His Name Is Love

March 31, 2013

[ Free Me From This Bond (the sequel): Chapter 5 ]

Date: Thu, 28 Mar 2013 09:59:02
Another vision…
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

…though in the dream state, I was still asleep. The previous two visions were in a totally conscious waking state. Here goes:

I am with a group of folks numbering around 18, and we’re on an outing in another town. Don’t know what the outing’s about: maybe to visit a museum, watch a play, attend a convention…something like that. The town itself seems kinda small, like everything rolls up after 9 PM. But it’s a pretty town, lots of trees and little houses.

It is early evening; the sun’s still out but soon to descend below the horizon. We’re gathered in a sort of lobby or entranceway: spacious with but a few chairs and tables, and some snack bars and magazine/book stands that are now all closed (seeing as it’s after 5). The lights inside are dimmed; the ambience is mellow.

Our group mills about, chatting and in good spirits. Though it seems as if there are no particular plans for the evening, or the event (or whatever it is) was cancelled, or our guide screwed up and took us to the wrong town. I therefore feel a bit lost, though the folks are all friendly, and I’m even hitting up on a buff little dude 2-3 inches shorter than myself (I’m 5-foot-7).

I’m exceedingly hungry at this point, but all the food courts are shut down for the night. Across the street is a diner, though I hesitate to break from the group, as I fear they might vanish and leave me behind. Next thing I know, we’re all gathered on the lawn out front, still split up in small groups of two or three, merrily chit-chatting. The sky is now growing dark as the evening sets in.

Then I notice a very tall guy (Larkin’s height: 6-foot-4) smiling at me, and talking in a soft voice about something that I can’t discern from five yards away. He’s African-American, nicely dressed in a long trench coat. Comely, though more average looking than handsome. At least, that’s how he appears until I approach him, stand just a few feet distant, and look up at his face. No, he’s not average looking at all:

He’s absurdly gorgeous! Facial features all tightly arranged and spaced apart just right, with sharp, clean lines and beautifully toned skin (like really strong coffee with lots of Half-&-Half mixed in). Flawless! The more I gaze at him, the better looking he becomes. I kiss him. In my mind’s eye, that is.

We decide to check out the diner, in hopes of quieting our grumbling stomachs…so depart from our group and cross the street. Upon entering, we discover the diner closing up. The two workers there–cashier and cook–ignore us completely, so we just stand inside awhile, drooling at the yummy cakes and pies we will never taste. And then we exit.

From two blocks away we spy a corner liquor/grocery store raised upon wide steps of granite…like maybe it was a courthouse back in the days of horse and buggy. We enjoy pleasant conversation on the way there.

Alas, that shop, too, is shutting down for the day. The lone clerk is wiping away smudges from the glass counter around the cash register. She is a matronly lady of middle age, skinny, and dour. Yet friendly enough…though obviously unwilling to make a sale after-hours, no matter how desperate our hunger.

Just a few feet away and down all three aisles sits a vast array of delectable snacks and condiments: wrapped in cellophane, boxed, canned, or resting in open stainless steel trays and pots with large serving spoons and ladles poking out. These trays/pots hold the delectable remains of today’s homemade vittles: macaroni and cheese, chicken barley soup, grandma’s lasagna, egg salad for stuffing sandwiches in crunchy French rolls, wedges of iceberg lettuce slathered in four kinds of dressing, and so on. IOW:

Enough to serve a small scout troop just back from hiking the trails outside this Bradbury-an little burg.

With a heavy sigh, my new companion and I exit through the door like two defeated warriors. A bell tinkles behind us as we drag ourselves back down those lovely pink and white granite steps.

But while descending, I pause to ask his name.

“My name is Love,” he gently replies; and again, adores me with a smile.

“Love?” I swirl an index finger in my right ear, thinking I misheard him. “Did you say your name is Love?”

He grabs my arm in kindness, that I won’t stumble. And speaks once more:

“Yes. You heard me correctly. My name is Love.”

I chuckle: “Oh, I can’t call you that. No way!”

