had been between my two companions

fragments of cryptic exchanges that I made little effort to decipher.
After all – they were Paul and Theo – Theo and Paul – those boys! –
always up to something secretive.

And criminal, no doubt.
"When?"
"Second Act."
"Why not the first?"
"Give them time to – listen – and compare. That way the contrast

will be all the more startling."

"How?"
"Leave that to me."
"No! I want to know how. I insist you tell me."
"I make my rounds between the acts, as well you know."
"Yes."
"To see how the principals are getting on."
"Yes."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

132

"A cup of tea – a shot of whiskey – whatever is restful to the nerves

– soothing to the throat–"

"Yes."
"A mixture. My own of course. Not much. A tiny pinch.

Tasteless. Odorless. Undetectable. No permanent harm."

"Unconsciousness?"
"No. Abdominal cramps."
"Severe?"
"But of course."
"Where is it?"
"In my pocket."
It had been a long day for me. I was tired, and the heavy dinner I

had eaten made me groggy. We had finished moving into our suite in
the Ansonia late that afternoon.

So, at last, there I sat, in a choice orchestra seat – already exhausted

before the first note was played. Really! One needs to be rested and
fresh for a Wagner opera.

Waiting. Waiting for the houselights to dim – for the conductor to

appear – for the prelude to begin – hoping the alcoholic priest so
totally passed out beside me wouldn't use my shoulder for a pillow.

At last! Those three notes sinking into the famous 'Tristan Chord' –

and the haunting prelude, like the tug and pull of the ocean's
undertow, began.

During the final measures of the prelude the curtain rose and the

face of Alma Angstrom – (only her face) – was seen in the light of a
pin-spot. Her striking Nordic face – like a tragic mask – was
surrounded by darkness.

Then – the sailor's voice from high up above the proscenium:
"Westwarts
schweift der Blick
Ostwarts
Streicht das Schiff."
And the full stage lights rose to reveal the deck of Tristan's ship

with the sailor's voice heard as if from the masthead:

"Frisch weht der Wind

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133

der Heimath zu–
mein Irishe Kind,
wo weilest du?"
Even before she sang her first note it was obvious that Alma

Angstrom had inhabited the role of Isolde. Her riveting stage
presence – the way she used almost catatonic stillness to convey
Isolde's deep depression turning to rage from the implied insult
contained in the words of the sailor's song. Then rage broke through
and she launched into the fiendishly difficult narrative culminating in
'Isolde's Curse' in which she tells of Tristan's betrayal and vows to kill
him and then herself.

We in the audience now knew why the opera was being performed

without a credible heldentenor in the role of Tristan. The reason was
Alma Angstrom!

Never had I heard a soprano voice so powerful as, without a trace

of strain, she delivered the climactic phrase of the 'curse' motive that
makes or breaks any singer who attempts the role:

Fluch dir, Verruchter!
Fluch deinem Haupt!
Rache, Tod!
Tod uns Beiden!
But that was the last exciting moment we would experience in Act

One, which was not yet half over. When Felix Anthony, as Tristan,
made his entrance it was downhill all the way. He sang all the notes
correctly but it wasn't nearly enough. He was hopelessly miscast,
both as singer and actor. Angstrom had a difficult choice to make:
Either she could continue full steam and totally overwhelm her
partner, or tone her intensity all the way down to his level and weaken
her own performance. She courteously chose the latter to avoid
humiliating her colleague. In turn, the conductor was obliged to
drastically reduce the volume of the orchestra. The result was
disastrous. The great 'confrontation scene' between the two principals,
which is supposed to build to a shattering climax with the drinking of
the love potion and the two erstwhile enemies in each other's arms

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134

pouring out their undying passion, died on its feet, and the curtain fell
to tepid applause.

During the curtain calls in which Angstrom was warmly applauded

and Anthony was booed, Dr. Anselmo rose from his seat and hurried
off to attend his duties backstage.

I turned to Bobby Paul and said:
"It's going to be a long intermission. We might as well step out for

a smoke."

"No. I am not smoking today. Have you not noticed?"
"Frankly, no. I've been too busy. But I'd like a cigarette. So, if

you'll excuse me..."

"No. Remain seated. When I am not smoking then you are not

either."

"Don't you want to stretch your legs, at least? Act Two is very

long."

"Do you think I am unaware of the length of the second act of

Tristan?"

