Too Late

March 31, 2014

Date: Sat, 8 Mar 2014 14:11:24
“Too Late” letter to Larkin
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Just snail mailed the following letter to Larkin. AFAIC, this is simply another one of his role-playing adventures, where he’s a detective turned bad, and I’m his dedicated sidekick fighting to get him back onto the right path.

–begin letter:

Friday, March 7

Just so you know, Larkin: it’s TOO LATE to make things up to me. I gave you plenty of time to do so, even continued putting my faith in you and our friendship. Doesn’t even matter if you’re not a drug dealer, though your crude behavior and avoidance of me causes justified suspicion.

Even if you suddenly started being sweet to me and did everything under the sun to make amends: I’d be highly suspicious and more than reluctant to ever hug you or talk kindly to you again. You’re a fukked up fool.

Seeing as you’ve driven me out of the bars by telling everyone I’m your stalker, and have not done anything to clear that up, I have therefore no qualms in fighting fire with fire. You have no true friends, only acquaintances…with the exception of myself. But I have to assure you, My Misguided Mesosaur:

No way I’m gonna have a friend that poisons my gay brothers with hard drugs. If you don’t stop your black magic dealing, you will be busted. Even if Idon’t send letters of warning to gay bar owners here in the Castro…it will happen. And because I love you with my every breath, I dread such an outcome, even if justice be served. So the only solution is for you to stop selling toxic product and switch to soft drugs exclusively, such as marijuana and shrooms.

There is this one great hope I hold close to my heart: that you are simply playing a game where you pretend you’re a dealer, and I must prove my devotion by finding some way to sabotage your illegal network, even if it means losing you (and your friendship) for good. I don’t see why, however, you feel it’s necessary to put me through such crucifixion, as I’m sure my loyal friendship is crystal clear to you, to the point where such testing is not just pointless, but an abomination.

Just saw you a few moments ago, step out of Twin Peaks Tavern with two darling doggies on your leash. You looked through me like I don’t exist, not a smile, not any sign of kindness. I followed you across the street and, once more, you acted like I wasn’t there. A grim look on your face as you crossed Market, which is when I hollered:

“Out of the Castro! That’s it, be a good boy now and leave the Castro!”

You may have totally ignored me, but I’m sure I got through to you. So much for a “truce,” eh? A truce which you never intended, because all this enmity was instigated by you. And instead of true remorse, you continue to barely regard my friendship as worth more than the dirt on your shoe. I was a joke to you, a stupid old faggot infatuated with your beauty. But this eve I could see by the unhappy expression on your mug, that you realize I’m not someone to mess with, that you made a big mistake toying me along like this for more than eight years.

And why did you? I suspect perhaps, that you played a role in my being drugged and ripped off one night back in 2007. By a regular homeless patron of the Hole, who is one of your customers. By behaving kind to me (on and off), you hoped it would deflect my rage. I have always loved you, but still in the back of my mind, wondered if you had anything to do with my tragedy. Your latest behavior in recent months seems to affirm my suspicions.

Maybe you’ll shove me again. Maybe you’ll threaten me or beat me up. Though I think that if you choose to fuk me over, you’ll assign a buddy or two to carry out the deed…leaving nothing that could be traced back to you. Just let me warn you, dipshit: unless you have me killed outright, any bullying or bashing will only serve to ignite my anger further, and dig my jaws deeper into your soul like a pit bull. No way will I let you get away with this…whether it’s your hateful gossip, or you really are a dealer.

Though if you do have me murdered: rest assure that all my tales about us I’ve already posted on the Internet. Ensuring maybe not my protection from such a dark fate, but certainly that all fingers shall point back to you in the long run. As a matter of fact, even if I am seriously injured or killed–and it has nothing to do with you–you’ll still be the main suspect at this point. And your life will be ruined as a result of dragging you through court and constant police investigation.

I need to promote my book through the local gay bars, in order to get sales off the ground. That was my plan, but you botched it royally. Once you depart the Castro, I’ll have to first clean up the mess you created. You don’t give a fuk whether or not I succeed in earning a decent living, or wind up on the streets. So I’m gonna return the favor:

Your name in all three books shall be “Arwyn Miles.” No one will know the true hero of this trilogy, ’cause you don’t deserve the credit for how you’ve humiliated, insulted, and otherwise treated me like crap. I will tell the public that Arwyn is a mythical figure from my own imagination. Funny to think that maybe you’ll be behind bars while I skyrocket to fame.

