Lots of kids moved through our lives in those days. We seemed to attract countercultural vagrants; sometimes they needed shelter. Our digs, though modest, would often do for a time.
A gorgeous boy named Gabriel (speaking of angels, if one pained in the style of the day) once shared my flat at 8A Grange Avenue for longer than I might have hoped; he ate almost nothing but brown rice.
Two men, a woman and their dog did too, if briefly, all of us in one room. They were engaging, even the dog. None, not even Gabriel, was ever a sexual prospect.
This tale of Kevin, here on a wander first begun in Falmouth, Massachusetts, is from jottings dated Wednesday, December 22, 1971. But I had first made note of him months before, on August 25: "There is someone named Kevin. He is beautiful and in the long run probably a bad trip. Beauty is a thief. It steals my mind."
Apparently not. At least not right away -- despite his lean compact body, strong clear features framed in long straight hair (black, a leather thong often tied round it; he looked a young brave and could be as taciturn), his laconic sexiness, his deep voice calm with a whiff of Cape Cod.
All that -- and I didn't mention him again until this story. My first impressions, though, had been right. In part. His beauty was a thief. But it was not a bad trip.
"It went very well." And that's all he wrote.... Damn circumspection!
I regret it now: I want to call back every detail -- of him, his body, his presence; exactly what we did at each moment -- and I can't. Or not enough of it. I must have sucked him; how could I not have? His cock smooth, shapely, eager; aimed firm from its black nest up his taut belly... that I remember.
And that he knew not only what to expect but what to do, sure in his moves. He got me onto my back, legs up: a testing probe, then a single thrust -- long, firm, steady -- and all of him was inside me. I felt my whole body flash: I hadn't been ready. I thought he'd need help.
He didn't. He set to a supple rhythm: deft muscle flexing the small of his back; trim butt pressing in, arching back; hips pivoting cock at a perfect angle. His moves were smooth, sure, powerful. He fucked with skill.
And he came. I wish I could recall it exactly: the moment, the look on his face. I've lost it -- but for a tremor in him, the break of rhythm, the exhalation of him easing down over me. He wasn't one to make a lot of noise.
I've lost everything after that too. But that we must, finally, have made it to Flav's.
One memento of him I didn't lose: his leather headband. He'd left it. I hung it over the light fixture in my kitchen, a naked bulb on the wall. I kept it until I moved out in 1973. Maybe beyond; I don't remember for sure.
I do remember Kevin, those moments of him anyway. He was a messy boy -- or so it seems; exactly how or why I didn't record and can't recall. "But," I wrote in my last line about him, "sometimes, sometimes, he feels very together."
More than two decades later I'd find a boy, not yet born in 1971, whose presense was much like Kevin's: vagrant (again), from Newfoundland; messy in his own way; even more together. Decent, honourable, unafraid.
Maybe it's something about the water Down East.
156 Huron Street:
Safe haven for wanderers -- and likely
where I first met Kevin of Falmouth. Flav lived here
at the time behind that door at the top, with his lover John;
Bill Rowe also there quite a while.
For yet more life on Spadina, 156 Huron central to it for me, my place at 8A Grange just down the way, see Promiscuous Affections: 1972.
Shel of The Rock:
For Shel (found working a boy bar, he soon no mere hustler and I not a trick), see Other Angels.
Angel image: again, from Micheangelo's Sistine ceiling.
Next episode: IV: Virtue