We fell silent as the patrons around us retreated to the outer lobby –

to smoke – to order drinks from the bar – to go to the bathrooms.

Five minutes went by without our speaking a word to each other.

Then Bobby put his hand tenderly on my leg and spoke to me in his
old voice – in his old way – Texas accent and all:

"I need you, Les. Right here with me. I'm nervous. I know I don't

show it, but I am. Awful. I shouldn't have eaten a full dinner. I knew
better but I went ahead and did it. Every time I stop smoking I get so
darn hungry. Now I'm too full of food. Afraid I might get the cramps.
It's the other guy suppose to get cramps. Not me. Wow."

"Bobby, I wish I knew exactly what you're talking about."
"Oh, it don't matter, Les. I just need to talk and you to listen. Like

you always do. I don't think I could go on without you – being here –
always by my side. I'll be nicer. Really I will. My nerves – I've been
working so hard to be ready for this night."

"This night? If this performance of Tristan is so special then why, I

wonder, didn't we wait until next week to move? A few more days
wouldn't have mattered."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

135

"No, Les, baby, you don't understand. Tomorrow morning we're

gonna be invaded by the press – every paper in town – to say nothing
of radio and T.V. – photographers – interviewers – I'm gonna be an
instant celebrity. We can't have that army coming to that dump we
moved out of. We gotta have classy surroundings – and plenty of
space. Too bad the move took so long but – hey – we made it. We're
here and I'm ready."

"Ready for your unscheduled comeback?"
"Don't call it that. It's my debut. I'm Robert Hoffmann."
"With two N's."
"Right. I'm a protege of the late Paul Kleist. Always remember

that. I've earned my right to sing his roles. And right the wrong that
was done to him. The strain! – It's got on my nerves. But that's not
bad. It's just stage fright. And when the old adrenaline starts to pump
I'll go with it. Boy! I'm feelin' better already. It's been so long. I
forgot that stage fright can be a friend in disguise if you let it. But,
oh, Les, baby, don't never leave me."

He went on and on like that. One moment he was my Bobby. The

next moment he was – the OTHER. But that voice! That
mesmerizing voice poured over me like black molasses. And I lapped
up every drop. I didn't listen to what he was saying. I was straining
to convince myself that Paul Kleist was not there. It was Bobby and
only Bobby, there beside me. I thought, if I tried hard enough I could
convince myself that it was not an impersonation – that the possession
was not total – that there were times when Paul Kleist went to sleep
and the real Bobby came out to tell me how much he needed me, and
to hear me reassure him once again that I would never leave him –
even though I would have to endure the OTHER who cohabited with
him – or, rather, endure that perverse part of myself that compelled
me to submit to the domination of the OTHER.

But it was folly to deceive myself. How easy it was to fall prey to

the man's powers of seduction. For all his soothing words and soft,
gentle eyes there was at that moment a part of him that could only be
Paul Kleist. And that part was his hand – on my leg – touching me
the way Bobby never would – never could–

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

136

It was then – at that moment – that I began to understand the exact

nature of the creature seated beside me with his hand on my leg and
his magical voice casting its spell on my soul. No – he was not
sometimes Bobby and sometimes Paul Kleist. He was entirely, at all
times, Paul Kleist. But he needed to convince himself that he had
died and been reborn as the man he had always wanted to be – the
man who had it all: the voice, the looks, the youth, the health.

And my importance to him went beyond our sexual relationship.

He needed me to reinforce his delusion that he was in fact, Paul
Kleist's perfectly trained protege and logical successor – aged 25!

But he was not comfortable in his impersonation of Bobby.

Bobby's personality was too limited. There was no room in Bobby's
sweet, simple soul for the Nazi Opera Star's flamboyant temperament.
And when he was with Anselmo he made no effort to be Bobby at all.
Only with me could he sustain his pitiful delusion to any extent. And
even with me the scars and passions of seventy-three years of living
broke out periodically.

At last, the intermission was over and Theodore Anselmo, the Met's

new 'House Physician,' returned to his seat on the aisle. And Bobby's
speech instantly reverted to Paul Kleist's overly precise British
diction:

"Is it time, now, Theo?"
"No, not yet. You will be notified."
"But – damn you, Theo, I cannot just sit here. I am going crazy!"
"You must be patient, Robert."
"But the second act is about to begin."
"Keep your voice down. People are returning to their seats."
"Of course they are. The curtain is about to go up."
"Exactly as I have planned. Isolde will sing her duet with

Brangaena. She will extinguish the torch. She will wave her veil.
Tristan will enter."

