Chapter Two

 

I WAS bushed. The Chicago-to-Little Rock flight had been fairly short, but it was the pre- and post-flight crap, as usual, that wore me out. Securing a rental car, figuring out where I was going, and then getting there was the biggest cluster-fuck. The Stronger Wings Camp and Conference Center happened to be near Nowhere-in-Particular, Arkansas.

The landscape was pretty but unremarkable. Colorful flowers dotted lush August greenery. At least I didn’t have to drive through mountains—the state’s two modest ranges were to the west and northwest—or across a desert. At least Gary the Brawny Bartender was four days and seven hundred miles behind me.

The entrance to the two-hundred-acre Stronger Wings grounds was rough-cut masculine. From atop iron gates anchored by two fieldstone pillars, a mighty pair of wrought-iron wings swept heavenward. I cruised through the open gates and followed a long, tree-lined drive to a sizable parking area. Before I left the car, I studied the grounds map that had come with my registration materials.

At the heart of the camp were two log buildings situated back to back, called North Lodge and South Lodge. Two wings splayed out from the center of each, so the structures were shaped somewhat like sawhorses laid on their sides. On a knoll overlooking both lodges sat a pair of sprawling, two-story residences, which apparently housed Hammer and his staff.

Time to enter this alien world. Dragging my wheeled luggage behind me, I passed beneath the portico of South Lodge and, with some trepidation, headed for the Reception Room and Lounge.

It was set up like the rustically grandiose lobby of a mountain resort: animal-head trophies on the walls, antler chandeliers, leather and twig furniture, sprawling rugs bearing Native American patterns. And, natch, a massive fieldstone fireplace.

Immediately, I grasped the underlying concept. Accentuate the masculine; eliminate the feminine.

I strolled up to what was obviously the “checkpoint”—three sturdy wood tables. Two hetero couples sat behind each one. Only men stood in front of them. Luggage in tow and papers in hand, like a nouveau Ellis Island immigrant, I took my place in one of the shorter lines.

The purpose of this retreat finally fully hit me as I surreptitiously scoped out the other registrants. Dear God, here stood men ranging in age from mid-twenties to mid-fifties, all desperate to correct what they saw as aberrant behavior: their homosexuality. Small wonder they looked sheepish.

A few of the men, smiling self-consciously, nodded at me. Not that it meant anything. Even though I was surrounded by queers, I didn’t have a snowball’s chance in heaven of scoring a single inch of dick.

I felt so queasy, I could’ve chugged a whole bottle of Pepto-Bismol.

Just to keep my eyes off these guys and my imagination from writing their stories, I leafed through the Stronger Wings “Welcome!” booklet. It was chock full of photos, but not the kind I usually favored. Shots of the buildings and grounds were interspersed with pictures of modestly dressed gents who were laughing, smiling, and doing manly things. Problem was, they weren’t doing very interesting manly things.

I hadn’t yet gone through the booklet. When I’d first pulled it out of that manila envelope, I’d only gotten as far as the Stronger Wings Mission Statement on the inside front cover. As soon as I read it, I flung the booklet across my living room.

 

Let the natural man in you take flight with Stronger Wings!

Our nondenominational purpose is simple and righteous:

To give you a new lease on life

through behavior modification and thought realignment

consistent with the way

Nature meant you to be.

 

If I read any further, I figured I’d either avoid the camp like the plague or arrive with weapons.

Now, standing in the registration queue, I found a page I probably needed to memorize. It began:

 

In the interest of nurturing healthy fellowship, you’ll he expected to abide by the Dress and Conduct Code detailed below.

       No tight, skimpy, or otherwise revealing clothing, either above or below the waist. Loose Bermuda shorts and sandals are allowed. Swimwear should not draw attention and should be worn with an undergarment.

       No touching of other students and mentors except for brief handshakes and fraternal pats on the shoulder or back.

       No sexually suggestive jokes or comments.

       No prolonged looks except when appropriate (e.g., while listening to someone speak or watching a sports competition).

       No reading material that hasn’t been approved at check-in.

       No cell phones. (The Camp provides telephones and desktop computers for limited use.)

 

Good thing I’d left my offensive electronics in the trunk of the car.

Closing the booklet, I stepped up to the table. I felt as if I were gazing into an egg carton. The six greeters and their wives had an absolute, pristine homogeneity that made them a near-perfect palindrome—they looked virtually the same from left to right as they did from right to left. Fortyish, neat hair, rosy cheeks, clean, trimmed fingernails. The men wore short-sleeved grandpa shirts with button-down collars and blue outlines of little wings all over the white permanent-press fabric. Not a chest hair showed, and white undershirts effectively obliterated any hint of nipples.

Rarely did I pay close attention to women, except the ones involved in my life, and this situation was no exception. All I noticed was a Stepford Wives sameness.

And that C. Everett Hammer III wasn’t there.

“How do you pronounce your name?” my intake person brightly asked after he’d greeted me.

I spoke it for him. Misha with a long E. Tzerko with a “ts” sound. “It’s Russian-Polish,” I told him before he had a chance to ask. “Sort of the affectionate form of Michael. I use Mick as a nickname.”

The man nodded politely. I doubted he understood or cared about my ethnic-name explanation, but at least he was courteous in his indifference. He proceeded to pore over my registration form. “You’ve chosen the one-week program?”