Don’t get me wrong, Sweet Reptile, such a fate will cause eternal misery for yours truly. But since it seems my grief has been fueling your happiness for whatever diabolical reason, I may as well bring you down too. I will wipe that smile off your face for the rest of your life, I promise!

Guess you thought you were hot shit claiming to walk with the devil. But guess what, fuk-face? It’s now come back to bite you in the ass. I do not take any joy in this, it is only my yearning for justice. I never wanted someone I love so much to also become my worst enemy. You have become a repeat of my tragic affair with screwball Nam Vet Randolph Taylor.

It is TOO LATE, Mr. Kelsey, to have any sort of friendship with me. You’ve crossed the line beyond any possibility of redemption. WE ARE AT WAR AND I SHALL WIN, BECAUSE I AM A RIGHTEOUS MAN.

Anywayz, have a great day and thanks for letting me vent. My letter to gay bar owners will be mailed shortly after you receive this letter.

All my love,

– Zeke

PS: I am a forgiving man but, c’mon, not that forgiving!

–end of letter

Date: Tue, 11 Mar 2014 08:26:31
Re: “Too Late” letter to Larkin
From: Zeke Krahlin
To: Eleanor

On 3/10/14, Eleanor wrote:

{{ You are forgiving and unforgiving at the same time! Admirable, and I’m not being facetious! }}

Thank you! I just saw Larkin again last night, around 9 PM at Twin
Peaks Tavern (of course). I’ll be writing about this latest incident
today, then post it to you.

{{ A new twist on “True Detective.” }}

He’s forcing me to learn how to walk a very narrow line. This is no
accident…the man is very intelligent, he knows what he is doing.
Everything he’s done to me he’s orchestrated down to the eighth note.
Prepared, rehearsed then executed.

He shoved me (last year in January) not because he was angry, but because he wanted to trigger deeper emotions inside of me that came from past tragedies and conflicts and needed to be released. Now, he’s letting me vent w/o fear of retaliation, violence or rejection. It’s all a clever act…he faked feeling bad and brushing me aside so that I would confront him, and then he shoved me just hard enough that I’d almost hit the ground, but not quite. A very precise maneuver.

Were Larkin truly sick of me, I’m certain he’d’ve struck me again or in other ways been aggressively hostile. None of this has occurred, not even one iota. He was very kind to me again last night (as he was a couple weeks ago when he gave me the stage, and I proposed). You will see, once I get the story to you.

I’ve been having the most incredible rolls in the hay these days…unlike anything I’ve experienced before. Four dudes so far, in the span of less than two weeks. Each one exquisitely handsome, sweet natured, and the nicest baskets you can imagine! You’ll soon read about the first three in a blog post scheduled to publish later this month. It’s called “A Light of Ray.”

Dude #4 I’ve just written about, and let me tell you, El: he’s so impossibly beautiful, as is Larkin. Sweet as all get-out and just 34 years old. Now among the first three is Mikey, who has the most wonderful face to gaze upon! He was nothing but a darling in my arms all night long, and such good company.

None of this is normal, El! No one has these delightful trysts with the best sex and companionship ever experienced before with such frequency…and it just goes on and on. These men are so handsome, El, that even masturbating now (to those recent hot moments) has catapulted me into a wonderful dimension that I’ve only dreamed of before.

I’m convinced that Larkin is behind this…probably through his
telepathic abilities. Though perhaps he has funds set aside to pay for escorts…which monies I suspect come from the secret gay society that I believe really exists. He’s sending these darlin’s my way, and it all started that night I told him: “Marry me Larkin, I’m tired of sucking strange kok!”

So it makes good sense that he still plays “hard to hug” and continues to avoid me (for the most part) while treating me to a smorgasbord of prime beef! How much sweeter to play it this way than directly say: “Zeke, I’m gonna treat you to some beautiful men, so get yer whistle wet!”

As for “true detective”: yes, he is training me to become the best in the field. As well as healing me from the accumulated PTSD of my many trials over many years. Not the least of which is my dedication to a suffering Nam Vet who I met and fell in love with instantly way, way back in 1984.

As for these recent visions of Larkin being not just a detective, but Commander in Chief of a vast fleet of star ships from the Andromeda galaxy (and Reptilian to boot!): well, nothing surprises me any more. He set everything up down to the finest detail, from the day we met and every other moment since.

Each day holds a new and incredible surprise, such that I look so forward to the future like I never have before!