His voice dropped to a mere whisper as he leaned over to say:
"Shortly after – very shortly after – the curtain will come down.

There may or may not be an announcement. That is out of my hands.
It is up to the management. But I dare say the curtain will go up

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

137

again. Otherwise they will lose a great deal of money. It's a full
house. And all the major critics are here. They dare not cancel. They
will listen to me. They will have to trust my judgment. They will
have no choice under the circumstances. You will be notified by the
head usher or an assistant manager who will escort you backstage. A
makeup artist and someone from wardrobe will be standing by to have
you ready by the time you've taken three deep breaths. I have seen
how fast they can work. Very shortly the curtain will go up again.
Isolde will have to extinguish the torch and wave her veil a second
time because those actions are synchronized to Tristan's entrance
music."

"I see. Very good, Theo. Tristan will enter – again – and the rest

will be history."

"Do shut up, Robert, your voice carries even when you are

whispering. You should know that by now."

"Why should I know it? It has been my voice for only a few short

weeks."

"Is that the kind of idiotic statement you're going to come out with

when you are interviewed by the press?"

"Of course not. Why can't you trust me, Theo?"
"Because you are unstable, Paul."
"Indeed! And is that the name you are going to call me in front of

the gentlemen of the press? And you dare to call me unstable!"

"It just slipped out. Damn you, I've as much right to be nervous as

you. I am risking my reputation as well as my very life on your
behalf. I should think a little gratitude is in order."

"Oh I assure you, Theo, I am positively wallowing in gratitude.

But let me remind you that you are charging me far more than
gratitude."

"Why are you so angry?"
"Because you called me 'unstable.'"
"You are. All the more so since – since your wish came true. And

frankly, I am starting to resent my role as your 'Fairy Godmother.'"

"It is a bit late for that, I should think. What is done cannot be

undone."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

138

"I dare say you'll undo it yourself."
"Oh, will you both shut up?!" I said, in a desperate whisper.
It worked. They, both of them, realized people around us could

hear every word they were saying. Not that any sane person could
fathom what any of it meant. Unless there were any old witches in the
audience other than dear Theo.

At last! The houselights dimmed and the conductor appeared to

mild applause.

"Don't you have to go backstage?" asked Bobby Paul, considerably

calmer than before. Equally subdued, Anselmo replied:

"No. Not until I know I am needed. And if you don't want to spoil

all I have done for you, you will keep quiet."

I could not focus my attention on the opening of Act Two. I knew

what was going to happen. I was terrified. I wanted to leave. Not
just the Opera house. I wanted to get the hell out of town and never
come back. Go anywhere. Get a job playing piano in some hotel bar
in some small town. Maybe even change my name.

A very loud high note from Alma Angstrom snapped me out of my

escape fantasy. With the big-voiced mezzo singing Brangaena, maid-
in-waiting to Isolde, Angstrom could sing full voice again as she had
in the opening scene of Act one. She was reminding the audience of
just-who-by-God-she-was before she would have to scale her huge
voice down again for the love duet with her pipsqueak costar.

When she lifted the torch to extinguish it as a signal for her lover to

come to her, she flung it across the stage with such wild, over-the-top
vehemence that it bounced in a shower of sparks and nearly fell into
the orchestra pit. And when she whipped off her long white scarf and
waved it with what is traditionally supposed to be passionate
impatience, the gesture appeared to be something closer to desperate
surrender.

Enter Tristan.
And as Mr. Anthony reached for the high note on the second

syllable of his lover's fair name:

"I – SOL – de!"
His voice cracked.

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139

A second later came his next utterance:
"Ge – LIEB – te!"
With an even higher note on the second syllable. But instead of

cracking on the note, he let out a perfectly gruesome sound like the
squeal of a stuck pig.

Then he clutched his stomach with both hands and fell to the floor –

screaming!

He was still screaming as the curtain fell with a short, sharp THUD.
The audience sat in stunned silence. Bobby Paul grabbed my leg

and squeezed it with all the power in his huge hand. In a desperate
whisper I pleaded:

"You're hurting me!"
At that same moment the alcoholic priest's head fell onto my

shoulder. Worse still, he began to snore louder than before. I was
afraid I was going to lose control of myself and scream.

