Color Him Gay: The Further Adventures of the Man from C. A. M. P. (10 page)

The headquarters of B.U.T.C.H. was done for. But unless some miracle happened, so was he. The water was like ice, already numbing his limbs. He struck out in the direction of the shore, every muscle straining. His arms lifted and fell, his feet kicking powerfully. He was a championship swimmer and held records in numerous events, but this was a challenge beyond anything he had ever faced before.

* * * *

His first thought, when the light fell across him, was that someone from the yacht was in pursuit. That, he realized, was impossible. He stopped, treading water as the powerboat roared toward him.

“My dear, what a time for a swim,” a voice called out and Jackie recognized the gray-haired agent from C.A.M.P.

A minute later he was being helped aboard the boat and a blanket was wrapped around his shivering body. “How on Earth did you get here so fast?” he asked, clutching the blanket close.

“Your English friend called and sent us to Fisherman's Wharf,” the agent explained. “Love, I've been combing this Bay with a tortoise shell comb ever since. I was about to head back for a good-morning cap when I got the S.O.S. of yours and here I am. The coast guard, by the by, is not far behind.”

“Good, I've got some work for them,” Jackie said. “That bonfire you see in the distance is what's left of B.U.T.C.H.”

“Heavens,” the agent exclaimed, peering at he burning yacht in the distance. “And me without a marshmallow.”

* * * *

It was several hours later before everything had been cleaned up. The Coast Guard, alerted to the presence of the Japanese freighter, had made a successful haul there. As for B.U.T.C.H., one or two survivors had been rescued from the icy water and placed under arrest, although no trace had been found of Tiger Bey.

Finally, a weary Jackie was dropped off at his hotel. He ignored the stares produced by his bare feet and lack of shirt. It was not, after all, the most peculiar outfit he had worn on this case.

It was not until he opened the door of his room and saw the sleeping figure in his bed, back turned toward him, that he remembered Dingo. The singer was sound asleep, unaware of him.

Jackie suddenly felt less exhausted. Dingo, he saw, was accustomed to sleeping in the raw. He had kicked the covers aside and the view turned toward Jackie was an enticing one, the broad hips curved provocatively, the ripe buttocks sending a silent invitation.

With a smile, Jackie removed his trousers, leaving them in a heap on the floor. He lowered himself to the bed, sliding across its surface to press his own body against Dingo's warmth.

Dingo started. “Jackie?” he asked drowsily.

“Umm-hmm.” Jackie said. His arm went around Dingo and down, seeking the remembered treasure.

“What are you doing?” Dingo asked. The muscles of his backside tensed as he felt the urgent firmness pressed against them.

“Collecting my reward,” Jackie informed him. “For returning the diary.”

“Oh,” was all Dingo said. And then, a minute later, “Ouch. That hurts, blast it.”

“Relax,” Jackie whispered. His hand, in front, was busily helping Dingo to ignore the pain and Dingo was responding quickly.

Jackie was gentle and careful, advancing slowly, giving Dingo time to accustom himself to the innovation.

“How am I doing?” he asked, nibbling Dingo's ear.

Dingo snorted and wriggled his hips, sending a thrill of excitement through Jackie's body. “It might be fun,” he said, “if you weren't being so bloody careful.”

Jackie didn't need any further encouragement. He stopped being careful. For a brief second his thoughts strayed to his apartment in Los Angeles and particularly to his trophy, the huge carved phallus with its notches to signify his conquests. He reminded himself that he could carve a new notch on it when he got back.

His thoughts, however, did not remain long on that subject. Joyfully, they returned to the present—to the body in his arms and the pleasure of the moment.

Victor J. Banis
is the critically acclaimed author (“…a master storyteller”—
Publishers Weekly
) of more than 200 published novels and numerous shorter works in a career spanning nearly a half century. A longtime Californian, he lives and writes now in West Virginia's beautiful Blue Ridge region.

The Astral: Till the Day I Die

Avalon

Charms, Spells, and Curses for the Millions

Color Him Gay: Being the Further Adventures of That Man from C.A.M.P.

Darkwater

The Devil's Dance

Drag Thing; or, The Strange Tale of Jackle and Hyde

The Earth and All It Holds

The Gay Dogs: Being the Further Adventures of That Man from C.A.M.P.

The Gay Haunt

The Glass House

The Glass Painting

Goodbye, My Lover

The Greek Boy

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The Lion's Gate

Moon Garden

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The Second Tijuana Bible Reader
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This Splendid Earth

The Tijuana Bible Reader
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The Why Not