Date: Sat, 13 Apr 2013 22:42:39 -0400
From: Jake Preston <jemtling@gmail.com>
Subject: Queering Benedict Arnold 8

Queering Benedict Arnold 8
Brooklyn, New York: July 27-28, 2012
By Jake Preston


"Queering Benedict Arnold" is historical gay fiction. The story alternates between
twenty-first century scenes in which Jake Preston and Ben Arnold (a descendent)
investigate Benedict's life, and eighteenth-century scenes imagined by Jake and
Ben. Some characters and allusions hark back to "Wayward Island" (in nifty's file
on Beginnings). Jake Preston is the narrator in both works.

Most episodes are faithful to history, except for sexual encounters, which are
fictional. You should not read this story if you are a minor, or if you are offended
by explicit gay sex.

 Benedict Arnold was an American military genius who was treated unfairly by
jealous rivals while he lived. After his death, he was demonized as the archetypal
traitor in history and folklore, but he was a target of inexplicable hatred long
before his treasonable conspiracy with John André to surrender the fort at West
Point to the British. Taken as a whole, "Queering Benedict Arnold" is an attempt
to discover the origins of that hatred. Comments and suggestions welcome:
contact Jake at jemtling@gmail.com.

Nifty stories are free to Readers, but donations are encouraged.

        *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

      Late in July (2012), Ben told me the story of Benedict's coming-of-age
while we rode the train from Norwich to Grand Central Station and thence on the
subway to Brooklyn. There we spent four nights at the home of Benzion and
Sarah Haiam. It was a two-story white Victorian house, larger than I had
expected. Their son Chaim, and my adopted son Red, were at school when we
arrived. Benzion and Sarah were gracious hosts, but they couldn't conceal their
distress when they saw the burn-injuries on the left side of Ben's face. "It goes all
the way down to here," Ben said; he reached toward his lower leg. Benzion
offered to give us a tour of the house. At the large screened-in front porch, we
passed by a separate apartment on the first floor. "We have a tenant living here,"
Benzion said: "a music teacher at Prospect High School. We use the rent to pay
for heating this place, and keeping the lights on."

      We started our tour in the parlor, a large room with bay windows
overlooking the side yard. A grand piano stood in one corner, and opposite it, a
fireplace. Atop the hearth was a framed photograph of Benzion and Sarah, with
Haiam and Red Feather. I studied it. The boys travel together to school every
day," Benzion said. "Julliard and the CUNY Graduate College aren't far apart in
Manhattan." We passed through the dining room, peeked into the kitchen, and
entered a large room with bay windows facing the back yard; it doubled as a
library and music room. Next to a second piano stood a music stand, and on a side
table, one of Chaim's violins.

      "They're getting on well together, I hope," I said.

      "If you sit in the dining room on weekends, you get music from two
directions," Benzion said. "When Chaim practices violin, usually he's got Red
playing piano. It's nice having two boys in the house. Red comes to synagogue
with us every Saturday morning. They give a violin-and-piano concert there on
once a month, on the first Wednesday, and they've attracted quite a large
following. When they perform, they dress in their concert tuxedos, so a lot of old
Jewish ladies are in love with them. Either that or they really like Mendelsohn and
Mozart. On Sunday mornings, Red plays organ and Chaim plays piano at a
neighborhood church called Trinity. They've started a chamber-music group with
Ken Moss (the music teacher) and two young ladies from Julliard. It earns them a
bit of extra cash."

      Benzion led us to two adjoining rooms on the second floor. "Chaim and
Red have these rooms"-a study with two desks, a bedroom with a queen-size
bed. Hanging over the bed was an almost life-sized painting by Anna Ravitch,
depicting Red Feather and Chaim, sporting naked in the water by a boulder with
Norway pines in the background. I recognized the setting at once: it was the
island in Wayward Bay. The way they gazed at each other was love or lust,
depending on your point of view. To the right of the swimmers, two loons sported
in attitudes that mimicked the postures of the male figures.

      "This is a beautiful picture, but I don't recall Anna painting it," I said.
"There's no doubt that it's hers. It's a continuation of her 'Swimming Hole'
series."