The moment passed when I saw the General Manager of the

Metropolitan Opera step before the curtain.

He was visibly shaken. He begged our indulgence. He informed us

that Mr. Anthony had been taken ill – as if we needed to be told! – He
assured us that Mr. Anthony was receiving medical attention to
ascertain whether he would be able to continue.

It was then that I noticed that the doctor's seat was unoccupied. He

must have dashed out the moment the curtain came down.

The Manager concluded his announcement by requesting that we

remain seated.

And the house remained dark to encourage us to comply with his

request.

Now the deadly silence gave way to restless, anxious murmuring

among the spectators surrounding us.

Bobby Paul released his painful grip on my leg and whispered:
"Alright – Les – dear boy – this is the first and last chance you will

have to see me from the house. After tonight you will be backstage to
assist me."

A man with a flashlight came down the aisle, glancing quickly at

the seat numbers. He stopped beside Bobby and asked:

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

140

"Mr. Hoffmann?"
"Yes, I am Robert Hoffmann."
"Would you come with me, please."
"Of course."
As he rose he said to me:
"Come back. After."
Then he followed the man with the flashlight up the aisle.
The priest, asleep on my shoulder, snored louder.
"Excuse me, Father," I said, as I moved over – all the way over – to

the seat on the aisle that Anselmo had vacated.

With a loud snort, the good Father righted himself, opened his eyes

for two seconds, then passed out again.

The wait did not exceed ten minutes, at most. I have never been

able to comprehend how the maneuver was brought off so swiftly and
adroitly. Once again the General Manager stepped before the curtain,
thanked the audience for their patience, informed us that Mr. Anthony
was indisposed, and the performance would continue with MR.
ROBERT HOFFMANN singing the role of Tristan.

His demeanor was a masterpiece of public relations. He worded

and uttered his announcement as if nothing unusual or unprecedented
was occurring. Oft times a singer lost his voice in mid performance
and a substitute took over. Even the way he spoke the name of 'Mr.
Robert Hoffmann' conveyed the impression that the singer was a
regular member of the company who had been contracted to 'cover'
for poor Mr. Anthony.

And before the audience had a second to wonder 'who' or 'what,' or

consult the roster in their programs that listed the names of all the
soloists under contract to the company, the orchestra launched into
Tristan's entrance music, the manager disappeared into the wings, the
curtain rose with the speed of a bullet, and Isolde threw her torch
across the full length of the stage.

But the super cool demeanor of the manager was in marked contrast

to the obvious nervousness of Alma Angstrom. The Soprano was
somewhat out of character. It was her own anxiety coming across,
rather than the ecstatic anticipation of the character she was

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141

portraying. Her waving of the scarf was a distracted, uncoordinated
symptom of her all-too-real emotional distress.

And no wonder! She was shortly going to sing – or attempt to sing

– the longest love duet in all of Opera with a man she had never laid
eyes on in her life! She could not have been blamed had she refused
to continue under such seemingly impossible circumstances. No
doubt she had seen him – that 'mere boy!' – dressed in a hastily
improvised costume. She, of all people, must have known that
nobody had ever heard of a tenor by the name of Robert Hoffmann –
whether his name was spelled with two N's or not!! I seriously doubt
whether her being informed that he was a protege of the late Paul
Kleist would have made any difference whatever in those hysterical
moments in which she had to make the decision to risk her reputation
by agreeing to continue.

But the curtain was up, the orchestra was playing, and all she could

do now was wave that damned scarf as if she were summoning the
fire department and hope she could survive the worst.

And there he was! – a golden apparition in the stage moonlight –

rushing toward her with open arms:

"I – SOL – de!"
Isolde is supposed to answer immediately:
"TRIS – tan!"
But she didn't. She missed her cue. She stood – open-mouthed –

frozen in wonderment at the clarion sound that came from the throat
of that total stranger rushing at her.

She missed her second cue also, which is:
"Ge – LIEB – te!"
Sung in harmony with Tristan – her top note rising to a high B-flat

which was not heard as she stood voiceless with awe at the sound that
came from her Tristan's throat on a high G – like a hundred trumpets
in unison!

Despite her professionalism Angstrom was evidently as startled as

those of us in the audience.

