James by Rudolf Nureyev Without Make UP Australia
Rudolf Nureyev about James by Yuri Matthew Ryuntyu, Australia / Þðè Ì Ðþíòþ / http://proza.ru/diary/yuri2008/2008-04-18 / 2006
JAMES
I often see this hooligan in the evenings.
He always thumbs a ride into town, so this time I give him a lift.
He’s no more than seventeen, but first impressions from his youthfulness could be deceptive.
The street is his old profession; he now believes that he’s the best fruit that’s ripe and ready for picking.
The youngster is very gifted in sex.
His talents can’t be beaten.
I know that he’s the best male-prostitute in the Cleveland surroundings, in my Ohio’s rancho .
His virtuosity is impressive at how quickly he attracts any client around the toilets, cleaning from them ten bucks a pop.
He doesn’t waste anymore than a couple of minutes for sex. It’s an infinite puzzle at how it’s achieved. Only a handful is aware of his second talent. He’s a little thief. He often steals his client’s pushbikes, while they are washing their hands or zipping up their fly.
That’s James and his secretive passion. He’s a bandit and prostitute under the same hat.
So what, if he’s freckly and a little plain looking.
It holds no obstacles for him.
Only his broken front teeth somehow hint about his criminal background.
It looks a mess, but doesn’t hinder his adventures.
“What can I do with my teeth? A toothless mouth is handy for a head-job... Tonight I’ll go on the safari after eleven,” he says flaunting as if reading my thoughts.
“But why not at 10.30 or 11.45?” I ask puzzled. I know that nothing can embarrass him.
“Because everyone in the surrounding area gets drunk no earlier than 10.30. After that they haven’t enough cash for a taxi so they search for someone to sleep with in the bushes,” he pronounces distinctly with a judge's voice, then hopped out of the car.
Of course he’s right that James. He doesn’t waffle about nothing. He knows what to say with an unemotional tone of voice and always remembers what to do. He’s memorized everyone’s faces, poses, clothes and fantasies of those who are on the square.
I blow him a sad kiss from the car’s window. He waves to me in response. I watch the uneasy darkness of the lad as his shadow rushes around a few nearby shrubs, and then it vanishes into thin air.
“What now? Is it time to go home?” I turn on the ignition and drive off to my villa.
Time lingers so slowly. I wash the dishes by hand refusing to use the dishwashing machine. It always calms me down. I glance at a boring program on the box.
Suddenly there’s a knock on the window, but not from the front.
“Why are you so early?” The feelings of pain start to freeze my spine. It’s clear that something’s wrong. He never turns up before midnight and there’s no pushbike near. Has there been once that I hadn’t returned the stolen bikes to the police?
“You see he’s a kleptomaniac. Thank God that his fetish is only towards bikes? I laugh behind my mustache and slowly move through seven rooms of the ground floor to open the door.
How many times have I rung the police and asked them to pick up the find from under my window. Nobody could think to put him behind bars. The court didn’t want to run him among hopeless drug addicts and sexual maniacs in the cell. Maybe after he gets married he’ll think differently and give up his kleptomania.
“So we have about ten years to spare,” I think out loud. “Will you get married, or won’t you, James?”
Why is he in a daze? I look intensively through my glasses at the wide open door.
“It’s not cold! What’s with you?” I’m afraid to know the truth. “No, there’s something up,” my lips whisper quickly and answer instantly.
I let him in. I can’t believe my eyes and a chill of fear stifled me. He gazes from side to side in a panic; hid tiger-eyes are half closed. James is completely covered in red. Is it blood? There’s so much of it that it doesn’t have time to congeal and sloshes in his boots. His body sits numbly on the marble floor. I see how he rocks from side to side as his legs tremble.
Finally he chokingly whispers for me to talk to somebody. I realize that there’s a cab waiting outside. Should I go? A confusing panic seized my logical thoughts. I’m weak willed and paralyzed from the flooding blood.
I sit next to him, knowing that I was unable to leave him, even for a second.
“I don’t know who to talk to?” I forced out.
“Go... and ask... the taxi... to wait... I want to go immediately to the hospital,” he shakes from the edge of a blackout from such pain.
It seem that someone silently stands and replaces me, to stagger about then leaves the entrance. The taxi driver with displeasure looks straight at me.
“Don’t drip any blood. Please stop it in my car,” I see the reflection of a demon with flaming ruby pupils. He doesn’t budge from the stop. He keeps talking to me through the side mirror. I guess he and only injured my boy.
“What can I do?” I ask intuitively and suddenly sneeze aloud, to spray spit into his face.