– Zeke

Date: Thu, 13 Mar 2014 10:09:55
Still No Hugs
From: Zeke
To: Eleanor

Took me longer to complete this true tale, a report on my latest Larkin spotting. One of the more complicated incidents to type down on screen. Very difficult to put all the arabesque pieces into one coherent moving picture. Just glad we’ve had no /additional/ encounter before I completed the telling of this one. Every time we meet I explode in divine epiphany shortly thereafter. I think you’ll appreciate the dinosaur/avian metaphorical interplay, as well as the Catholic morality respun into a very gay bromance. This literary challenge I put to myself was most fun to unravel and overcome. I even wrote it all in the present tense, for a bonus gold star. I do believe, however, Larkin’s psychic guidance via the keyboard got me the prize. Enjoy!

–begin latest Larkin chronicle:

March 11, Tuesday

Last night: another Larkin sighting around 9 PM in the large glass bird cage known as Twin Peaks Tavern. Naturally, he stands out among the rest by a long shot…exquisite plumage, strutting about like the cock o’ the walk, lifting shiny objects from tables and setting them up by the bar sink. Apparently this is his particular species’ form of mating ritual, and he’s trying to lure a potential partner with those flashy metal-and-glass gewgaws.

But I am out there wishing to be inside, with him! Why does he seek another mate after my courting This Sweet Raptor of Paradise for more than eight agonizing years? I grow nervous and flutter my psychic wings like I’m about to take off. Instead, they wearily droop across my shoulder blades and I sigh (oh well) knowing in my heart that I truly am his beloved, there is no one else. (Indeed, perhaps his festive display is intended for this little mocked bird…seeing as he’s telepathic and already knows I’m about before he even looks my way.) I then hop a few feet back to perch on the fireplug just outside, next to the bus stop. Where I can view Larkin from most any angle, though sometimes blocked by an intercepting patron eager to chirp him up.

My strategy is to appear as stranger to all TPT budgies, Larkin no exception. So I tilt my head this way and that, as if searching for a tasty crumb, a sexy pigeon feather, or a sparkling object to procure. Thus no one suspects my flirting gazes at the token of my delight. Once convinced he’s aware of my presence, I flit over to the concrete buttress directly across from the tavern door. Soon as I grip the mini-wall with both claws behind (and shove my light-weight carcass atop it to sit with legs a-dangle) a revelation strikes me like a plash of chill Ice-Age water that refreshes all my downy under-feathers:

“I am not just here to soak up his radiant aura. I am here because he adores me, too, and appreciates my appearance in these times when we yet must keep our distance…and our friendship hidden. For a variety of reasons I’ve conjectured over many previous scrawls.”

And with that understanding, peace fills my heart, joy quickly follows. AND LARKIN STEPS OUT!!! I forget why, or if we talked or even looked at either, for I was snockered on pot and booze. But my dim memory reveals that he merely stood some 15 feet away from me, looked about then reentered. Several additional minutes pass before:

an androgynously handsome dude named Patrick gets into my face and waves a clear packet of marijuana before my eyes:

“Here, Zeke, I wanna smoke some with ya!” His hair is curly natural platinum, cut short and scrunched up like a prince’s crown, bound by a white elastic band. Steel-blue eyes glint in my direction. Patrick is intensely beautiful, just not my type, not male enough. Like Larkin and my other newfound darlings…now they’re men!

“Really?” I dismount the buttress to shake my feathers. “Where should we go?”

“No, I meant let’s go back to your place. I really enjoyed our visit, and sorry if I made you nervous.”

“This won’t do,” (I thought). “He doesn’t know I’m not out here to fraternize with tweakers, bums, homophobes and delusional faggots. I’m here for Larkin, and that’s that!”

In a flash Larkin steps back out and saves the day…before I even need to conjure up an excuse to drive Patrick thither, that I may focus back on My Heart’s Sole Pleasure. Who now addresses him:

“Pick up that bottle and toss it out!” he declares while pointing at a 2-liter plastic container emptied of its Orange Crush. Which Patrick had dumped in the potted shrubs just before he approached me. (I don’t really think Larkin cares about litter, except when someone dumps it in my vicinity.)

Patrick turns to him and looks up: “Okay, but only if you say so!”

But Patrick remains in place like a statue, so Larkin insists: “Do it now, Patrick!”

“Hmm,” I muse. “Didn’t realize Larkin knows his name. Perhaps it was telepathy, since I said to him in my mind just moments ago: ‘His name is Patrick.’ But I decided to not interefere, so kept my beak shut.”