      "Mrs. Ravitch painted it as a gift for Chaim," Benzion said. "Is she still
living at Wayward Island Lodge?"

      "Right now she's at cabin, house-sitting and dog-sitting," I said.

      "I've wondered about the loons," Benzion said. "Are they mates, male and
female? They look so much alike."

      "Anna only does males," I quipped. "Seriously, male and female loons are
identical, except that the females are slightly smaller." I got close to the painting
and studied the loons. "They're the same size. Anna knows about loons. I'm sure
she painted them as males. If she were here, she'd insist that we speculate about
their meaning in the painting."

      "Easy to say," Benzion replied, echoing a phrase that he heard in the
North Country: "The male loons signify Chaim's and Red's union as part of the
natural order. They've been talking about getting married. It's been legal in New
York since last June." He paused. "June 24, 2011"-he remembered the date then
the Legislature in Albany legalized same-sex marriage. "Who would have thought
it, after the opposition had been so noisy," he said quietly.

      I remember the day in my cabin when Benzion and Sarah learned that
their son and Red Feather were lovers. It happened during a breakfast with my
gay neighbors, Ben Hasek and Sam Black Bear, when Chaim told his parents that
he and Red Feather were younger versions of them. Even before Chaim went off
to college in Oberlin, Sarah suspected that Chaim was gay; but it was shocking
news to Benzion. Red Feather got him alone on the pretext of gathering firewood
from the shed, and asked him to imagine his union with Chaim as a game of ice
hockey. "Chaim plays forward and I play goalie-it's Chaim who slams the puck
into the goal," Red Feather told him. The metaphor made it easier for Benzion to
accept that his son was gay.

      Chaim and Red got home in time for dinner. It was a joyful reunion- I
hadn't seen them since the previous summer when they vacationed at Wayward
Island Lodge on Lake Ashawa. Like Benzion and Sarah (and like most people),
Red reacted to Ben's war-wounds with initial shock and distress. Chaim was
unfazed, and kept company with Ben for the evening.

      We watched the opening ceremony for the London Olympics. We were
amazed at the British humor, especially when James Bond and Queen Elizabeth
jumped from a helicopter and sailed into the stadium on Union Jack parachutes
while an orchestra played the James Bond movie theme. The American TV
commentators irritated us by going on about how the Chinese spent three times
the money on the Beijing Olympic ceremony in 2008. They liked that the Brits
found a cheaper way to do it, but couldn't refrain from saying that the show in
Beijing was more spectacular. "How crass!-all they can think about is money,"
Red exclaimed.

      "No doubt the TV personalities prepared their commentary before the
ceremony opened," Sarah said.

      "The new American nightmare is 'Do more with less'. That's what
business leaders always say. We no longer have unions to reply 'We'll do less
with less'," Benzion muttered. The political parallel was indirect, but a reminder
that Brooklyn is a working class borough.

      "The Beijing show was spectacular, but the synchronization of hundreds
of dancers and musicians symbolized Chinese collectivism," Chaim said. "The
British approach is individualistic, based on comedy and idiosyncrasy. There's no
way to rank one above the other. They belong to two different genres. Each one
was best in its genre."

      Ben praised Chaim for seeing beyond surface appearances and getting to
deeper meanings. Benzion and Sarah looked benignly at Ben, approving his praise
of their son. I could see an emotional connection developing between Ben and
Chaim. Red saw it too.

      We spent our first night in the Haiam's guestroom. Hanging over the bed
was a framed sketch of "Apollo and Admetus," one of the studies that Anna
Ravitch made for this complex painting. At the center of the sketch, the models
were unmistakable: it was Red Feather fucking me intercursally, and I was in
agony, as a way of representing that it was Apollo's first time. I told Ben how we
modeled for the painting, and how we prepared for our task by studying
Euripides's Alcestis. "It's the central panel in a triptych," I said, "and most of the
details have mythological meanings." That night when we imitated the painting,
Ben played the part of Admetus.

      Red came to our room at dawn, while I was massaging ointment over the
left side of Ben's body. "If I'm disturbing you, we can talk later," Red said,
amazed at the extent of Ben's wounds. Ben told him to get comfortable on the
bed. I gave him the ointment and showed him how to rub it into Ben's upper leg.
"I feel like Pandarus," Red said. "Chaim sent me here." A long silence followed.
"Jake, this is awkward." Red wanted me to help him out, I could tell.