But – great artist that she was – she overcame her shock in a matter

of seconds and their voices soared over the orchestra as they

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142

embraced and poured out their ecstasy in perfectly matched vocal
sounds that issued forth like ocean waves crashing against rocks:

"Mein! Tristan mein!"
"Ewig! Isolde mein!"
No! – Alma Angstrom's Tristan in Act Two did not have an

intonation problem or a rhythm problem or any other problem.

As all the major music critics in New York would declare in their

reviews, it was almost impossible for us to believe the evidence of our
eyes and ears. Here was a golden-haired, heroic beauty of a man in
his mid-twenties who sang and acted with all the limitless abandon of
youth – but with the interpretive powers that can only be acquired
from many years of experience.

An impossible combination! But there it was. All of it. The

subtleties in addition to the stentorian vocal fireworks. When Tristan
drew Isolde down beside him on a flowery bank, rested his head on
her arm, and sang the famous, achingly tender–

"O sink hernieder,
Nacht der Lieber,"
–his voice sank to a ravishing pianissimo like a far distant cello.

And yet – every note caressed the listeners like a lover's hands
exploring the most intimate places on the beloved's body.

Sighs of rapture were audible from the audience – men as well as

women! We, none of us, had ever heard anything like it – in Tristan
or any other opera.

Throughout the duet, Alma Angstrom clung to her incredible, new

found Tristan with an erotic rapture that would cause the critics to
proclaim that she had exceeded even herself, if possible! There was
the deliciously disturbing impression that the love of Isolde for Tristan
was bursting through the scenic proscriptions of the libretto – that the
famous Soprano was, in fact, falling madly in love with her magical
co-star!

Never before in the history of performances of Wagner's paean to

heterosexual love had the overpowering eroticism of the work been so
palpably realized. During the sequence known as 'Brangaena's
Warning' in which Isolde's maid-in-waiting, stationed high above in

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143

the watchtower, sings of the inevitable destruction of wondrous night
by intrusive dawn, the oblivious lovers sank to the ground in a
passionate embrace and actually appeared to be tearing at each other's
clothing as the lights dimmed – not a second too soon! – to allow the
orchestra to describe their intercourse in purely musical terms.

But it was the final, violent climax of Act Two that revealed to the

audience Robert Hoffmann's powers as an actor.

Traditionally, Tristan duels briefly with the treacherous Melot and

deliberately lets his sword fall to receive the fatal thrust. But this
Tristan came up with a variation that caused the entire audience to
utter a gasp of shock. This Tristan drew his sword as if to attack.
Then – when Melot drew his sword in response – Tristan threw his
sword to the ground and, rushing toward his foe's poised weapon,
impaled himself upon it as an act of suicide.

But that was not the end of the profoundly shocking moment.

When it appeared that the sword had run him completely through,
Tristan grabbed Melot in a violent embrace and kissed him full on the
mouth before he fell – mortally wounded.

The meaning was unmistakable: He was thanking his erstwhile

friend turned mortal enemy for delivering him from an existence that
could bring only calamity to himself and the woman he loved.

A moment after Isolde threw herself upon Tristan's fallen body the

curtain fell to tumultuous applause.

I did not remain for the curtain calls. I fled to the lobby and

directly to the bar where I proceeded to down one martini after
another in quick succession.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

144

CHAPTER XIV

I wanted to kill my mind. I wanted to stop what was happening to

me. I thought, if I got drunk enough I might be able to get through the
third act without losing my soul.

How many fools have sought salvation in alcohol only to find

damnation?

Could I get drunk enough to shield what was left of my humanity

from what I now knew Paul Kleist could and would do with the third
act of Tristan? Using Bobby's voice!

In the late nineteenth century there were incidents – several of them

– in which young men listened together to Act Three of Tristan before
committing mass suicide. That is the kind of effect the third act of
Tristan can have on super-sensitive, neurotic young men who embrace
death as the ultimate orgasm to end all orgasms!

As I stood at the bar seeing just how drunk I could get, I made my

plans: I would let the devil sing his dark heart out and die
magnificently in Isolde's arms. Then I would take him home to our
lavish suite and give him Tristan's death for real! Then I would join
him. And good riddance! For I was falling in love with Paul Kleist's
demonic talent!

Perhaps I would have sex with him first. What did it matter, now

that sex and death were the same?