He then obeys Larkin’s command, but instead of wandering away, returns to my post with Larkin backed into the doorway, paying us only half attention. But my tiny brainpan is begging: “Please Larkin, get him away from me!”

“I work for him!” announces Patrick only inches from my face.

“Do you know who he is?” I challenge.

“Yes! He’s my father!”

(I suddenly feel put off. How dare he presume such a selfish notion! How long has he been here, known Larkin…a few weeks, months? Compared to my own seniority in both matters? Patrick is just another unconscious mindfuk manipulated by telepathic Reptilians who sometimes bring great frustration into my life, that I may finally be healed of residual PTSD. While I understand this vital process, I am nonetheless pissed, ready to punch him in the kisser.)

“He’s not your dad,” I enunciate with patience. “He’s my lover!”

(Larkin is so ridiculously handsome, so many queers–and hetero women I assume–feel compelled to claim their ownership upon this free spirit, and lock him in their own little cage of sparkly treasures. In total disregard that the person they’re speaking with may have a beloved association with him already…and unfettered by such possessive urges. And Larkin knows how they mistreat me, though realizes the unhappy experience is only a test of my emotional IQ, not a threat in any way towards our friendship. In other words, he doesn’t interfere but with scant exception. Such as this time.)

He steps back up to Patrick, taps him on the shoulder then leans down to say some innocuous sentences that inspire him to wander off. What they were, I have no idea…but I’m sure the words were sweet, yet the motive to depart compelling.

Seeing now that I’m free from interference, Larkin stalks back into TPT and roosts on a stool within clear range of my sight. My spirit fills with gratitude as I reseat myself on the buttress to gaze upon his visage. But once more I am distracted by a rude invasion. A fat, middle-aged black hobo who’s parked his tired body on the furthest edge of TPT facing Castro Street (and made it his home for the past five months) decides to mosey on up to me, stick out his paw and request:

“Can you spare a quarter?” His voice is as gloomy and deep as a foolish soul who just learned by St. Peter’s decree that he’s condemned to eternal purgatory.

I almost explode in a feather-flurry, but quickly regain my noble composure:

“No!” I clip. The man groans and slinks back to his spot. A spot which he doesn’t deserve, and should be reserved for a gay homeless fellow, not a clueless hetero bag of ignorance…I might add.

By this time Larkin had stepped out once more, and with a youngish lesbian. Where they pause in discourse about 30 feet down 17th. I flit over to the army-green wastebin on the northeast corner of Jane Warner Plaza, and observe. Not because I’m a snoop, but I so rarely enjoy being in Larkin’s company, even if from afar. They speak for quite some time (more than 10 minutes I guess), I grow restless, migrate to the newsrack front of TPT (north side). Where I get to espy Larkin and company in a direct line down the sidewalk. Still, nowhere near enough to eavesdrop or even come off like a pest.

Three-four additional minutes pass before they disperse and Larkin turns to head my way. I gaze directly upon him, notice he hasn’t yet looked up to see me. But in a few steps he does, and I wonder what his reaction will be. I’m not the least bit nervous, ready to retort no matter his ploy, and do so in the kindest way possible. Just before he passes me and resumes his tavern schmoozing, he addresses:

“You have a great night, Zeke!”

I do not need even a nanosecond to figure how to reply, it all just comes out like a playback: “My night is great! Every time I get to see you is great!”

Then I turn to watch him seat himself once more, at the front end of the bar right by the picture window and just four feet from This Happy Starling. I next flutter back to the bus stop to enjoy his presence beyond the passersby, beyond the glass divider, beyond the milling barhops, and beyond my most glorious dreams. It gives me tremendous joy to know that my visage is his delight, just as his is mine!

Seconds pass into minutes till I decide it’s time to depart, rather than remain until he does same. Out of respect for the man. So I cross by the west side of TPT where he is nearest, and give a brief wave of the claw as my sign of departure. To this heart’s delight, he summons me to wait there, he’ll come out.

And he does. So here is Larkin once more towering over me like My Dragon Protector, showering me with much grace. I am exhilarated, bathing in his purplish aura. Then he speaks:

“Do you have a spare cigarette?”

Okay, not the greeting I expected, but what the hey. So I pull out my pack of Fortunas and offer him the whole box:

“There are four remaining. Have them all. I’ve another pack at home.”

“Oh, thanks,” he remarks, then graciously accepts my offering and extends an arm for a fist bump.

“Whoa!” I exclaim. “Either a hug or nothing at all. No fist bump, no handshake, no arm-grasp, no air hug! Nothing.”

