Come with me to the past, not the far distant past of ancient winged gods, not that old era of medieval European romances with its cherubs, not even the Victorian age with its fancy furniture and tiny winged creatures. Come with me to my own past, to a time of enchantment, to a realm of magic and mystery. Journey with me to meet a fairy, one who traveled about in his white Toyota he affectionately called Tinker Bell. Follow us to the restaurants, pool halls, bars, apartments, homes, and mountain tops where my fairy with earthy humor and habit lived. Hear my fairy tale if you can spare the time.
He was short, pudgy, and round-faced; his black hair thinning, his black eyes pushed a little too close together, and his black cowboy boots neatly polished; his smile broad, his voice medium-high pitched, and his wit quick; his rhythm perfect, his movements efficient, and his hopes tricky. He had no wings, he couldn’t fly, and his fairy wand wasn’t very long. Still it worked magic; I mean he worked magic on me.
I saw him first at the restaurant where my wife worked, where they both waited tables. I sat in her section. She introduced me to several employees. She introduced me to Ronnie, my fairy. We went dancing, my wife, my fairy, several other employees, and I, out for an evening of two-stepping after their shift was over. It happened several times. My wife kept both of us guys busy. When one of us tired, the other one took over to help her achieve a spinning fix to supplement the Diet Cokes she drank. I had my one beer or two beers or rarely three beers. Ronnie had his. We danced under a neon moon, beneath howling coyotes, in the subtle light of ads for Budweiser, Miller, Tecate, and Coors. I learned never to waltz after one beer; I couldn’t keep my balance with the turns. I also learned I could still do the two-step, the Schottische, and the Cotton Eyed Joe even after two beers, not that I could do any of them very well. And there were the more challenging line dances. We laughed and danced and laughed at ourselves. We three occasionally ate breakfast after the bars closed. We loved being together.
One afternoon at the restaurant I overheard Ronnie say, “I love to shop.” I later called to ask if it was true. “Yes, it’s my favorite activity,” he assured.
“Clothes?” I clarified.
“Especially clothes.”
“Then I need you next Wednesday afternoon.” A friend had sent me several hundred dollars to spend on clothes so I wouldn’t embarrass my daughter at her high school graduation. I dreaded shopping sprees, forays that always left me depressed and with few clothes. I couldn’t imagine spending that much money in one day. They’d have to dial 911 and haul me off to lock up in University Hospital.
On Wednesday he picked me up in his car Tinker Bell, and we began to shop. Ronnie was a shopping wiz.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Grey,” I responded.
“No, that’s not good. It washes out on you; not enough color given the silver in your hair.” Not waiting for my protests or ideas, Ronnie quickly walked down a rack of shirts. He pulled out the bright colored ones: turquoise, deep purple, red. “Go ask for a dressing room,” he instructed all the while piling his arms higher with selections for my new non-embarrassing wardrobe.
I tried on many shirts and several pants. To my amazement, everything fit except for one pair of trousers. Perhaps they were mismarked. I was amazed, impressed.
“I need a sports coat.”
We went to another store and finally found a silk jacket he approved.
“I want a belt I saw down in Old Town at the Pendleton Shop.” We drove there but they didn’t have it in my size. Ronnie tried on a black cowboy hat. It looked neat. He looked adorable, handsome, even luscious to me. “I’ll get it for you.”
“No you won’t; it costs too much.”
“That’s okay.”
“No, but I will let you buy me some swimming trunks and a tee shirt.”
We left without a hat but made our way to another store. We both got swim trunks.
In weeks to come, I ran around with this fairy in his magical car as he wooed me. He’d call to see if I wanted to go play pool. “Sure,” I’d say. He took me to big pool halls where the lights shone brightly. We would share a pitcher of beer and play terribly to one another’s delight. He always took me to very straight establishments. I wondered what folk thought of us. Our friendship grew on these outings. We talked about interesting details of our lives.
One day he called. “We need to go to the park for a picnic.” So he picked me up. We stopped by a grocery store for bread, cheese, a bottle of wine, and a copy of World News, that tabloid that always features ETs and UFOs. I’d always scoffed at tabloids, but that day in spring, sheltered from the sun by newly leafed trees, I found it utterly delightful. Oh well, alcohol mixes well with sunshine and silliness.