I was an accomplice to murder and didn't deserve to live.
I was the lover of the man who had murdered my lover!
My wet dream of Bobby transmogrified had come true – at the

price of my immortal soul. For surely I would go to HELL locked in
an eternal embrace with the rotting corpse of an old Nazi who had
shed his skin like a snake to rejuvenate his vile existence at the
expense of an innocent youth who had given him his trust and
devotion.

And I had become the monster's willing accomplice!
We belonged in HELL, the two of us.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

145

What would I use to kill him? A knife of course, I would slit his

throat while he slept. I would rip his voice out and leave nothing but
his fraudulent shell. Then use the same knife on myself.

Of a sudden I became aware of a man standing close beside me at

the bar. He nodded and smiled in an amiably tipsy sort of way and I
recognized him by his clerical collar and his breath as the priest I
thought I had left behind me when I fled to the bar.

"That was a wake up call, wasn't it?" he said.
When he realized I was slow to comprehend the remark he added:
"That boy! That blond Adonis! The moment that awesome voice

struck my benumbed senses I was wide awake. I've had too much to
drink, I'm afraid, and now I must drink myself sober to hear and see
what he's going to do with Tristan's delirium – hallucinations – death
longing – madness – transfiguration – all the good stuff that music can
do better than words or pictures. Are you following me, my good
man?"

"Only too well, Father. But I should confess – I'm not a Catholic."
"So what? Who needs to be a Catholic to be destroyed by great art?

All you need is to be too intelligent for your own good – and
terminally tuned in to the truth. Wagner says it all in this Opera we
are enduring tonight. It is those very lies of the day that the lovers
deplore that keep normal human beings going – going – going – busy
all over the place. When night falls – when night falls – I say –
another please, bartender. Do have another on me, my good sir, and
put up with my prattle until intermission is over because a man like
me needs a gentle drinking companion when he's lost his faith –
especially if he happens to be a priest who is falling – I say – falling –
for the truth that only night can bring."

"But, Father – after one enters the night and learns the truth – what

then?"

"Why then – there is nothing. Do you think we'll have enough time

for one more round before the third act?"

"Father – I think it's very important that we make time for one more

round even if we're a little late getting to our seats. Bartender, two
more here, please. And these are on me. Father – I've tried very hard

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

146

to get smashed but I must confess I've never felt more sober in my
life."

"Likewise, I'm sure."
"I wish I were a Catholic so that you could give me the Last Rites."
"Extreme Unction. Or is it merely unctuousness? But why? You

are young and healthy. Or so it would appear. And a non-believer –
or so I gather. But I can see that you are not in the least being
facetious. Tell me why you think you've any need for the Last Rites."

"Because I'm going to kill a man tonight. And after I see that he is

dead I'm going to kill myself."

"I see. And do you intend to tell me – in sacred confidence of

course – whom you intend to kill?"

"Tristan."
"Oh, I get it: Something symbolic."
"No. I mean literally. I'm going to kill the man who is singing the

role of Tristan tonight."

"You know him?!"
"I live with him. He is a spawn of the devil."
"You're sure about that?"
"Quite."
"Spawn of the devil, is he? Well that would explain it."
"Explain what?"
"His perfectly inhuman vocal prowess. When God bestows upon

us a gift – it is never perfect. There is always a perfectly human flaw
– or limitation. What that boy is doing tonight on that stage is not
humanly possible. But a gift from the devil can be flawless and
unlimited – for a time – in exchange for you know what."

"Yes. I know. And I'll gladly forfeit my own soul to bring him

down with me."

"He's got the voice of an angel, you must admit."
"Yes. His voice did indeed belong to an angel. He stole it – that

voice – and the heavenly body that contained it. And I let it happen. I
could have stopped it and I didn't. Because I desired that heavenly
body. And I got what I desired. Now – now – I'm sick of both of us."

"I understand."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

147

"Do you? Really?!"
"All too well. But we are, I hope, going to go back and hear the

third act, are we not?"

"I'm certain we are, both of us, doomed to hear it."
"There's the bell. Let's drink up and go."
We held hands, my priest and I, and allowed our souls to be

annihilated as the curtain rose on Tristan, hovering between life and
death beneath a lime tree in the ruined garden of his ancestral home.
We did not hold hands as lovers do. We held hands as people in a
burning skyscraper do when they agree to leap to their deaths rather
than suffer the more grisly, lingering death by fire.