      "Chaim wants to sleep with Ben," I said.

      "How did you know?"

      "I could see it last night," I said. "I don't remember him being shy in
Oberlin, back in the day when you were called Red Feather. As I remember, he
seduced you within minutes after you met."

      Ben ignored my comment. "I wouldn't want to do anything that might
interfere with your relationship with Chaim," he told Red.

      "Sex is sometimes for love, sometimes for friendship. Chaim knows the
difference. So do I," Red replied. He was speaking to Ben. "You're on your way
to Camp Lejeune to see Aziz, yet here you are, in bed with Jake."

      Ben got up from the bed, unashamed of his nudity, and retrieved a small
purple box from his rucksack. "Tell Chaim he'll have to ask me himself, but first
give him this," Ben said.

      "Is this what I think it is?" Red asked.

      "Just make sure he gets it," Ben replied.

      *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

      Ben wore his Marine service uniform for the Orthodox service that
morning. I borrowed a suit from Red. We both borrowed yarmulkes from
Benzion, who showed us how to fasten them to our hair. The synagogue was three
miles from the Haiam's home. Keeping to Orthodox custom, we walked- as a
party of six. Chaim kept company with Ben, and Red stuck with me. Benzion,
Chaim, and Red each carried a Tanakh, a blue volume with white letters on the
flyleaf. I hadn't been to a religious service for weeks, and this was my first time at
a synagogue, as it was for Ben. Seated with Red, I observed how he listened
intently to the Cantor; how he followed the Hebrew text in his Tanakh during the
Rabbi's readings from the Torah and the Psalms. The service was lyrical- that's
the best word for it. I started to understand why Red had decided to convert to
Judaism. It wasn't just for Chaim's sake. "When I do convert, we'll be Reform
Jews, not Orthodox," he had said, "but we'll still attend the Orthodox synagogue,
as long as we feel welcome there."

      During the service, Chaim took out the purple box that Red had given him,
a gift from Ben. The cover was adorned with a gold-embossed image which I
recognized as the heraldic arms of George Washington: a white shield crossed
with two horizontal red bars, and above them, three blue stars. A spray of green
leaves stood at each side of the shield. I wrote a note and passed it to Ben:

      "Argent, two bars gules, charged three stars azure in chief, supported by
sprays of leaf sinople, dexter and sinister."

      Ben smiled, and passed the note to Chaim, who compared my impromptu
blazon with the heraldic arms embossed on the purple box. During the summer
when Chaim lived with me and Red Feather at my cabin, he had delved into my
collection of books about medieval heraldry. I had used the books for research
when I composed one of my "Mike Peterson" vampire-mysteries. Chaim was
checking the diction and syntax of my blazon, I could tell. He motioned to borrow
my pen. On the note, he crossed out "sinople." Above it wrote the word "proper."
I gestured approval with my index finger and thumb. The things people do in
synagogue, and in church!

      Chaim opened the box, and gasped. He raised the medallion by its purple
ribbon, and gazed at the bust of George Washington, centered in a heart colored
purple. "The precepts of the Lord are just, rejoicing the heart"- the Cantor
recited from Psalms. Whether by chance or design, the verse echoed through the
synagogue, not without ambiguity for Chaim, who recalled that 'rejoice' was a
euphemism for sexual intercourse in fifteenth- and sixteenth-century English.
Chaim glanced at Ben, who nodded back at him. Chaim pressed the medallion to
his heart, and looked at Ben with searching eyes. Ben smiled and squeezed
Chaim's hand.

      After the service, folks wanted to meet the U.S. Marine who was visiting
their synagogue. They assumed he was Jewish, and wondered how he was related
to the Haiams. The image of our First President prompted Chaim's reply: "I
cannot tell a lie. Meet Benedict Arnold, visiting from Calgary, Alberta. He's a
descendent of a more famous Arnold by that name." "Benedict the fourteenth, or
fifteenth, or sixteenth, depending on how many Benedicts you're counting," Ben
said-it was a line he used often on new acquaintances.