I recall so clearly the night I was driving my fairy north on Wyoming Blvd. I reached over and rested my hand on his rotund belly. We talked and laughed. Soon we started having sex together. He made me pledge there would be no feelings. While I had already declared I loved him, I had said so in a non-sexualized context. I readily agreed to keep a damper on the feelings. Doing so was a relief for me in that it removed the threat of a complicated, destructive relationship that could ruin my marriage and career. Still, it’s really not nice to have an affair with a friend of one’s spouse.
As my tutelary spirit, he was a thoroughgoing latex queen, surely the result of having a brother who was HIV positive. We must have had the safest sex any couple of guys had, yet still it was hot, demanding, giving, creative, passionate, and satisfying. In some ways he was a demanding bitch; he was also the funniest man I’d ever known so well. Taking off his shirt he said, “I’m Indian up here, but from the waist on down, I’m just a damn Mexican.” His torso with its smooth bronze skin and dark little nipples sported hardly a hair, but south of his belly button border, he had rather dense black hair. I liked it all.
He taught me well. His instruction was direct, thorough, and thoughtful; he interpreted his actions, taught his philosophy, and provided adequate safety. He flavored it all with his fine humor. And he was interested in my whole life. I was a good student. I astounded him with the magic of my own directness. I’d never been so clear about my sexual needs. I urged, commanded, improvised, and pleased. Our relationship seemed pure magic as I discovered the gay sex I’d long read about. I was utterly delighted, felt like I was flying, on and on.
He asserted that any man will do anything in sex as long as it doesn’t cost him financially or socially. His life goal was to show this truth to as many straight men as he could. “All men are pigs,” he gleefully oinked as he sought his next relationship.
Did the affair free my imagination? I suspect so. Here’s why: My fairy liked my wife. He liked to play with me. He offered me many new experiences. He seemed insatiable. He messed with me; I with him. We developed an honesty of desire with one another. We laughed our way through it all. He was a metaphor as well as a real experience!
So what better fairy for a tale? Boy-like, feminine, free, and facile, he flew me into a world of stardust and dreams. Together we sailed on ragwort stems and soared on the backs of birds. Often we flew on one another’s backs. Then we cooled down and moved on with our lives, still liking one another well but eventually losing touch. But the magic and mystery in the utterly open presentation of ourselves to one another have rarely been matched in any relationship I have found.
One evening Ronnie and I flew to the top of Sandia Mountain. We looked at the array of city lights that increased as the sunset faded; the turquoise and purple tones of the mesa and mountains lost their brilliance and eventually turned black. We talked and laughed as usual. Then Tinker Bell carried us down the mountain onto the high plain at its eastern foot. We pulled off onto a side road for sex play. Ronnie amazed me; I amazed him. Our affair developed. He kidded me about my age promising to push me off a cliff at the top of the mountain when I began losing my mind. I suggested he’d get arrested for it; better that he should wait until winter and leave me up there to freeze. He could claim I simply wandered off and he couldn’t find me in the dark. Our intimacy may have grown too intense for Ronnie. I accepted his need to distance himself from me. He had warned me that if I got enough man-to-man sex, I’d want a lot more of it. I agreed that such was true and wasn’t upset about the prospect. He cooled it. I found another interested party. But Ronnie still was the magical and mystical one, a combination of nutty and practical, of entertaining and instructing, of passionate and cool. Fairies appear and disappear. So it was with Ronnie. He didn’t completely disappear. He still lives in New Mexico, and I still fantasize his being involved in my eventual exit. I hope I’ll have enough memory to find my way down there when my mental grasp starts to slip. My imagination of the scene suggests being carried once again to the top of the mountain by Tinker Bell, kissed by my fairy, embraced in his latex grasp, and gently left behind to my own fate some winter night. It would seem a kind and gentle way to say goodbye; and one could say he and I already did that. Should we ever meet again, I’ll insist that he take the gift of a cowboy hat to wear at my sendoff and to remember me by.
Denver, 2010
Phillip Hoyle lives in Denver and spends his time writing, painting, giving massages, and socializing. His massage practice funds his other activities that keep him busy with groups of writers and artists, and folk with pains. Following thirty-two years in church work, he now focuses on creating beauty and ministering to the clients in his practice. He volunteers at The Center leading “Telling Your Story.”
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
About the Author
He also blogs at artandmorebyphilhoyle.blogspot.com
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