JD, or Immaculate Hightop Whie Ponys, Pt 3

I rang his bell at the appointed time, and a big, burly guy met me at the door. Obviously one of JD’s straight trade drug buddies. I didn’t know what to expect, but suspected no good could come of the evening. I was led down to a basement apartment in total disarray, with pizza boxes and beer bottles covering the coffee table and much of the rug around it. I could hear JD’s voice cackling and joking with someone in the kitchen. I took off my coat and cleared a spot on the sofa, taking a beer offered by the guy who let me in. After a moment, JD came in looking drawn and oh so thin. With him was a woman I recognized without placing where. I was introduced to his sister for the second time in my life, and then to her husband (“Sexy bastard, huh? Keep tellin’ her not to leave us alone, I’d have his pants off in a minute”). The evening was subdued, with JD having a couple of beers and an anxious sister leaving around 9:30 (“So’s you’ll get some rest, ya fuckhead!”). Hugs and kisses at the door, a joke regarding the je-ne-sais-quoi of straight guy’s asses, and a long glance shared between the sister and me. I shut the door and returned to the couch.

JD told me all about his adventure with AZT, how he couldn’t tolerate the side-effects and stopped taking it. He’d found a Mexican herb that worked better, he said. His sister had already flown him down twice for treatments and he felt so much better. I looked deeply into those eyes and lied about how I could tell. We slept together that night curled up tight after some mutual fellatio. I dared not fuck his now-bony ass.

We continued to see a lot of each other that December, reminiscing on the “Good Old Days” which were decidedly a mixed bag and had only begun seven years previously. He would not let any self-pity intrude on his life, and I was too terrified to let my guard down. We settled down into a ghostly approximation of our old relationship. I’d meet him for a beer at Fritz after work, he’d cook something simple afterwards. I took him out once or twice, but he’d disapprove of the elaborate meals I favored and the money spent.

We spent Christmas Eve together that year, but had a strict no gift rule because he couldn’t afford anything and I didn’t want to make him feel bad. Sex had drifted out of the picture completely by then, and we were content to simply be together. The next morning, his sister came to pick him up to spend Christmas with her family. I spent a quiet Christmas with my sister, too.

Weeks passed and JD’s phone would just ring when I called. My roommate picked up his call one evening while I was out. He’d be staying with his sister for a while, he said. He left a number, but I didn’t call it. My JD demon was thoroughly exorcised, and with all the loss I’d experienced lately, chose to let his sister handle him. I had a little cry and moved on.

As a postscript, I did see JD one last time.

It was the next summer, 1990, in the brief interlude between my Spanish vacation and my escape to Paris. Jean-Marc had come to Boston that July for a week to meet my friends and family and collect me. I was completely enthralled with my little French enmerdeur and had endless fun showing him off to everyone.

We were walking down Tremont Street one hot afternoon when we bumped into JD. He was a walking skeleton, but a jaunty walking skeleton in immaculate white hightop Ponys. After introductions were made, we struck up a conversation centering mainly on hot incredibly hot JD found Jean-Marc. Although happy for me and all, wouldn’t I, couldn’t I get Jean-Marc to agree to a threesome, just once, before we left?

“It would make my whole summer”, JD said.

Jean-Marc, not understanding a word being said, asked me repeatedly to translate what was being said into French. I made up an almost plausible alternate conversation to placate them both, figuring out a way to have Jean-Marc end with a “Non”.

I shrugged, gave JD a big hug, and said “Maybe next time, baby”. posted by Bucko @ 7/23/2005 1200 PM 3 comments