Arizona Kiss

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol

 

Miles Zusman was a man lost within his own fraudulent storyline. An aspiring politician who had just moved himself to Sedona, Arizona, he was preparing himself to run for a seat in the Arizona Legislature, though he dreamed of eventually becoming Governor and then U.S. Senator. He had served one term on the Harrisburg, Pennsylvania City Council and failed to win reelection. He was full of secrets. 

He wanted to lead people in the worst way. 

Miles Zusman had been masquerading as a Christian for years. To claim anything other than a feverish belief in the Bible and membership in the holy and apostolic church was a huge handicap for most American politicians. To be a member of any other religion — with the possible exception of Judaism — was an instant disqualifier. So was atheism. Especially atheism. So he pretended to believe in God, and only one God, and only the Christian interpretation of God. To be anything else would have been political self-immolation. 

He determined that Arizona was a place where the politically inclined could make a very quick impact and climb the well-oiled apparatus of the Republican Party Machine. 

It wasn’t just that he was an atheist pretending to be a Christian for political expediency, he was also homosexual, and that fact was kept squarely in a closet as impenetrable as a bomb shelter. He was a self-loathing homosexual, too, which was one of two reasons why he always used the term homosexual rather than gay. The second reason was that, as an arch conservative, he wanted to publicly show his distaste for the sexual preference, which he considered perverse.  

To call a person or group homosexual was to cast a harsh light on their behavior and made plain where one resided on the political spectrum. What’s more, it gave Miles’ own homosexual nature additional cover. Not that he really needed it. The people around Miles had not an inkling of his true nature, because he was not the least bit effeminate. That would have been another death knell for his career as an elected official, especially now that he was in Arizona, which still regarded most forms of gay and lesbian sex as sodomy punishable by a stint in the state prison system. Arizona’s sodomy laws were rarely enforced, but they were kept in the penal code to communicate the revulsion with which the land’s residents regarded boy-on-boy and girl-on-girl sexual entanglements. You never knew when a sodomy law might be enforced as an excuse to incarcerate a person guilty of a higher crime or misdemeanor the authorities lacked sufficient evidence to prosecute. 

 

 

 

 

Miles Zusman would never get elected to Congress without a campaign war chest. He needed to raise donations. Sedona was full of artists and galleries and art collectors. Miles Zusman attended new exhibitions and art openings on the assumption that galleries were frequented by people with money who were capable of helping fund his political campaign. He had read The Great Gatsby during his college years at Penn State and his big takeaway was this sentence from author F. Scott Fitzgerald: The people who gathered at Jay Gatsby’s lavish parties were “agonizingly aware of the money in the vicinity and were convinced it was theirs for a few words in the right key.” 

Finding gatherings of wealthy people and trying to strike the right octave had been Miles Zusman’s modus operandi ever since. 

One early evening he attended an exhibition featuring a new artist at the Fillmore-Ratzinger Gallery. No sooner did he grab a glass of wine, take a seat and start surveying the works, when co-owner James Ratzinger took notice of his presence and approached. As soon as James Ratzinger looked Miles Zusman in the face, he knew. Miles knew that he knew. Yes, Ratzinger knew, and Ratzinger knew that Miles knew that he knew. It was apparent from the oh shit look on Miles’ face. 

A current ran through both men. It was just that quickly that Miles Zusman’s true identity as a homosexual had been unmasked. Ratzinger said nothing. Miles vaguely shook his head, as though making a denial. Ratzinger’s expression changed into a rebuke that silently communicated, We know our own kind. Ratzinger knew his quarry; you had to give the man credit for his instincts. 

Miles thought he could smell bath oil on the gallery owner. Ratzinger gave him a devious grin. It looked like something carved into a jack-o'-lantern. Ratzinger had already been presumptuous, now he was graduating to obnoxiousness. Miles had to admit there was enjoyment in the discomfort being inflicted. Miles wanted to be repulsed but he wasn’t, and that might have been the most disturbing thing of all. 

Not another word was exchanged, it was all happening telepathically. 

How could a chubby middle-aged man like Ratzinger even begin to think the young, svelte Miles Zusman would have even the most fleeting interest in him? Then again, taken from the neck up, Ratzinger wasn’t a bad looking guy. From the neck down, he really didn’t carry that extra weight all that badly either. He knew how to dress to minimize its scope. 

Perhaps the gallery owner’s only desire was to perform an unrequited sexual act, just to partake without any expectations or demands in return. The swell just behind the zipper on those trousers was detectable. The concupiscence was now right in front of Miles’ face! Miles crossed his legs, as if a defensive maneuver, or to hide any physical revelations of his own. An uppercut to the testicles was considered, then dispensed. Ratzinger might have enjoyed that; the exquisite pain. He was sure those trousers were backed-up by a pair of silk bikini briefs. 

