Color Him Gay: The Further Adventures of the Man from C. A. M. P.

Copyright © 1966, 2007 by Victor J. Banis

Originally published under the name Don Holliday

Published by Wildside Press LLC

www.wildsidebooks.com

The books in the series,
The Man from C.A.M.P.
, were among the earliest of the many novels I have penned. They were written in the 1960s, and they are very much a part of that exciting era when people of so many different sorts were coming out of so many different closets. Gay people were celebrating in the streets the very same lifestyle that only a few years before had engendered in many of us guilt and shame and fear, ruined large numbers of promising careers and sent many to prison.

These books were a part of my celebration. They were written with tongue very firmly in cheek, in a few days each, with nary a thought of rewrite or polishing up some admittedly amateurish prose. They were never intended to be “literature,” and they are not. They were, however, intended to be fun.

I think they still are.

—Victor J. Banis

July 2006

1.
The Man from C.A.M.P.

2. *
Color Him Gay

3.
The Watercress File

4.
The Son Goes Down

5.
Gothic Gaye

6.
Holiday Gay

7.
Rally Round the Fag

8. *
The Gay Dogs

9.
Blow the Man Down

10.
Gay-Safe
(not written by Victor Banis)

*=Published by Borgo Press

Associated Titles:

Sex and the Single Gay

The C.A.M.P. Guide to Astrology

The C.A.M.P. Cookbook

Jackie Holmes smiled over the rim of his glass at the good-looking young redhead in the mirror behind the bar. The redhead smiled back and continued to play kneesies with him.

Definitely encouraging
, Jackie thought. He turned slightly on his seat while still maintaining the enjoyable pressure of their legs, and faced the stranger.

“All alone?” he asked to break the ice.

“I was. But I'd just as soon not be,” the redhead said.

Jackie smiled again and studied his neighbor quickly but thoroughly. The redhead was not much taller than his own five feet, nine inches, but with a stockier build. While Jackie was slender and small of build, the young man opposite him displayed, in his jeans and a tight fitting
t
-shirt, a sculptured and muscular body. The enticing bulge of his jeans made the overall picture even more enticing. Brown eyes twinkled at Jackie from the freckled and young looking face.

“My name's Jackie” He extended his hand.

“I'm Bob,” the redhead answered, shaking Jackie's hand firmly.

The evening, Jackie decided, was progressing nicely. He had been in two other bars before this one, all of them gay, and all of them rather quiet. In fact, he had all but decided to call it a night and return home when the sexy redhead had taken a seat beside him at the bar. Now he was not so eager to go home; at least, not by himself.

“Want another drink?” Jackie asked him with a meaningful gaze that managed to ask other questions.

“I don't really need it,” Bob informed him. His eyes were doing a good job of answering Jackie's silent questions and the answers were all favorable.

“That's encouraging.”

“I live just a couple of blocks from here,” Bob explained. “Why don't you come up for some coffee or something?”

“I'll accept, on both counts,” Jackie answered. “What's the address?”

The redhead gave him the address and Jackie committed it efficiently to memory. “I'll join you there in a couple of minutes,” he said.

He watched as the redhead left the bar. The view from the back was just as interesting. His buttocks were lush spheres of flesh, neither too lean nor too fat, tightly encased in the jeans that did more to reveal the shape of things to come than to conceal. Jackie downed the rest of his drink and, with an expectant tingle in his loins, left the bar a minute later.

The parking lot was in the rear. He circled around the building, entered the comparative darkness of the lot and approached his car. The sound of a scuffle from nearby brought him to a halt.

He paused for a second beside his car. There was a fight in progress, in the narrow space that separated the bar from the neighboring building. By all rights he should investigate and do what he could to straighten things out. On the other hand, there was a sexy young redhead just a few blocks away, waiting for him to arrive.

With a sigh Jackie moved past his car and started for the fight. Business, he reminded himself, before pleasure.

The fight was decidedly a one-sided affair. Of the four people involved, three of them were busily engaging in working over the fourth. For his part the victim was putting up a good fight, if a losing one. Tall and lanky, with what gave the appearance of a long blond fright wig atop his head, he was backed now to the wall, using hands and feet alike to fight off his attackers.

As Jackie paused at the beginning of the narrow passageway, there was a click of metal and the moonlight gleamed on the blade of a knife. It was time, Jackie decided, starting to run, that someone evened out the battle.

