Our friend Glenn sends this cri de coeur:

Not exactly a cri de coeur, but you get the gist.

Anything the GREEN EYES have to add to this? We have a billionaire, Neill Palmer, sure, and he dies a suspicious darkroom death in Part II. But we have nothing really funny. Well, okay, here, from Part I, John meeting Palmer at Godehart's party/orgy (the thing about the web site is true, actually, and the guy's name really was Neill, but he wasn't wealthy). Here goes:

The network next to me consists of two elderly men, and two youngish rent boys. Love is in the air. The men are much older than me. I recognize one of them from the distant past, when I was still a young regular at the Blue Moon. He was running a place off the Coastal Highway, on Route 24, a large Thai place with an upper, more secluded, floor above the main restaurant, awful food, and willful oriental boys, who were waiting on tables in the meantime. Patrons came from all over the place, even from Atlanta, to taste one or more of his waiters. Yes, now I remember his name, Neill Palmer. He kept a website back in those days that was quite revolutionary, poorly aligned text in colorful, meandering hues and pictures of his staff, ranked according to their state of sexual arousal, the apex being the climax, boys caught with their cum coming in flagrante. I remember that he had never managed to externalize the moment of the squirt (white ropes flying from the penis), his cum-shots were always a bit off, the cum caught already dispersed into milky drops in the empty, or not so empty, space in front of his oriental masturbators.

Last time I came across Neill’s site, the boy pictures were gone, the oriental nakedness had vanished, nothing but text remaining, loose talk about the “gay condition” and some such. Then his site had disappeared altogether. To my knowledge, the guy had been a pure rice queen, he would not touch a Caucasian dick. What’s this guy doing in fucking distance of two white prostitutes?

While I am thinking this, Neill has time to raise his eyebrows in an apparent attempt to signal the discordant asymmetry that my joining them has created in the numbers of his network. But I am still on a high with my bubbly stomach, and say “Remember me, Neill?” and, without waiting for an answer, add, “What happened to your home page, it has disappeared from the net.”

Now, let me interrupt myself here. The last time I used Southeast Airlines on a commute to Atlanta, we had a rough time in the air, and I sat next to this middle-aged man who was explaining to a person in the row behind us how he had been invited to this party, and the girls, semi-hookers apparently, were getting hotter and hotter as they were talked up by him and his able friends. Then one of the men, some stupid guy named Herbert, started a monologue about his encounter with the tax man. Nothing could stop him, and the girls would remain polite, and listen, (“uhuh, uhuh”), and Herbert would go on-and-on, and the girls would go on-and-on (listening), until all sexual overtones and undertones had left the room and the orgy died prematurely in gawks and annoyance.

Flashback reset: I am Herbert, the internet has replaced the tax man, and the rent boys have replaced the semi-hookers. Except that analogies always break down somewhere, with the Bavarian escorts showing more that polite interest in my questions, and welcoming me to their charmed circle with all their body language. Which I interpret as their attempt to replace the prospect of an unattractive closet partner with the prospect of a less unattractive closet partner in the orgy’s near future (this assuming you had to use a closet, I guess you could also take them for a ride upstairs). So they tell me their names, Jason and something. Jason, on closer inspection, has dense, black straight hair, olive-shaped dark eyes, darker skin, and the Wagnerian penis line indicates very little. He was an Asian mutt, after all.

As you can imagine, my presence is not appreciated by Neill, in particular because statistics would suggest that Jason is the only Asian escort at the party, the only fuckable ass from Neill’s point of view. But what could he do? This is a party thrown by a fifth-generation member of the Wagner family, a dynasty of Siegfrieds, Wielands, Friedelinds, Gottfrieds, Winnifrieds, (I looked this up on the internet) and now Godehart. We are in heavily polite society, so Neill has to stay polite and play along. I ask more questions and get more answers—he had come into some money, a whole family fortune, no longer needed the restaurant, had gotten tired of blogging, and of playing the madam (he knows I know), and retired to some country estate nearby. The hookers, contracted to accommodate any reasonable sexual wish by any conceivable invitee, they are trying to unwiggle. This is so funny, my spirits rise, and I am almost about to make a move, which could have ended with me and Jason retiring together immediately, when Maurice reappears, his face ashen, his movements slowed down, as if he has spent much too much time in the bathroom. Which he has.

Are you still there (haha)? Then you'll like the GREEN EYES:

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