      People marveled. The Haiams' reputation in the congregation rose to
sudden stardom. We overheard people speculate: "I didn't know Benedict Arnold
was Jewish!" "No he wasn't; he was a Puritan from New England." "Somewhere
along the way, the family must have married into Judaism." "He's a war-hero, and
he's related to the Haiams!" Chaim could never tell a lie- if he tried, it would be
detected. But he wasn't compelled to correct a misimpression, since no one asked.

      I must admit that my opinion of Orthodox Jews was altered. Like
Christian fundamentalists, the Orthodox condemned homosexuality as a sin
against God and Nature, so I assumed that collectively they would be something
like Westboro Baptist Church in Topeka. Benzion and Sarah were exceptions, I
thought, only because their son was gay. No doubt there are many Christians and
Jews who are homophobes, but we encounter any in the Haiams' synagogue.
Their tolerance was more along lines of 'Don't ask, don't tell', perhaps not quite
to the progressive level of 'Live and let live', but to us they were friendly and
accepting.

      *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *  *

      After lunch, Chaim and Ben started a game of Scrabble at the dining room
table. The coat of Ben's service uniform hung around the back of a chair. They
played 'Gay Scrabble'-I could tell from a debate that they had about the word
'swimmers'. Chaim played 'swimmer' off an 's', thus extending his word to a red
"triple word" square in the corner, and he used all his letters. This earned a 50-
point bonus. In 'Gay Scrabble' a player doubles his points if the word he lays on
the board is arguably related to gay culture. To get his points doubled, the player
is required to use the word in a sentence that illustrates its gay nuance.

      Four of the letters in 'swimmers' are worth only one point each, but 'w'
gets four points, and each 'm' gets three. One of the 'm's was on a double-letter
square, so it counted six. This meant that Chaim's base-score was 19 points. The
triple-word square increased that score to 57. The 50-point bonus brought his
score to 107. If 'swimmers' was accepted as 'gay', his score would be 214-quite
a good result for seven tiles whose combined face-value was 16. Ben disputed
'swimmers'. Chaim offered to use it in a sentence: "I want to send my swimmers
into your ocean on a flood of foamy surf."

      "Oh, those swimmers!"-Ben conceded the points.

      I asked Benzion, Sarah, and Red to accompany me to the Brooklyn
Museum. I had never been there, but the museum is famous for its Egyptian
antiquities. The American collection includes some paintings by Thomas Eakins,
and I wanted to see if the museum had Anna Ravitch's work on display. They also
have important paintings by Renoir and Toulouse-Lautrec. Benzion and Sarah
were orthodox, but they didn't imprison themselves in their home on Saturdays.
They were happy to visit the Brooklyn Museum. It would be a chance for me to
bring them up to date about people and events in the North Country.

      During our absence, Chaim led Ben upstairs to the bedroom to claim his
prize. Ben left his service coat on the chair, but Chaim went back to the dining
room to retrieve it. "Two bulls locking horns," I thought, and wondered how they
would work through the impasse-not without amusement! Had I paid closer
attention, I would have realized that their game of Gay Scrabble was a contest for
dominance in bed. Each one had bet his ass on the outcome. Ben had bottomed
for Aziz, but with me he got used being a top.

      "Keep your uniform on, Ben. I want to fuck a Marine," Chaim said. He
handed Ben the service coat. Ben put it on.

      Ben helped Chaim out of his clothes and explored his body with fondling
and kisses. They stood beside the bed. Chaim unfastened the khaki web belt and
lowered Ben's green service trousers and shorts to his knees. Ben's cock jutted
between the front flaps of his shirt in full salute. "Wow! You look incredibly hot
this way," Chaim exclaimed.

      "Thanks."

      Chaim knelt in front of Ben and sucked his cock while he groped the
cheeks of his ass beneath the gabardine materiality of his coat. He motioned for
Ben to turn 'about face'. Ben's shorts and trousers hobbled him at the knees, but
he managed a full turn. Chaim raised the back of Ben's service coat, lifted his
shirt-tail, stroked the Marine's ass, and ran his fingers up and down the hairy
cleft.

      "It's almost three years since I've been fucked," Ben said when he felt
Chaim's fingers on the ridge of his portal.