“Let him change his socks. All the blood has drained into them,” he answers as he wipes his forehead and beard.
I froze when I finally understood the meaning of Eric Clapton’s song. It reminds me of his personal story about the accidental death of his four year old boy, who fell from a skyscraper. I start to weep when I ponder over such sad thoughts. I suddenly realize that the taxi driver knows everything about James.
“What happened? Where?” my whining voice demands.
“I picked up this lad on the corner of the park. Do you know what he does there?” with a lewd grin he winked at me.
Tears again burst from me. He was shocked. His face was suddenly covered with wrinkles and he began to quickly smoothe his remaining gray hair. Wide gnarly fingers shook noticeably. Is he nervous? Does it mean anything now? Will it save James? I returned back into the house.
“Yes, you can stop it and shut up. I understand everything,” I said, looking back as I was halfway to the door. James came hobbling through the entrance, his legs thumped like elephants. His stringy drawn out face is similar to the face on my African statuette from black wood, that’s standing on my mantelpiece.
“I’m like a giraffe with a split arse,” he whispers.
“Have you been raped?” I look sullenly at him.
“No. I was kicked or boxed, when I put my tight hook into that sucking hole,” his malicious inhuman echo squealed.
“They could have simply... cut them off,” I smiled cheekily.
“They could have chain - sawed me, stabbed me with a rusty needle, ripped them out with pliers or gnawed them off with their teeth,” he added, mimicking my voice.
“Oh, James, James!” I cried bending down to hug his knees.
“It’s nothing, it’ll all pass, OK,” James kissed my cheek. “Bye, I’m leaving,” he waved farewell, frightened to lift his gaze to me... he moves sideways from the house towards the garden path.
“Can I go with you?” I don’t look at him eye to eye, from fear of bursting into tears again.
“No, certainly not. It hurts me... but there’s no blood anymore. It squirted out like a waterfall, when my ringed penis muscle was torn and collapsed,” he rattled hurriedly then sat next to the taxi driver.
My vision darkens from the sensation of his physical agony. I lay face down on the icy floor of the entrance. Its marble didn’t reflect warmth into my heart.
They drove off. After they left I no longer craved for James. I began to count second after second. I broke after nine hundred. This business drove me mad. They had time to get to the ambulance station... dress it or do surgery if necessary.
“The emergency section,” answered an icy voice to my question.
“My boy is wounded in the groin,” I put myself in his father’s position.
“It’s nothing too serious. The prostate gland is functional. Such injury often happens with rugby players. If the urethra isn’t completely damaged then in a fortnight any signs of pain will disappear... when his bladder is full,” was the diagnostic explanation from the doctor on duty.
“But anyway, tell me what really happened?” I demanded.
“He had a near miss, but he’s in no real threat of impotence. The hit was enough to break the circulating capillaries. There was a lot of blood. It occurred at the maximum expansion of muscles after sexual … arouse … as seen on the X-ray. We don’t except any unforeseen long lasting traumas.
“Is that what James said?” I cut in.
“No, that’s what David said!” she corrected me.
“Oh yes! James- David,” I again lied, meaning his second name at home.
“... We’ve bandaged everything and injected antibiotics into his penis muscles. A catheter cleaned out the blood clots from the urethra. Microsurgery isn’t required. The scrotum is intact.”
A migraine suddenly seized me, which forced me to stop listening to her on the phone. Blood flooded into my eyes. Nauseating stomach pains made me vomit. I saw everything through James' eyes. There was no need for any terrifying explanations.
My hair bristled up in fear of losing James.
I experienced the strength of the strike upon my own penis head as it was over inflated by sexual stimulation's. It’s all mixed like … milk … cocktail from hell. Blood splashed and frothed, like… Aloe Vera jam in the mixture with … spermatic jam, that’s white as …snow.
The mechanical smash flattened the flesh, like a hammer when it strikes the head of a nail. Such new pain already wasn’t physical. It was the insanity of expecting inescapable physical mutiny. Then came another. I was half engulfed by hatred for the deformation and invasion of human and male dignity. The name of it could be... the horror from inevitable castration or impotence... as... one of the penalties.
I suffer everything as he does. I was powerless like a beach before a mighty squally tidal wave. Here wasn’t and never can be any mercy. One ran after another... doomed to... be executed. Blind anguish and stupid deafness suddenly froze my toes. I became quiet, agreeing with my verdict.
Sexual temptation stumbled over the vindication of the guillotine.
I can accept a knife in the back as a trinket, compared with the terror of losing the pleasure of an orgasm, which I’m fanatically addicted to.