The man with the knife heard the sound of his approach and whirled about to face him. Jackie was faster, catching the shadowy figure in half turn. He grabbed for the knife hand, giving the wrist a violent yank that sent the man off balance. A knee to the groin finished the job. The knife fell to the ground as the man doubled in pain.

Someone grabbed Jackie from behind. With lightning speed Jackie fell forward, carrying his attacker up and over to send him flying through the air.

With only one combatant, the blond victim of the attack was faring better. Jackie came toward him, grabbing hold of the remaining antagonist, a burly six-foot figure. The man slipped from his grasp and landed a hard fist on Jackie's jaw. Staggering backward, Jackie caught the edge of a brick that, if it had landed squarely, would have probably caved in his scalp. As it was, he sank to his knees, dazed momentarily.

The trio of hoods, however, had had enough. They took advantage of the opportunity to break away, disappearing into the parking lot. By the time Jackie had gotten to his feet, a car had roared to life in the lot, and a second later it raced away with a squeal of tires.

He turned instead to the blond, who had been felled also by a parting blow. To his amazement, however, the blond was no longer a blond. The golden mane had been a wig after all and it had been lost in the scuffle.

“Girl, you sure pick them tough,” Jackie said, helping the stranger to his feet.

“Watch how you address me, bloody hell,” the other snapped angrily. “For your information I'm not some blooming pansy.”

It was not a very grateful response from someone who had just been rescued and for a moment Jackie nearly resorted to anger himself. As the young man got to his feet, however, Jackie's anger was swallowed up in his surprise. Without the covering of the wig, his hair was a cascade of unruly dark locks that tumbled about his face and reached to his shoulders. It would have been impossible for Jackie not to recognize the hair, the large, bright eyes, separated by a long, almost hawk-like nose, and the pouty curve of the mouth.

“Dingo Stark!” Jackie exclaimed in amazement. It was an unlikely place in which to be meeting the world famous rock-and-roll singer. He remembered reading somewhere that the young Englishman was visiting in the country but the gay bar they were outside of was not a place Jackie would have suspected as a part of his itinerary.

“Not so blooming loud,” Stark warned him, glancing anxiously about. “I don't want to be recognized around this place.”

“That explains the wig,” Jackie said, in a lower voice. “And it's none of my business what you're doing here. But I don't need to tell you those boys meant business. One of them was pulling a knife when I came up.”

“Yes, I know.” Stark looked back at him now and managed what Jackie assumed was a grateful smile. “I owe you a vote of thanks, mate.”

“That's all right,” Jackie assured him, accepting the hand that was offered. “In a manner of speaking, protecting people is my business.”

Stark raised an eyebrow. “Well, now, that's interesting, isn't it? I'd say at the moment that I might need a bit of protecting.”

Jackie shook his head, “To be honest, I don't think you fall into my category. Speaking bluntly, I'm usually concerned with helping out homosexuals.”

“I see.” Stark did not seem at all dissuaded by the statement. “As a matter of fact, that sounds all the more interesting. Tell me, Mr…?”

“Holmes, Jackie Holmes. Call me Jackie.”

“Tell me, Jackie, would you be interested in running up to my hotel with me? I have a feeling we might be able to do a little business together.”

Jackie hesitated for a moment, remembering the redhead, Bob, who by now was probably growing very impatient. He hated giving up the prospect of a torrid session, most especially since he couldn't look forward to one with his new companion. Stark was not especially good looking, and yet there was something about him that was wildly attractive, especially when he was in action. Singing at the top of his lungs, his long hair flying about as he flailed his guitar and gyrated his narrow hips, Stark exuded an animal magnetism and vitality that set millions of young girls, and boys, afire. Too bad, Jackie thought quickly, that he was straight. On the other hand, this was business, and if there was a homosexual element involved, it was definitely right down his alley.

“Come on,” he said, reaching a decision. “I'll drive you to your hotel.”

* * * *

“This is it,” Jackie said when they reached his car in the lot.

Stark stared at the vehicle in amazement. “I say, it is a wild-looking thing isn't it?”

The roadster before them was finished in a pale shade of blue. The color, however, was the only docile thing about the car's appearance. High cycle fenders arched gracefully over the huge wire wheels, encasing the side-mounted spare and reaching down and back to the wide running boards that were typically Italian, high off the ground.

“Alfa Romeo,” Jackie explained as they climbed inside. “1925 vintage, a 22-90 RLSS model.”

