Scott Covert was pissing in a bathroom. A Harlem bar's toilet. No phone numbers offering sex on the wall. No penis or hairy anus grafitti either. 2026. But he had better than that on the other end of the phone line.
A sexual outlaw like himself.
Scott hadn't had a drink in ages. Twenty-seven years sober. Now a vodka gimlet in his left hand. It wasn't his first. His right hand holding a phone. His cock out and he was pissing like a race horse. It felt so good, but not as good as when Peter answered the phone.
"Scott, you're the last man to suck my cock." He ust have read his caller ID.
He hadn't seen him since the Club 57 MoMA opening. A kaleiscope of Anthony Scibelli's 1978 photos of Peter, Klaus Nomi, Connie Mueller, Andy Reese and Clover Nolan. Black and white. Times Square, S n M. Drugs. The late 70s. Greeted the crowd at the entrance along with scores of that era of errors. Scott had gotten hard dreaming about kneeling in a toilet sucking off Peter in the 70s, at MoMA and now.
"Peter, I love you. You wre the samertest of all of us."
Scott Covert shook his cock. Pee drops on the urinal. His cock hard.
"And I love you for always being wicked."
They spoke. No one came into the toilet. Scott Covert spit into his palm and stroked the head of his cock. A miracle. 72 an still can get hard.
I'm not that smart. You're in Wikipedia."
"You're right." Wikipedia had him on file for his support for Club 57. Very little mention of his gravestone paintings. No mention of Peter in Wikipedia. None of that mattered. He had a full head of hair, and hard cock in his right hand and Peter on the phone.
And for the first time in months he was happy to be alive. Peter had answered his call on the second ring.
Scott Covert was alive and even better Peter was not dead. Oh joy. He had been dead. Everyone said he was dead. Scott Covert had called expecting no answer.
"Scott, you there?"
"I love you Peter."
And like that he came for the first time that day.