“Oh, James, poor James! It’s revenge, who’s that extra cynical sadist?” I started to crawl from the floor.
I reached out to the Bible that was on the lounge chair. The shivering ceased and my hands tamed down. I was immediately covered with tranquility. I noticed that I could wiggle my toes. They somehow have thaw at once. Where did such warmth come from?
“Could it be that this cozy velvety book used its special power?” Was heard in the quietness of the rooms.
“You’re safe at home,” echoed in my head. I’ve no idea how long I was sitting on the floor, moping about us, about you and everything...
“I’m frightfully hungry...”
“Well if you want to eat, that means you’re alive.”
“Yes, only this time half alive,” answered in an unrecognizable voice.
“I rang the doctor, so don’t say anything James. I know everything about it... David is … the footballer. Tell me one thing, for God’s sake; tell me what happened in the toilet? How...”
“I lied to you,” he said with cunning arrogance.
“How did it happen? I don’t believe you James.”
“Yes, it’s true. Nobody smashed me in that cubicle. Simply I played footy and somebody kicked me accidentally in the field. I missed an eleven meter ball... what a bummer.”
“Oh, James, James. You’re probably right. It’s the end of the matter if what you said by the taxi is true.”
“Why, what’s the difference, Rudy?”
“Don’t you know? There’s a huge difference. You see that hole in the toilet wall is for hundreds of clients a day. It’s smeared with fungus, venereal diseases. They are all spread around it like icing on a chocolate cake. Known and still undiscovered viruses breed in such place. OK. God help you.
You’re an intelligent lad. Can you promise me one thing?” I’m embarrassed and ashamed that I accepted his game of acting a fraud
“NO, it was only bleeding on the football field,” he screams another lie at me.
“One more thing my dear friend. Wrap up your run from around that magic hole in the wall between the male cubicles. Find yourself a good clean regular gay. Not just to fall madly in love, but to do everything together that pops into your head... OK?”
“To do all that comes to mind? I’m sure that you’ll never agree with my desires. Aren’t you in love with me anymore, Rudy?”
“Of course I’ll agree for our sake. Aren’t I agreeing with you right now? You know that if something happens to you and you never come back then I have no reason to exist, James! I’ll always miss you in my Turby.”
“I know,” he nodded and switched on the midnight cartoons for pensioners and bewildered teenagers.
“Have you decided what you want? Tell me anyway, what flavor ice-cream would you prefer in the morning?” I ask glancing through the window where the sun’s rays come to life.
“Chocolate with almonds covered with crushed nuts, a little mango jam and a slice of kiwi and pineapple all topped with whipped cream. Hurry and wake up the maid and get her to bring it to us in bed.”
2009: ÑÅÐÈß ÈÇ 10 ÊÍÈÃ Þðè Ìýòòüþ Ðþíòþ
Publication Announcement-2009 Australia RU
Charitable Organization “The World Patrick White Intellectual Heritage: Australia” starting publication of the 10-Books of Australian Writer Yuri Ryuntyu in this year of his the 60-th jubilee: 1949-2009 in English, Russian and French:
Book 1
2009 ROCK IDOL & SUPERSTAR: Freddie Mercury and Rudolf Nureyev
ISBN 978-0-9806446-0-9 ART DOCUMENTARY: 1938-1993
Book 2
2009 RUDY NUREYEV: WITHOUT MAKE-UP
