King Perry

Copyright

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

382 NE 191st Street #88329

Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

King Perry
Copyright © 2012 by Edmond Manning

Cover Art by Anne Cain   
[email protected]
Cover Design by Mara McKennen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 382 NE 191st Street #88329, Miami, FL 33179-3899, USA

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

ISBN: 978-1-61372-378-4

Printed in the United States of America
First Edition
February 2012

eBook edition available
eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-379-1

To Queen Ann,

who recognized my kingship before I could.

I now understand why authors make great lists of acknowledgements. It’s pure arrogance to stand here and shout, “I DID THIS ON MY OWN.” With great humility and eyes brimming with gratitude, I would thank the following players who helped me construct Vin’s world: Ann Batenburg (my first reader), Tony Ward, Rhyss DeCassilene, Joe Kieffer, Craig Ball, Audie Howe, Thomas Heald, Judy Testa, Larry Axelrod, Doug Federhart, John Mederios, Michael Seward, Tom Devine, Fredi, Josephine Myles, L.C. Chase, Ted Invictus, Joel Showalter, and my wise lady mentors from Book Architects. And the Bear Walker king, Theo Bishop. Come home, Theo.

—Edmond Manning

The events in this novel take place in 1999.

Prologue

PERRY,

YOU ARE CORDIALLY INVITED ON A KING WEEKEND.

FRIDAY, THREE DAYS FROM NOW, MEET ME ON PIER 33 AT 6:00 P.M. DON’T BE LATE. IF YOU SPEND THE NEXT 40 HOURS FOLLOWING MY EVERY COMMAND—ABSOLUTELY EVERYTHING—YOUR LIFE WILL CHANGE IN SURPRISING WAYS. COME AND MEET YOUR TRUE JOY.

THIS IS NOT AN S&M THING. YOU WILL NOT BE DRUGGED. YOU WILL NOT BE ABUSED. WE MAY EAT ONION RINGS IF I’M STILL CRAVING THEM BUT HONESTLY, I DON’T CONSIDER THAT ABUSE UNLESS THEY’RE COLD. BUT YOU MUST SUBMIT ALL WEEKEND; NO SUCH THING AS A TIME-OUT. PACK A SMALL WEEKEND BAG.

REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE ALWAYS MEANT TO BE, PERRY. REMEMBER THE KING.

VIN VANBLY

P.S. WEAR SOME SEXY UNDERWEAR; YOU HAVE A GREAT ASS.

One

“
T
HANK
you,” I say to the ponytailed caterer after she offers me wine. “Fancy party, huh?”

She smiles briefly, nodding with deference before stepping deeper into the gallery. Okay, not much reaction. She’s working; let it go.

I sip the red wine, swirl it in my plastic cup, creating little maroon waves of merlot. I’m more of a beer guy, but I like doing this, wandering around this art gallery as if I’m part of this town, as if tonight is an average Tuesday night for me. I love how faraway places sometimes feel like home.

This party is groovy, a bash for lesser-name surrealists of the 1960s and ’70s. Painters who understood a doorknob could wear a green sparrow’s beak, and yeah, it works. With red and brown tiger stripes spilling out of a bathtub behind it, somehow it actually works.

The jagged colors, the juxtaposition of impossible realities, so similar to real life. Sometimes this world is hard for me to reconcile, its unfair sorrows and unexpected brilliance. I love that surrealists tried to paint the reality they saw, this impossible world. I dig this one with the bathtub and the sparrow beak, the
Trombone Symphony Drowns Alone
. No trombones in sight. I guess they drowned.

Looking around, I’m not the only tourist pretending to be a San Franciscan, examining art. Instead of gawking and taking photos, we work hard to pretend that we live right around the corner and popped out for a carton of milk. Maybe it’s only around the Castro where we gay tourists fake our residency. We have a certain swagger we hope communicates, “I belong. I have always belonged.”

This isn’t exclusively the pretentious queens, oh no. It’s the bears like me. The twinks. The leather daddies and the androgynous gigglers. The white collar gays with slick briefcases and the business lesbians openly cuddling at Market and Castro, waiting for the light to change. We’re so eager to slap on our labels and march behind our distinct parade banners, but inside we’re fundamentally the same: we all want to belong in the Homo Homeland, to find a corner of the world where we are each uniquely celebrated.

