In heaven, every day is Saturday. It starts off with a warm bowl of oatmeal with butter and brown sugar, fresh-squeezed orange juice, and toast with pineapple jam. On TV is an old Tarzan movie with Johnny Weissmuller, followed by an hour or two of late 70s-style American and European catch wrestling.
Then I walk my dog Ripley on a white sand beach, where we frolic in glassy waters with our friends—five boys eternally 25 to 40 in age, tall as or taller than I, heavy as or heavier than I, athletic, show-offy. The boys and I give each other haircuts and massages and wrestle on the beach. The sand squeaks under our feet.
We snorkel in the coke-bottle green waters and watch schools of neon-colored fish until noon, when one of the boys carves fresh pineapple with a machete, which we all eat sloppily, juice splashing down our chests and bellies. We follow the pineapple with fresh guacamole and chips and margaritas made with fresh-squeezed limes.
In the early afternoon I sit out on a deck under the sun, Ripley cuddled up beside me, the heat of the sun on my skin, tempered by a cool breeze, and read Proust in French, which I understand perfectly, until I doze off—into dreams of ancient shepherds and hunters and fauns and youthful heroes—and magnificent seaside cities with skyscrapers shaped like statues of gods and titans.
A nearby stereo plays Satie.
I wake up to find that one of the boys from the beach has snuck up on me, pulled down my shorts, and started sucking me off. I smile, amused. I grab him by the hair and throw him over a well-stuffed chaise longue and fuck him up the ass, his silky pink sphincter pulling and pressing the thick veins of my cock for an hour or two, for most of which time we’re both shooting gallons of jizz.
Our warm skin smells of sweat and baby oil.
Meanwhile, Ripley sleeps nearby on his pad and dreams of chasing liver-flavored squirrels and never having to be alone.
After sex, I tell my buddy my dreams, and he hangs on every word. Then he vanishes into thin air.
Late in the afternoon everybody I have ever invited to a party arrives—needless to say, we all get along again—it’s heaven!—and we celebrate under brightly lit paper lanterns, served Sazerac cocktails, with real absinthe, and lines of cocaine, by startlingly handsome waiters. Circus acrobats perform around us, occasionally picking up a guest (or me) to toss into the air and fondle. Musk-scented go-go boys dance in g-strings—or nothing at all. Magicians perform sleight of hand, saw ladies in half, and make elephants—and monkeys—appear and disappear.
The guests and I speak a new language at every party so that, along with our accounts of our own special portions of heaven that day, we can express ideas and feelings expressible in only that language. However new the language is to us, we are witty, quick, and insightful. We dance, and the rhythm of the music never flags. Then, before fatigue sets in on us, the guests vanish without goodbyes.
Then I go to my computer and write a few paragraphs of a story—about two international spies of equal beauty, prowess, and wickedness, who fight and fuck each other in exotic locales around the world. Unseen online friends contribute plot twists, encouragement, and pornographic details. The story never ends.
In a private cinema, I watch Nashville for the very first time. Now and then, there’s a second feature, a new film by Cocteau, or Kubrick, or Hitchcock, or Bresson, or Pasolini … shot entirely on location in another heaven.
Then, always, I’m joined by somebody—or two or more attractive people—I’ve never seen before—occasionally, though rarely, somebody I know, one or more of the party guests, perhaps—and he or she or they make love to me—heaven would not be heaven without novelty … and orgasms on the hour. Still, unvaryingly these night visitors are sexy, agile, confident, clever, strong, and totally in my thrall.
Every star glistens in the night sky, which looks like night does in a Disney feature. A meteor shower streaks across the sky and dies every 20 minutes. The tryst begins with touching, then kissing, then fucking, then touching again. Nobody speaks, but we do moan with pleasure.
Eventually they disappear—most of them forever—but there is no sadness. It was a wonderful time, and now it’s gone.
At bedtime I drink an ice-cold bottle of Coca-Cola while reading a Frank O’Hara poem. I put a scratchy 45 rpm record on of Jesus himself reciting the Sermon on the Mount—in Aramaic, which I understand perfectly—and Ripley and I jump happily into bed. The angels of my mother and my father appear to tuck us under the covers, and with a kiss they disappear. Ripley props his head on my shoulder, and we look forward to our respective dreams and another day of adventures and delights.
As we drift off to sleep, it starts to rain.