Miles looked around to make sure nobody was witnessing this suspense. This was a promiscuous person, and that alone was titillating, especially given his stature in the community. The gallery owner had turned the place into a hostile environment. Men of resources and consequence easily glossed over peccadilloes of this sort. 

Miles couldn’t fathom that there would ever be a time in his life when he could be so sexually brazen or unrestrained. It was a disheartening notion. 

Miles Zusman set down his drink and exited the gallery forthwith. 

 

 

 

 

A whisper campaign about Miles Zusman had begun. Its origin was unknown. The rumor claimed he was a sexual deviant. Miles, who had been so careful to carry himself with an athletic stride and non-flamboyant attire had been implicated by … someone. His suspicions immediately fell on art gallery owner James Ratzinger, who intuitively and instantly recognized Miles’ alter ego on sight. Perhaps the man was sadistic. Perhaps this was the start of relentless rounds of torment from a man whose first syllable of his surname said it all: rat. 

 

 

 

 

Miles Zusman was feeling especially queer this day. He was watching a video about the life of Oscar Wilde, the Irish playwright, novelist, essayist and poet, and a man so unapologetic and unrestrained about his sexual orientation that he openly ran afoul of the Victorian prohibition against homosexuality. He was convicted of gross indecency and sentenced to two years hard labor. Fat-faced and brilliant, he was one of the most quoted writers of the English language. 

Miles was crumpled on the sofa listening to articulations of Wilde’s many memorable and colorful observations.   

 

“What is a cynic? A man who knows the price of everything and the value of nothing.” 

 

“If one tells the truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out.” 

 

“Anyone who lives within their means suffers from a lack of imagination.” 

 

 “One’s real life is often the life that one does not lead.” 

 

It was that last quotation that stung Miles. A dagger to the chest. Oscar had lived life on his terms. Miles was living life on everybody else’s terms. He felt shame. Then he used a janitorial push broom to whisk it away. How toxic was this lifestyle? 

Miles arched his back as Oscar Wilde sashayed across the television screen, blousy French sleeves fluttering. 

 

 

 

 

Miles rounded up a few campaign volunteers who assisted him in organization a Meet the Candidate event. A list of those who registered was compiled by staff members and reviewed by Miles Zusman. One name sizzled on the page: James Ratzinger. Miles felt the strands of hair on the back of his neck come to attention. Why was the gay co-owner of the Fillmore-Ratzinger Gallery, the man with the translucent gaze when it came to Miles, interested in this political gathering? 

Typically, an average of around thirty percent who sign up for free meetings of this kind never show, and Miles trusted (or at least desperately hoped) that would be the case with Ratzinger, the last person he wanted within proximity. Ratzinger did show, however, well dressed and stewing in his own self-importance, the pudgy body materializing to fill every gap in the crowd. Yes, pudgy. The man wasn’t exactly a greyhound. The art dealer’s eyes narrowed upon seeing Miles. Pure alley cat. 

Miles could feel his expression turn grim. Why was Ratzinger here? What did he want? He has obviously used liner to make his eyes pop. 

Faggot! 

Was he there to make an ungodly disclosure to Miles’ audience members? If the disclosure was made, would that be the end of fear? It was hard to believe this man owned an art gallery. Too brutish. Not the cultured and well-oiled man that Miles originally thought him to be. 

Miles spotted Ratzinger again and again, and yet the man declined to approach. Instead he ducked back out of sight, like some pop-up ghoul. Ratzinger wasn’t finding anyone else the crowd of interest. He spoke to no one. Was he offended that Miles not come to terms with his own situation? If (or when) would the reprisal come? How and to whom would it be delivered? Miles’ ass clenched. He considered decamping, just as he did at the art gallery, but how could a candidate go AWOL from his own event, and how could he give James Ratzinger free reign among these voters? The only chance Miles had of truly knowing what would eventually happen was to remain. Besides, he would look weak if he couldn’t withstand this stupid contest of cat-and-mouse. 

Perhaps Ratzinger liked what he saw and simply wanted to partake. Too bad. This stray cat had wandered up the wrong alley. Miles allowed his gaze to stiffen on his antagonist, hoping to provoke one move or another. The whole thing was unsettling. Miles resolved to visit the art gallery later in the week to reciprocate Ratzinger’s creepiness. 

In the end, Miles was told by one of his volunteers that James Ratzinger was offered campaign literature and demurred. 

 

 

 

 

Miles Zusman was lying sprawled on his queen-sized bed sporting a king-sized erection, stroking it languorously as images of the chubby, impertinent gallery owner James Ratzinger floated past. There wasn’t even an attraction to Ratzinger, and yet there was a desire to toy with this hazardous figure. 