ISBN 978-0-9806446-1-6 SHORT STORY
Book 3
2009 ROUDI NOUREEV: Sans Maquillage
ISBN 978-0-9806446-2-3 SHORT STORY
Book 4
ISBN 978-0-9806446-3-0 BALLET DOCUMENTARY: 1910-1997
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÂÅËÈÊÈÅ ÍÅÌÛÅ: ÍÓÐÅÅÂ ÓËÀÍÎÂÀ ÄÓÄÈÍÑÊÀß ÝÑÀÌÁÀÅÂ ÏËÈÑÅÖÊÀß ÀÞÕÀÍÎÂ
Book 5
2009 ÑÓÏÅÐÇÂÅÇÄÀ & ÐÎÊ-ÈÄÎË : ÍÓÐÅÅÂ È ÌÅÐÊÞÐÈ
ISBN 978-0-9806446-4-7 ART DOCUMENTARY: 1938-1993
Book 6
ISBN 978-0-9806446-5-4 THEATRE DOCUMENTARY: 1917-1997
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÐÅÊÂÈÅÌ ÄËß ÔÀÐÈÑÅß: ÞÐÈÉ ËÞÁÈÌÎÂ
Book 7
ISBN 978-0-9806446-6-1 SCIENCE FICTION
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÏÀÐÀËËÅËÜÍÛÅ ÌÈÐÛ: ÀÍÄÐÅÉ ÒÀÐÊÎÂÑÊÈÉ
Book 8
ISBN 978-0-9806446-7-8 SHORT STORY
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÑÊÀÇÊÈ ÑÒÀÐÎÃÎ ×ÅËÎÂÅÊÀ
Book 9
ISBN 978-0-9806446-8-5 THEATRE DOCUMENTARY: 1936-1996
2009 ÎÄÍÎÒÎÌÍÈÊ ÐÅÖÅÏÒ ÄËß ÃÅÍÈß: ÐÎÌÀÍ ÂÈÊÒÞÊ
Book 10
2009 ÐÓÄÈ ÍÓÐÅÅÂ: ÁÅÇ ÌÀÊÈßÆÀ
ISBN 978-0-9806446-9-2 SHORT STORY
ÑÅÐÈß ÈÇ 35 ÊÍÈÃ Þðè Ìýòòüþ Ðþíòþ: Youri Mathieu Runtu: Yuri Matthew RYUNTYU - ÏÐÎÔÈÍÀÍÑÈÐÎÂÀÍA ÑÓÏÅÐÇÂÅÇÄÀÌÈ ÌÈÐÎÂÎÉ ÈÍÒÅËËÅÊÒÓÀËÜÍÎÉ ÝËÈÒÛ È ÌÓËÜÒÈÌÈËËÈÎÍÅÐÀÌÈ ÍÓÐÅÅÂÛÌ http://rudolfnureyev.com.au/ È ÔÐÝÄÄÈ ÌÅÐÊÜÞÐÈ http://mercuryfreddie.com.au/, ÓÎÐÕÎËÎÌ http://warholandy.com.au/ È ÓÀÉÒÎÌ http://patrickwhite.com.au/ ÄËß ÁÅÇÂÎÇÌÅÇÄÍÎÃÎ ÐÀÑÏÐÎÑÒÐÀÍÅÍÈß Â 200 ÑÒÐÀÍÀÕ ÑÎÄÐÓÆÅÑÒÂÀ ÎÎÍ c 1998-2008.
Ïèñàòåëü Þðè Ìýòüþ Ðþíòþ:
ÐÓÑÑÊÎE ÇÀÐÓÁÅÆÜE: ÀÂÑÒÐÀËÈß
Àâñòðàëèàía Ëèòåðàòóðà Póññêîãî 3àðóáåæüÿ
Yuri Matthew Ryuntyu was born in KIZHI, ONEGA LAKE, Russia. Following his studies at the Academy of Science, Yuri Matthew RYUNTYU moved to Sydney (Australia) and worked, most notably, as a medico-biology scientist. A prizewinning scholar and academician, he has published a 45 books of literary and cultural criticism, including <The Recipe for the Genius>, <The Requiem for the Foresee>, <The Grate Surrenders>, <Abreast and Profile of The Imperial Russian Ballet> and <The Apostolic Silver Age of Russian Culture>. He has also written for such publication as the World of News, the Book Review, the Theatre Life, the Pravda, the Moscow Evening, the Moscow Pravda, the Megapolis Express and the Evening Club about Poetry, Literature, Movies, Religion, History, Music, Opera, Ballet, Politics and Australian Arts, where he is a contributing editor. His literary works and articles are available in English, French, Russian, German, Japanese and Kazakh for readers. Ryuntyu was able to dedicate himself entirely to literature following the success of <Rudolf Nureyev: without Make-up> in Russia, a gloomy satire on sexuality published in 1995. Ryuntyu’s ironic and often disillusioned perception of the state of affairs in Russia during and after the Communist occupation produced a body of work that is still at the forefront of twentieth-century Russian and Australian literature. A most famous: <The Temptation: Boris Yeltsin>, <On the Way of the Cross: Alexander Solzhenitsyn>, <Idol Russian Gay Culture: Sergey Paradzhanov> and <The Meditation: Bella Akhmadulina and Joseph Brodsky> http://ryuntyu.com/8o/ Yuri Ryuntyu live in Cairns, Great Barrier Reef, Australia + Ðþíòþ o Êóëüòóðe Ðîññèÿí â ÑØÀ The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library and Museum USA http://www.reaganlibrary.com/
+ http://ryuntyu.com/BIBLIOGRAPHY.htm + http://ryuntyu.com/DIPLOMA.htm
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