The man on the stage, tearing his guts out in a delirium of prenatal

recall, was a total stranger to me even as he compelled me to join him
in his final descent into madness and death.

He was neither Paul Kleist nor Robert Hoffmann. He was Tristan,

immortalized in text that defies translation into English – and music
that needs no text to pierce you with the same wound that Melot
bestowed upon his childhood's friend at the crack of detestable dawn.

I had listened to Paul Kleist's famous 1939 recording many times,

thinking it had to be unsurpassable. Now I knew it was only a sketch
– an outline – a proposal for the ultimate rendering that would require
nothing less than supernatural intervention for its fruition. For the
accumulated philosophical powers that compensated an elderly genius
for his declining physique had reached back in time to reclaim the
stamina of his youth.

No! Not his youth! The youth of a man far stronger and more

splendidly endowed than he had been in his prime.

The result was Faustian! And that Faust, together with his cringing

spineless slave, so sick with self-loathing, had to die and go to the
devil.

Murdering that obscene creature would be the purest and cleanest

thing I had ever done!

But now he was singing so softly – so filled with unspoken and

unspeakable longing.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

148

So sweet his voice as he asks with the innocence of a child why his

mother abandoned him after she vomited him from the night of her
womb to languish in the scorching sun.

Only Isolde can put out the light – extinguish the torch that shines

upon the obscenity of being alive.

But then – near the end – came the one moment of physical

violence in Act Three – the moment when Tristan and the audience
hear Isolde's voice from offstage, calling her lover's name. It is a
moment usually lost in performance due to the tenor's reluctance to
expose his body. Understandable, due to the poor, unsightly bodies of
most tenors who attempt the role.

Robert Hoffmann, as Tristan, heard the voice of his beloved, come

to deliver him at last, and stood with a rush of final, brief, adrenergic
liberation.

He ripped off his tunic to reveal his beautiful body clad only in the

briefest of loincloths. Then – tearing at the bandage that covered his
'Melot Wound' he sang out, at the top of his incredible voice:

"Hahei! Mein Blut,
lustig nun fliesse!"
And it appeared that blood gushed from the reopened wound.
It was a brilliantly timed bit of stagecraft. He had, in fact, pressed a

gelatin capsule containing stage blood against his side. Then he
opened his arms wide to show the audience his crimson palms.
Holding this shocking evocation of Christ Crucified, the nearly naked
hero exults in the flowing of his life's blood and ecstatically proclaims
that his deliverer has arrived to extinguish the torch once and for all.
Holding the stentorian high note at the climax of the phrase–

"Die Leuchte – ha!
Die leuchte verlischt!
Zu ihr! Zu Ihr!"
He rushes to the death he has been courting from the beginning.
Alma Angstrom made one more wise choice for the evening:

Before kissing Tristan's dead lips and singing her sublime Liebestod
over his body she discreetly covered his near nudity with her cloak.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

149

But five thousand Opera lovers had seen Robert Hoffmann's

gorgeous body and never could the sight be forgotten.

When the curtain closed on the final tableau there was an interval

of profound silence during which I whispered to my newfound
companion of whom I had grown rather fond:

"Would you like to commit suicide with me?"
Immediately he replied:
"Good idea. That sort of thing is best done with an amiable

companion. But could you give me a rain check? I have to do Mass
in the morning."

He said 'Do Mass' the way some people say 'Do lunch.'
"If you can't commit suicide with me tonight then I'm afraid I must

go backstage and assume my new role as the Devil's Dresser."

"Don't let me detain you, my good man. We must, all of us, do our

duty."

Then the silence was broken by wild applause and screams of

"BRAVO!"

I could not get through the crowd that filled his dressing room and

spilled out into the corridor.

Flashbulbs blinded me!
Pandemonium!
Even Alma Angstrom herself, still in full makeup and costume, was

struggling to get through the crush of bodies to make contact with the
new sensation.

And the new sensation sat before his mirror wearing only the string

bikini he had put on under his midnight blue silk suit.

He saw me in the crowd. And by way of summons he extended

toward me a jar of cold cream which was his way of indicating that it
was now my duty to remove his makeup while he absorbed the
adulation of the multitudes.

I fought my way through the hysterical throng to assume my duties

as the great Robert Hoffmann's dresser.