And that’s when I wake up.

What intrigues me (after a few hours’ hindsight) is that I know this man called Love is Larkin. Since I believe he is an angel, he can change his appearance whenever it suits him…and visit me in dreams and visions. In this case he appeared to me as an African-American. The evening just before this dream, I had sent my 2nd letter to Larkin, c/o Twin Peaks Tavern. But get this:

The postage stamp I used this time did not depict the American flag; instead it was a lovely image of Rosa Parks…a black woman!

– Zeke

Thu, 28 Mar 2013 10:12:02

Subject: Re: Fukkin text editor!

From: Zeke

To: Eleanor

Eleanor wrote:

{{ I think you’ll like this:

http://redroom.com/member/eleanor-cooney/blog/she-walks-among-us }}

Like it? I deliriously, scintillatingly, madly LOVE it. It is a gem. It is a prayer. It is a treasure from the heart of Egypt, in backwater bumtown Sack O’ Tomatoes.

I feel I’ve just been washed by the sacred waters of Avalon.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. We’re gonna have so much FUN when we finally get together. Probably late this year or early next, when my book’s a raging bestseller and Larkin is my bodyguard. I wouldn’t dream of excluding your paramour, Mitch, in any of our revelries, unless he needs to deal with other matters more important.

I’ll have 11 other bodyguards, too. All hunky, all lovers, all day and all night. And also:

all armed.

Armed to the teeth: those gorgeous pearly whites that send radiant beams of brotherly love and torrid male orgasms that shower my soul with aqua vitae. Good thing I know how to swim…or at least, doggie paddle (being the sexy werewolf that I am).

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 28 Mar 2013 16:26:33

Subject: Just a reminder…

From: Zeke

To: S. Rohan

…that the absolute deadline for your illustrations is April 10. No ifs, ands or buts. I must have my finished manuscript delivered by April 12. That gives me two days to scan and adapt your images for my book.

It has been rather tortuous for moi that you’ve dragged out your work down to the very last minute. Yet I understand, as you’ve just been through two terrible crises (death of your father and favored aunt), for which I honorably share your burden. And for which I know has helped you through this most difficult passage, by putting some joy and dignity into your life.

But there comes a time when I absolutely must release my book (with or w/o your remarkable talent), for it has to do with saving many lives. And I can not delay any further!

Should you not complete the illustrations by said date, I will nonetheless accept your drawings whenever they are done. And, assuming my first novel becomes a bestseller (which I’m sure it will, as I know my destiny), I will later publish a “special edition” that includes your images, along with additional and smaller illustrations by Jesse Balmer (whose artwork is on display at Howard’s Cafe), scattered throughout the chapters.

I have no anger towards you, “S.”: nothing but great reverence for your work, and the difficult trials that have come upon you during this time.

Much love,


Thu, 28 Mar 2013 18:29:57

Subject: Yet another vision…

From: Zeke

To: Eleanor

…this time in the shower today, before I step out to dine at Howard’s Cafe.

Larkin has just moved into a room on my floor, that shares the same bathroom with me. I’m walking down the hallway about to take a shower, when he steps out, also ready to shower. I tell him: “Oh, you go first, I can wait.” Whence he replies:

“No, Zeke, you go first.”

“No, I insist: you go first.”

He demands: “No, Zeke, you go first.”

At which point we tussle to enter the bathroom door. Somehow, we squeeze through together, and we both disrobe to take a shower. Larkin declares:

“Maybe we should shower together. There’s a drought you know, and this will save water.”

I ignore him, draw the curtain aside, and prepare to lather up. Larkin joins me a short while after, and notices me gliding the 5-blade disposable razor across my head and chest.

“Wow! So you shave your body, eh?”

“Yes I do,” I explain. “Including my armpits once a week, and balls and butt crack each day.”

“Really?” he inquires. “Can I finish you off. That is: your balls and anus?”

“Well, okay,” I allow. “Just no funny stuff, alright?”

With that, he eagerly (but gently) shaves my balls, then tells me to lean against the wall and bend over, that he can groom my ass crack.