As I speak those words he mutters nonsense I can’t comprehend except as a continued denial of his affectionate embrace. A denial which he commenced the night he shoved me, way back in January 2013…more than a year and two months into the past. (And don’t forget: from April 2007 to September 2012, he also refused my hugs…a total of almost five full, agonizing years without his sweet embraces.)

“You’re torturing me, buddy!” I denounce with fiery judgment. “I’m gonna report you to the highest Reptilain court for cruel and unusual punishment!”

He then spits on the ground by the tavern door…and I act in kind, though aim for (and strike) his shoes.

“Say, why did you do that?” he queries like a harmless cherub. “I never did anything to you!”

“Oh you haven’t?” I admonish and look straight into his eyes while wagging a finger of shame. “You shoved me. You tossed a lit cigarette onto my shirt. You called me stalker…”

Larkin interrupts: “But you are my stalker!”

“Okay, pal, let me warn you! You will not get away with any of your crude deeds against me. Which also include your countless mind fuks for more than a year now!”

I take a deep gulp and continue: “Furthermore, those letters to bar owners are going out in two days…there is no hope for you!”

“Why did you spit at my feet?” he presses.

“Because I hate you,” I confess. “I hate you and I love you.” Then add: “But I love you more than I hate you. That will never change.”

He grins like the Cheshire Cat, which causes my spine to shudder in ecstasy. I then remember a punchline I wanted to tell him when we next met (which is now):

“Larkin, you’re so mean to me, you make Hitler look like…” but then my mind wanders and I forget the remainder. As I attempt to recall, he suggests:

“David Hasselhoff?”

[ Cantilevered Reader: I need to mention here, that was not the name he spoke. Can’t remember which name he used to complete my Mad Libs, but I do remember it was not one I knew…perhaps a local celebrity here in the Castro or South of Market. Or maybe a contemporary actor or athlete, seeing as I don’t keep up with that sort of nonsense. Wish I had paused to ask him who that was, but my wit flounders before his own. Hopefully, Larkin himself will get back to me on this, and explain his retort…I sure hope so! At which time I will edit this passage to include the real name. But my point is thus: he gave a wisecrack that went over my head, though I’m sure is actually very funny. ]

“No! Let me think…” so I ponder with fingers on chin, scratching for the answer. “Oh, yeah, the Easter Bunny! That’s it! You make Hitler look like the Easter Bunny!”

He grins broadly (and, I think, tossed a second name into the ring for good measure, before I resolved my quandary).

“Here take these back.” He attempts to return the Fortuna box into my hands. But I refuse, so he drops it to the ground.

“You’re such a pissant,” I declare while bending down to the concrete to reclaim the discarded booty. I continue: “Here, take the cigarettes, I want you to enjoy them anyway.” But he rejects them.

“You are my stalker!” he persists like a chatty stuffed dragon that’s been hacked.

“Okay, Larkin,” I respond with an exasperated sigh. “I know you’re just playing a game with me. It’s okay.”

He grabs the door’s lintel as if about to reenter, and mumbles: “Uh-huh!”

Not fully relieved of the outrage that he instigated, I flip him the bird and keep it there, say: “Fuk you, Larkin! Fuk you!”

He extends a middle finger in mutual accord, and belittles: “Fuk you too, Zeke!”

Larkin reenters the tavern as I turn left to depart. He resumes his place at the end stool right by the window. So I stare at him and flip the bird once more, mouthing: “Fuk you! Fuk you! Fuk you!”

He then stands up and presses against the window, with a finger stuck up each nostril and making gestures so gross that I suddenly burst out in laughter and point at him:

“You’re cute!”

Larkin keeps up the antics for another half minute (and I continue to guffaw, joyful tears about to stream down my face) before turning about and seating himself once more. I finally cross the street to rest a few moments on the hydrant while gazing back at his image so full of light, the bar doesn’t need its own.

“Andromedan Starship Commander Larkin Kelsey really loves me!” I think with great happiness, then head hovel.

–end of latest Larkin chronicle

So I told ya El (maybe different from previous words that I’ve posted; but still, same intent):

My trilogy will be celebrated as the most wonderful love story since “Romeo & Juliet.” Thus I elevate all gay people in the eyes of the hetero majority. Not just in these Disunited States, but all across the globe. And we have One Great Man to thank for this, besides myself.

And another true hero, though behind the curtains…like a prop manager. Who is you.


– Zeke

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