Wandering around, twice I overhear the famous joke repeated: “How many surrealists does it take to change a light bulb?
Fish.
” Gotta love the classics.

One painter strikes me as truly unique: Richard Mangin. He’s no one particularly famous, but I’ve read his name once or twice as an innovator. Details in his paintings hum to me, whisper things.

The largest of his three,
Siren Song
, really snags my attention. A shapeless guy plays a cello in a funky green desert, and a pumpkin patch melts into gold in the lower right corner. I recognize that Dalí reference. The purple sky includes a dozen shades of violet occasionally slashed by a crimson streak. In one corner of the sky, white dove wings fade through tarnished iron bars, wings more on our side than caged. Maybe a little cheesy symbolically, but still, it’s cool. He wanted his point crystal clear. I wonder why? Then again, maybe I’m reading it wrong.

Oh.

That guy over there is watching me. I swear I have acquired a rat’s twitchiness about these things.

I study
Siren Song
and simultaneously check out my watcher. He’s handsome. A few years older than me. Maybe thirty-three or thirty-four? Short brown hair, a few locks carefully flopping over his forehead in one spot. Clean-shaven. He has those classic, sharp-planed features you’d see in a Sunday Sears ad, a father pretending to enjoy lawn furniture, showing off his wrinkle-free Dockers. Lawn Furniture Guy wears a charcoal gray suit that hangs off him perfectly, possibly custom tailored. Peach shirt, peach tie. That guy from
Millionaire
is doing the same color shirt and tie combo. Regis someone. Okay, this man’s definitely a step or two up from Sears. Let go of first impressions.

Is he the painter? No, that guy would be in his sixties or older by now.

I drop my key ring, stealing a glance at his shoes as I bend over. Gucci, which means he has money. Is he… I dunno, a Realtor? Or… huh. I also pick up a certain unease, even from this far away. Nervous? Nah, that’s not quite it.

No, not a Realtor. A Realtor would network around the expensive art, meeting potential clients. I certainly wouldn’t stake out someone dressed like me. I bet I could work as a San Francisco Realtor.

Ms. Ponytailed Caterer passes near me, and I wish I could have made her smile. She’s so demure, almost apologetic. In a few more months, she’ll have enough experience to become more callous.

I stand before
Siren Song,
waiting for him to get over here, and puzzle at the multipurpled sky. He’d better make up his mind soon or I’ll miss my ride. In the sky across from the prison bars, those must represent—

A firm voice at my side says, “You a big fan of the surrealists?”

“Not really,” I say, smiling wide. “That’s my initial in the sky.
V.
”

“Oh. Actually, I think those are—”

“I know, I know,” I say, grinning like an idiot. “My name is Vin Vanbly, so it caught my eye. With two Vs.”

Though it’s awkward with my wine glass, I make two peace symbols with my fingers and then bring them together, index fingers touching, as I sometimes do when I’m being goofy with my name. People relax around me when they think I’m stupid.

His face halts its surprise as he tries hard to suppress any further reaction.

“The painting is cool,” I say, turning toward him and jabbing my thumb over my shoulder for emphasis, “and I was grooving on my initials in the sky. I like the wings and bars part too. Very symbolic.”

“Hi, Vin,” he says, recovering quickly. “My name is Perry.”

I raise my plastic cup. “Good wine.”

His eyes flinch, but he says, “Yeah, it’s okay.”

I say, “I fix cars. I don’t know a ton about surreal art, but I know what I like.”

I launch a few questions about the mighty San Francisco. He answers politely at first, then a little friendlier. He’s actually warming up, not being a dick. Good for you, Perry. And while I’m definitely playing blond bear, I’m not being a complete idiot, so we have a couple of nice moments together, chuckling at a comment the other makes.

Let’s see what happens when the game changes.

I say, “I can totally see the cello guy as the Surrealist Manifesto’s concept of absurd humor.”

Perry says, “Didn’t you just say you knew nothing about art?”

“I said I didn’t know a ton. I read a few books.”

He pauses and then says, “How many car mechanics know the Surrealist Manifesto?”

“How many car mechanics do you know?” I say, keeping my face pleasant and blank, interested to see where he takes this.

Perry extends a cautious smile, deciding whether I’m teasing or getting angry.

“None,” he says at last. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be rude.”

“No sweat. I read a lot. I brought six books with me on vacation. You read much?”