His biggest fear was that the asshole was going to say something. His second biggest fear was that he would run into the asshole again and have another tortured encounter. He caught a whiff of the bath oil Ratzinger had been wearing at the gallery. The fragrance would have been lovely on anybody else; on Ratzinger the scent was toxic. It lingered scandalously in the air. Oil of Olay, perhaps. His mind’s eye easily recalled the corpulent face, the devious grin, the bleached teeth. 

There were a few sharp intakes of breath. Miles stopped without finishing. It was a liaison too extravagant and gross to contemplate any longer. It was a hormonal conflagration of the most sordid kind. He washed his hands more vigorously than he had ever washed them and headed out the door. 

 

 

 

 

Miles Zusman was itching for some fleeting romances, or just some sexual dalliances. He couldn’t take the chance. Harrisburg, Pennsylvania wasn’t that large a city, but it did have a reliable gay underground and its members were discreet. Sedona had no such sexual speakeasy, at least not to Miles’ knowledge. Maybe gallery owner James Ratzinger, a veteran of the local homosexual set, knew of a secret society. Maybe he was waiting for Miles to succumb and the two of them could have a good fling. Who could say for sure? 

All that Miles knew for certain is that he was part of a suspect class, and that his groin ached with unrequited Eros. Miles kept remembering that image of James Ratzinger’s Geiger counter was swinging its needle forth and back on that awful day at the art gallery. The gallery owner promiscuously arching an eyebrow at Miles. 

 

 

 

 

James Ratzinger eventually sold his share of the Fillmore-Ratzinger Gallery to take an early retirement and was immediately jolted by severe depression. He tried everything to alleviate it, including talk therapy and legal and illegal drugs. He decided to give up, settle his affairs and move into a raunchy trailer in a seedy mobile home park near the foot of Superstition Mountain just south of Phoenix, where he was contemplating what self-inflicted measure he would use to end his life. 

He was within hours of eating poison mushrooms when he logged onto into YouTube and ran across a short series of instructional videos teaching holotropic breathing techniques, narrated and demonstrated by a woman named Lolita Firestone. The rigorous breathing regimen took him even deeper into the darkness before the emotional damn burst and Ratzinger sobbed his way through a lifetime of traumas, most of which he did not realized had been playing a game of hide-and-seek in his subconscious mind for decades. After the hyperventilation and sobbing ceased, the darkness and self-loathing lifted, as if the condition was nothing more than an overcast weather system that finally passed and let the sunlight reemerge. 

He planned to spend the rest of his days living in that mobile home in the shadow of the sacred Superstition Mountain and never felt anything less than content again. He even wrote two platonic love letters to Miles Zusman. Miles read each several times but never responded, though several years later, he made a point of visiting Ratzinger at his mobile home for grilled rattlesnake and shots of tequila. It was an affable visit, one without sexual tension or incident, and the two men parted as friends. 

 

 

 

 

Just as Miles Zusman had dreamed, voters tapped him to be their congressman, and eleven years after that elected him governor of the State of Arizona. 

Two successful years into his first term as governor, Miles made the hardest decision of his life, to come out of the closet and reveal himself as a gay man, something by now most Arizonans had already surmised — not because of anything to do with his behavior (he strode erectly and mightily across the public stage), it was that he was never associated romantically with women, and, of course, there are still those old newspaper clippings and rumors from many years back in the Red Rock Herald archive. 

It was his Ellen Degeneres moment, and just as when Ellen D declared her lesbianism to the world, Miles disclosure turned out to not be as big a deal as he imagined it might be. His political support did not wane, despite being a move that shocked the entire political establishment. Miles governed as a moderate republican and confounded all traditional political pundits by racing to a smashing victory for a second term as governor. 

Miles stopped referring to himself publicly or privately as a homosexual; he was now “gay” and he felt gay about being gay. 

As a follow-up to his announcement, Gov. Zusman summoned James Ratzinger from his crappy mobile home at the foot of Superstition Mountain for a meeting at the governor’s mansion. 

“Give the man a gimlet,” Miles told his male administrative assistant. Gov. Zusman then offered James Ratzinger the newly created post of Director of the Arizona Office of Arts and Culture, which Ratzinger accepted without reservations or misgivings. The tension between the two men was long gone. The cat-and-mouse encounters were over. 

Miles would sweep his way into a second four-year term as governor and achieved such popularity and racked up so many political successes that voters agreed to lift the two-term limit on the governorship, and he went on to serve a third and fourth term before — in another shocker — retiring to Lisbon, Portugal, where he lived on his Arizona pension and did some occasional consulting work for European businessmen and politicians. 

He would stay single his entire life, immersing himself in the excitement of Lisbon’s gay underground, which really didn’t need to be underground anymore because Portuguese values had been significantly liberalized by this stage. Still, those in the underground preferred operating underground. Respectability was mundane; subterfuge was titillating. 

@copyright 2020/Mike Consol