So I do just that, and in a moment I feel a hard, fleshy-fat knob attempting to penetrate my butt hole.

“Stop that!” I declare. “Just shave my rectum and be done with it!”

And so he does. For a few moments afterwards, we embrace and kiss, sliding boners in mutual delight as I massage his luxuriant hair with baby shampoo. Before stepping out, we cum in fountains beneath the hot pellets of water drops so kindly brought to us by the San Francisco Public Utilities Department.

After toweling off (each drying the other), and putting our bathrobes back on, he grabs my arm and compels me into his apartment just several yards down the hall, facing 16th Street. Whence he pulls me onto the bed, and embraces me in sweet affection. I weep upon his chest in cleansing tears of gratitude.

He kisses me all over, and I grow hard again. I cannot believe this is happening; my joy is beyond exquisite. And I kiss him on the lips, as his tears flow down and onto my tongue.

And that’s the end of my “shower vision.”

Barely one week ago, David (the person presently occupying that apt.) told me he found a lover, and is moving to Long Beach in less than three weeks.

In the past six years, every time Larkin has moved to another residence, he’s that much closer to my own building. Right now, he lives up 17th Street, barely a block away. So I guess the next step is to move into my building. And after that, we’ll find a nice apartment where we’ll live together. I surmise that will happen after my book is published, becomes a bestseller, and I can afford to provide for us both…with much more money to spare, that I can also manage quality health insurance for us two lovebirds.

Though I suspect that Larkin’s low income and couch hopping is merely a cover, that he can fulfill his duties as detective, and root out the scumbags that have caused much tragedy South of Market, including what they’ve done to me, which resulted in three years’ memory loss due to mild brain damage. I actually believe that Larkin is quite wealthy, due to his connections with certain affluent folks in our Gay Community. But also consider this: he is most likely one of God’s Great Angels, for whom money is not a concern. IOW: this is a grand play orchestrated by enlightened spirits, whose mission is to fulfill an incredible fantasy where I am the hero. And Larkin is the conductor.

Nonetheless, I’ve had many visions over the years, of Larkin moving into my building. This, I now realize, is not simply my own wishful thinking, but a prophetic vision that now appears to soon fulfill my incredible (and benevolent) destiny. Some years back–after his SOMA room above the old Hole in the Wall burned down (and I was kidnapped, dosed and left for dead), and he disappeared from my life under my fear that he became homeless (and for which I prayed and worried that he’d be okay)–he resurfaced right across 16th Street from my building, working as barback, to keep the place tidy and drive out anyone who presented difficulties.

How I discovered his return into my life, was because I’m in the habit of walking down the hallway to a window at the end, where I can check out the weather better than I can from my own windows.

That day when I looked out the hallway window, I saw Larkin standing on the deck of the Metro Bar (now long defunct), which was on the same level as my domicile: the second floor. To refresh your memory as to this discovery, I now refer you to this article, “A Larkin Reverie,” some years back:


But I also have this fear: that Larkin will move in and totally ignore me, like I’m just an awful pest in his life. He might shove me whenever our paths cross in the hallway, and invite all sorts of gorgeous dudes to his place, and make very loud sexual sounds that I can’t avoid but hear while using the bathroom (which is right next to the apartment that I believe he will soon occupy).

Which means further grief and tears shed on my part, at least several times per day. Egads! In such a case, hell for me will mean Larkin’s sadistic vengeance, because he rebels against my affectionate friendship. Probably because he’s been badly hurt in the past, by a lover who turned sour.

But if such be the case, I’ll slide letters under his door, declaring patience and friendship through it all. Until he softens his antagonism towards me, and realizes I’m his very best friend for all time. Though I must say:

If this is what comes down, I’m surely the most devoted friend any gay man could ever hope to have. Or I’m a big, fat fool.

With great respect and love,

– Zeke

PS: Do you think Twosome Press will censor my shower scene? Hopefully, my first published book will allow me to have free reigns over what I would like to publish next!