The six-cylinder, three-liter engine sprang to life. Jackie struggled with the four speed gearbox, a hard one to handle, and swung out of the parking lot at a fast clip. Despite its age and size the car was easy to handle, the steering quick and precise, the performance surprisingly muscular.

“Noisy brute, isn't it?” Stark commented, enjoying the cool night winds that whipped over him.

“That it is. By the way, I hope you are not wearing rubber sole shoes.”

“I'm not,” Stark assured him, giving him a puzzled look. “But why do you ask?”

Jackie nodded his head down, toward the aluminum footboard. “It gets hot. First time I drove it, I wore rubber sole shoes and the damned thing melted the soles.”

Ahead of them a compact car pulled out from a side street. Jackie swore aloud and slammed his foot on the brake. The result was a blood-curdling howl from the wheels. Despite the noise, however, the action did rather little to stop the car. They came within inches of the compact before the frightened driver of that car, unnerved by the racket and the sight of the classic roadster roaring down upon him, finally accelerated out of their path.

Stark had turned somewhat paler. “What was all that about?” he asked finally.

Jackie giggled. “They hadn't yet invented modern braking systems at the time this car was built. These are four-wheel brakes, but there are no linings. The noise you heard was the sound of cast iron shoes rubbing directly against the steel of the drums. Added to that, there's an intricate system of chain, cable and steel tapes that was intended to transmit the pressure of your foot to the brake drums. By the time it does its work, you've usually hit whatever you were trying to miss.”

“I see,” Stark answered, in a none too enthusiastic tone.

If the rock-and-roll singer's nerves had been rather abused by the peculiarities of the car, he had yet to suffer still more hardship. They had gone only a few blocks more when, with a gush of a small waterfall, the dash panel erupted before him. The seams gave way suddenly to release a river of warm oil over his lap.

Jackie brought the car to as hasty a stop as the braking system would allow, unable to suppress the gales of laughter that left him shaking.

“It's not bloody funny,” Stark roared, viewing the results of the accident.

“Sorry,” Jackie apologized, growing more sober as he produced rags from beneath the seat and began mopping up the oil that had all but inundated his companion.

“I should have suspected trouble. The car has two oil tanks, one under the dash and the crankcase itself. The idea is to fill the dash tank, which automatically feeds the engine. I left my mechanic to service the car and he must have mistakenly filled both tanks. The overtaxed seams just gave up.”

Despite his ministrations to the other's lap, which had been deliberately quite thorough, and more enjoyable for Jackie than for Stark, the damage to the slacks Stark was wearing was irreparable.

“I'll see that they are replaced,” Jackie assured him. “And I am sorry, really.”

Stark was still shaken and not particularly cheerful. “Are there any more booby traps set to spring?” he wanted to know.

“I give you my word,” Jackie promised, starting off again.

To their mutual relief they reached Stark's hotel without further incident. Jackie was surprised to note that it was not a particularly outstanding hotel.

As though divining his thoughts, Stark explained. “It's difficult to make myself inconspicuous,” he said as they entered the lobby. “But there are times when I simply have to get away from the fans who are always trying to tear me apart. So far, no one has discovered me here but I wouldn't have had a minute's peace in the Hilton.”

The hotel employees regarded them with amusement and curiosity as Stark passed through the small lobby in his oil-stained trousers. For an answer, Stark only glowered at each one in turn. He was still glowering when they reached his room.

“I think I'll feel better if I get out of these,” he said. “And take a good shower. Can you make yourself at home?”

“Don't hurry,” Jackie assured him, seating himself on one edge of the bed. “I'll be here when you finish.”

He did not attempt to hide his interest as Stark undressed, dropping the trousers rather noisily into the wastebasket. To his disappointment Stark donned a terry cloth robe before removing his underpinnings. Jackie had seen enough of the body, however, to know that it was a nice one, long-limbed and sturdy.

He remembered as Stark disappeared into the bathroom that the young man had not always been a highly paid singer. He had come from one of the rougher districts of London and if one were to believe the publicity biographies, his early life had been a hard one.

Only two years before Stark had been a construction worker living with his large family in a crowded and shabby apartment. His two years of success had apparently not yet softened him. He was still muscular and rugged, and the rough edges still showed through the veneer of polish he had acquired.

Stark was back quickly, his legs dripping water beneath the robe. “Now then,” he said, leaning against the dresser and folding his arms over his chest. “You said that you were in the business of protection and that this involved homosexuals. Can you be more specific about this business of yours?”