      "It'll be a pleasure to break you back into it," Chaim said. "I like it that
you're a man's man. There's nothing more erotic than fucking masculine ass."

      "I guess you won my ass fair and square," Ben said.

      "That makes it even more erotic, the fact that you're forced to give it up,"
Chaim said. "We should play Scrabble more often."

      "Swimmers," Ben said. "I could get into swimmers."

      "Swimmers will get into you," Chaim quipped. He helped Ben into bed.

      "This might be easier if I took off my service coat," Ben said.

      "Nothing this beautiful comes easy," Chaim replied. He lubed Ben's portal
with his index and middle fingers. Ben winced. Chaim sidled Ben and hot-dogged
his cleft in a continuous rocking motion. Eventually his cockhead shagged Ben's
portal like a hook snagged in the mouth of a fish. Ben winced and wriggled like a
walleye at the edge of a fishing-boat. His movements were restricted by shorts
and trousers wrapped around his upper legs. Chaim shafted and probed. His hands
gripped the khaki that gathered around Ben's legs. Ben yelped and struggled.
Then he relaxed. His body absorbed the alien intrusion. The lining of his love-
tunnel wrapped itself tightly around Chaim's cock whenever it struck a full blow
and came to a momentary point of rest. Chaim wrapped his right leg around Ben's
trousered legs while he fucked.

      Ben glanced over his shoulder. His eyes met the resolute eyes of a
determined top. Ben's eyes, shocked at first, dissolved into helpless acceptance.
He shuddered in the grip of total surrender. Chaim saw the look and felt the
shudder. He knew what it meant. Ben had 'fallen into submission'-body, mind,
soul, spirit, heart. Chaim had 'conquered Ben's ass'- meaning that Ben's
surrender was complete. Some guys speak of 'conquering ass' as if it was just a
hyperbolic idiom for fucking a man who was reluctant to get fucked. A top
doesn't really 'conquer' ass unless the connection with his partner is spiritual as
well as physical.

      Chaim alternated between hard humping and gentle massages delivered to
Ben's love-canal. During those anal massages, he frigged Ben's throbbing cock.
Ben resisted at first, but gave in when Chaim persisted. Ben gasped and spooged.
"Who says you can't get milk from a Marine?" Chaim quipped.

      Urged on by spoogy fragrance, Chaim turned Ben on his abdomen,
pressed his torso into the pool of his own man-juice, and fucked intercursally. He
fucked hard and fast until he pumped semen into Ben's love-tunnel.

      "That was hot, Chaim," Ben said as they lay side by side. "I've never been
fucked quite like this before. Is it okay if I take my clothes off now?"

      "That would be nice," Chaim replied. Dazed in mutual satisfaction, they
lay naked in each other's arms. "Are you okay, Ben?" he asked softly.

      "Yeah, I feel great," Ben said. "Silky-creamy. All your little swimmers are
racing into my bloodstream."

      "I've got to admit, I'm a breeder," Chaim said. "I love shafting seed up a
guy's ass. And you thought I was just a nice Jewish boy from Brooklyn!"

      "I'm a chrematist-as long as we're getting into true confessions," Ben
said.

      "A chrematist, what's that?" Chaim asked.

      "Chrematistophilia," Ben replied. "Normally I don't like getting fucked,
except when I'm forced into it. Then it's really hot. Three years ago in
Afghanistan, I got blackmailed into letting one of the Kabul Cops fuck me over.
They guy wasn't blackmailing me; he was blackmailing Aziz. I let him fuck me
so he would leave Aziz alone. I never told Aziz that I liked it. But I did."

      "Chrematistophilia, chrematistophiliac," Chaim recited the words.

      "Yeah, chrematistophiliac, but that word is a mouthful. 'Chrematist' is
easier," Ben said. "If you have sex with a guy who is blackmailing you, or
holding a gun to your head, that's 'hard chrematistophilia'. If you lose your ass in
a pool game, or strip poker, or Gay Scrabble, or bet or a contest of some sort,
that's 'soft chrematistophilia'. If you like losing your ass in this way, you're a
chrematist."

      "You're an amazing guy, Ben," Chaim said. "And you're an amazing
lover. But nothing's more amazing than your après-sexe pillow-talk!"