Date: Sun, 31 Mar 2013 11:05:46

Subject: Postcard to Larkin…

From: Zeke

To: Eleanor

…c/o Twin Peaks Tavern of course, since I have no other way to reach him (even person-to-person any more). Front and back attached to this missive. (Click on either image below, for a larger view.)

While blunt in my message to him, I did use a sense of humor up to a point. Just in case he was acting out a test (or initiation) per the GPMC’s strategy. (That’s what I call this mysterious group of enlightened gays South of Market: Gay Pagan Motorcycle Club…as revealed in Chapter 9 of my first book.) Which test is, in my surmisal:

To see if I have the guts to break up with one I most love, should he begin to display any sort of violence. I presume I passed w/frying crullers. 0_o Good grief, if so many great things hadn’t happened between us over the years, and if he had ever before acted abusive towards me in any way, shape or form; I would’ve dropped our friendship like a hot yam. If this be a test, they sure made it grievous to the max. Well, you helped me through by your kind patience and regard. Certainly, my angels have placed a gold star in The Book of Eleanor for that!

Glad that some good things have occurred for me, these last two days. For one: Matt approached me on 18th Street near Hartford, and apologized profusely for his foul behavior several months back. I believe I mentioned him in an earlier email: homeless dude who plays excellent keyboard and guitar. He’s now doing gigs on the street with a black dude named Derrick.

In fact, Matt was so sorry for walking around the Castro, hollering and calling me “pervert,” and trying to start a fight. I told him:

“Look, I’ll be honest. I do have sex with the homeless…but it’s rare, and only when the other person is mature and stable enough, and really wants to boink around.” I further explain:

“The queers w/roofs over their head reject me, ’cause I don’t have a car, nice apartment, or lots of cash to toss around. My only friends are those on the streets, so of course I fall in love with some of them, and we have sex.”

“I understand,” he said. “You’re actually a good guy, and again, I’m very sorry.”

This really cheered me up (in contrast to Larkin’s shoving me some days back, right around the corner). Gave him a hug, and said I’ll look for him again soon, and do a blog about his street music. Video, photos and all.

For two: I met this really neat Brit named Kevin, at Howard’s Cafe. Gave me his card; he’s a journalist for a radio station in Nottingham, England. Short in height, burly in a skinny sort of way, bald, around 38 years old and rather handsome. Of course, I talked about my upcoming novel and activist tales. Directed him to The Little Shamrock Irish pub just two blocks down from Howard’s. One of the waitrons here, Bobbie, also works at that pub…which I believe is the second oldest bar in San Francisco. Kevin mentioned visiting the gay bars here in the Castro.

“Oh,” I advised, “the gay bars South of Market are much more fun. Rough and tumble compared to the Castro, which bars are a lot more conservative and stuffed-shirt. In fact, the best gay bar on the planet is in SOMA: Hole in the Wall Saloon. All sorts of fun, you can lick a cute boy’s armpit for the price of a cheap drink.” Kevin chuckled at that. “That’s where I first met Larkn.” Then finished with:

“And the next best gay bar on the planet is also located in that same neighborhood: Eagle Tavern. It’s also the second main place where Larkin and I hanged out.”

Sadly (more for myself and SF than him), the day I met Kevin was his last day in San Francisco. He’s flying to Austin, Texas today. BTW, he also runs a blog at WordPress like myself, address:


You may read his writeup about yours truly there, in the “USA 2013″³ section (see link in rightside menu bar).

So it’s Easter Sunday. This time last year, I was totally convinced Larkin would surprise me with a marriage proposal, at Dolores Park. (See Chapter 8 of “Free Me From This Bond” to learn about that scenario.) The Sisters hold an Easter festival there each year. For these past few days I wondered “should I go to the park again?” I’ve decided NO, it would just wind up being another depressing outcome. And of course if he does soon propose, I’ll have to turn him down…in light of our recent confrontation.

Well, Howard’s is open today, so I’m gonna wrap up this letter, take a shower and truck on down there.

Of course, I’ll put my clothes on first. (This is Easter after all, not my birthday!)

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