I had to tune it out – all of it – to smear cold cream on that classic

profile. And erase Tristan's tragic mask.

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

150

"Tomorrow – tomorrow," sighed the overnight sensation as he

waved his adulators aside.

"I am available to the press in my suite at the Ansonia at eleven

A.M. tomorrow. I shall be prepared to answer all your questions at
that time. For now, I must have peace and rest. I am sure you
understand that I am exhausted. Please take your leave of me until
tomorrow – tomorrow – Ah! My incomparable Isolde! Let me kiss
you!"

He had the political tact to kiss his renowned costar and tell her

how honored he was to sing Wagner's noble work with her on this
extraordinary occasion.

And as the throng slowly thinned out there was the general

manager, falling all over himself, offering Mr. Hoffmann the entire
Wagnerian repertoire for all the seasons to come, including any other
heroic tenor roles the artist would be willing to sing.

"Tomorrow – tomorrow – for now I am like the deep sea diver who

must enter the decompression chamber and remain for a spell until he
can safely rise to the surface again."

"I quite understand. Tomorrow then. But we must talk. We must

plan your engagements. You are the greatest Heldentenor since the
prime of Paul Kleist. Out! Out everybody! Give Mr. Hoffmann
space to – how did you put it? – decompress?"

"It is only a metaphor."
"Goodnight and farewell until tomorrow."

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

151

CHAPTER XV

His second career had numbered days. He remained in great form

through one full season, topping himself with each appearance. It was
on the Spring tour that he began to dissipate.

He acquired one of those underground booklets that listed most of

the gay bars in the major cities across the country. Night after night in
city after city he drank too much, smoked too much, and fucked too
much. When I tried to caution him he laughed and declared that he
was making up for lost time. He seemed oblivious if not indifferent to
the fact that time was running out.

I understood and identified with his compulsion even as I held him

in contempt for it: Drinking, smoking, and fucking had become more
important to him than his singing.

One night in Memphis while singing Tristan he cracked on a high

note. It should have been a warning sign. But he continued his
excesses unabatedly.

It was unfortunate that Dr. Anselmo could not come with us on the

tour for he was the one man who might have kept his creation under
control.

He began to put on weight and each additional pound rendered him

less attractive.

By the time we got to Dallas his deterioration was alarming. The

music critic for the Dallas Times Herald wrote that he looked and
sounded like Paul Kleist in his decline!

His sexual interest in me began to wane as he partook of the

smorgasbord of available young men in bar after bar in city after city.
He took perverse pride in his ability to introduce his transient partners
to the dark thrills of sado-masochism.

By the time we got to New Orleans I had become his procurer. He

never approached a man in a bar. They always approached him. He
would sit surrounded by admirers who had attended his performance.
But his attention would fix on some darkly handsome holdout across
the room. Then it would be my duty to approach the stranger and say

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

152

to him: "My friend, the great Robert Hoffmann, would like to buy
you a drink."

At first he took his tricks back to our hotel. But after a time he

wanted to see how many he could turn in one night. So it was sex in
the men's room or sex in the alley way behind the bar. Or both!

He liked to have me watch. To make me jealous.
But he couldn't make me jealous because I had fallen out of love

with him.

And I told him so during one of our increasingly violent quarrels:
"I loved you twice," I said. "I loved you when you were Bobby.

And I loved you again when you were singing like an angel. But now
there is nothing left of you to love. Look at yourself. You're a mess.
And your voice is in shreds."

That statement cost me two of my front teeth.
SM sex was one thing. Being punched in the face was something

else.

I vowed to leave him. Time and again. But I couldn't leave him as

long as he was alive.

Nor could I kill him. Nor could I kill myself. I simply didn't have

it in me.

Nor could I hate him. For hate is too close to love.
I wanted him to die.
I wanted to watch him die, knowing as I did that there was nothing

left of me except my cold, dead, dreadful attachment to him.

Finally, there came the night he took the wrong guy up the alley. It

was all so quick and anti-climactic. The guy was one of those
homophobic psychos who let themselves be picked up by gays just for
the opportunity to murder them.

Bobby Paul died from getting his throat cut from ear to ear.
All of this happened over four decades ago. In all that time I have

not been able to free myself from feelings of despair and
hopelessness. Most people feel that human beings cannot live without
hope. I have survived to tell you that some people manage.

THE END

Torsten Barring Bobby Hoffman

153

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