“Yes.” I could have opted for a two- or three-week stay, but I figured a week was enough time to net what I was after. Besides, this retreat wasn’t exactly bargain-priced.

A plastic tag on the man’s grandpa shirt told me his name was Darren and he was a Mentor, capitalized. I suspected what qualified him to be a mentor was the fact he’d already been turned inside out and upside down and had all the queer germs sanitized right the fuck out of him. Same for the other five dudes.

What a shame. Darren, who appeared to be in his late thirties, had thinning hair but a nice physique. I vaguely wondered if any of these guys were seducible. None of them really tweaked my libido, but corrupting one would be fun.

In a perverse way, they reminded me of the playtime I’d be missing out on this week.

The woman seated on Darren’s right was Darlene, his wife. The mentors’ wives, Darren explained, took care of the “hostess duties,” whatever the hell those were, but the camp had cooks and housemaids to do the drudge work. Of course, he didn’t call it that. I had a sneaking suspicion the wives served other, more important purposes. Like maybe keeping their men in line while demonstrating to us infidels that het marriage was the True Road to Happiness and Fulfillment.

It appeared we’d be learning by example as well as through instruction.

Darren gave me a sheet of paper with a day-by-day, hour-by-hour list of the week’s activities: mealtimes; classes, which were detailed on the reverse side; regularly scheduled group- and personal-counseling sessions; a whole shitload of outdoorsy, sporty stuff, including “casual campfire chats,” and even—I could hardly believe my eyes—wood splitting. Wood splitting! Yikes, shades of Paul Bunyan. In some cases, attendance was optional; in others, mandatory. Since all the attendees were single, the schedule’s coup de grâce was a mixer dance.

I wasn’t thrilled to get a nametag, but I was relieved to get the key card to my room. There was going to be an orientation dinner in a few hours, before which all thirty-six registrants would meet their assigned mentors, and I really needed to freshen up and take a nap. I also needed to decide if I should try to set up a personal meeting with Hammer and tell him why I was really there. It was already obvious I couldn’t tell him I was blissfully gay. Any queer not committed to reformation would certainly be banished from the kingdom. I didn’t need a booklet or a mentor to tell me that.

I shuffled on past the sign-in tables and plopped into an overstuffed chair so I could get my bearings before proceeding. There was an auditorium behind the lobby area. Two corridors ran alongside it and terminated in exits, which opened onto paths that led to North Lodge. It housed all the guest rooms, two common areas, a small chapel, and a large dining room and kitchen.

The only rooms that accommodated two people were the ones reserved for couples… and not same-sex couples. Stronger Wings also sponsored retreats for husbands and wives whose marriages were foundering in homosexual waters. The rest of the rooms were singles. Of course. And had private baths. Of course. I was willing to bet my secret stash of lube and condoms that each contained a twin bed, not a double or queen.

Tomorrow morning after breakfast and “counseling intake,” we’d attend our introductory class. Then we’d have lunch. Then we’d get a grand tour of the facility. Thinking about it only deepened my weariness.

Until I saw him.

My breath hit a shoal. Breaking one of the camp’s cardinal rules, I stared. I had to make sure. Although his head was tilted down as he stood before one of the check-in tables, he was smiling. And there was no mistaking that smile.

I waited, heart thumping, until he walked away from the palindrome and struck out through the lobby toward one of the exit corridors. He held the schedule sheet, at which he glanced occasionally when he wasn’t readjusting the shoulder strap of his carry-on bag.

Oh, yeah. Same lithe body and long, easy stride. Same incomparable ass, looking really fine in those khaki Dockers. I even caught another registrant copping an eyeful.

Getting up from the chair, I grabbed my suitcase and followed him. It wouldn’t look good if I hustled up behind any guy too quickly, so I tried to maintain a brisk but unhurried pace.

Another man—one of the mentors, I thought—jogged past me just as I entered the hallway.

“Hey there!” he called out, but not to me. The mentor sailed right past me and up to my target, who paused in front of the exit. “You left your key card on the table.”

“Oh, sorry to inconvenience you.”

Damn, his voice was made for the bedroom—low and molten, measured, never abrasive. My body was little more than an aqueduct for adrenaline as I approached the two men, who stood with their backs to me.

“I’d better get to my post,” said the mentor with bland geniality. “You shouldn’t have any trouble finding your room. Just go down the northwest wing and follow the numbers.”

“Thank you.”

The mentor jogged back in the other direction as I strolled up to the exit. “Hello,” I said in my sexiest voice.

He pulled up short, turned, and gave me a startled look.

I smiled. “Long time, no see.”

“Misha?”

“I’m flattered you didn’t forget me or my name.”

“Shit,” he whispered.

Sneakered footsteps squeaked behind us.

Blinking nervously, he didn’t seem to know where to look or what to do. His gaze skittered around for a second or two before he came to his senses and pushed open the door.

Had Robbie turned up at the Stronger Wings Camp and Conference Center, I wouldn’t have been surprised. Well, maybe a little. But I wouldn’t have been stunned.

Only I wasn’t looking at Robbie.

I was looking at Jude Stone.

My stress level for the upcoming week had just been amplified tenfold.