Playing Along

by Louisa Keller

  Before Mister Knight in Shining Armor could catch on to what was going on, I had tossed my claim ticket down—he followed suit—and then I was marching the two of us off toward the elevators.

  Holy shit.

  “What just happened?” he hissed as soon as we were in the elevator. His eyes were wide behind his thick-rimmed glasses, and I noted that they were a lovely whiskey-brown.

  “I don’t want to ruin the surprise,” I said, smirking.

  He rolled his eyes at me.

  “What does that even mean?” he demanded.

  “Just hang on for a hot second and you’ll find out,” I said, loving the fact that I was completely in control of the situation.

  The entire hotel matched the ballroom’s modern décor. When we stepped into the hallway on the penthouse floor, we were greeted with polished marble floors and minimalist accents. The pictures on the walls were all black and white, depicting Paris through the lens of a contemporary photographer. I was fucking in love with them, admiring the sleek, dark frames outlining the photos, imagining how good they would look in my tiny Chicago one-bedroom apartment.

  I’m nothing if not a sucker for high-brow art. I might not come from a wealthy background, but fuck if I don’t love the finer things in life. Give me all the caviar and champagne you’ve got.

  Speaking of caviar and champagne…

  “Here we are,” I said as we reached a pair of double doors.

  “This is the room they gave you?” he asked, incredulous.

  “This is the room they gave us,” I said, tapping the kay card against the little sensor box and throwing open the doors with a flourish.

  “You have got to be kidding me,” he gasped, and when I looked over at him I found that the guy was just standing there gaping.

  I couldn’t exactly blame him. The place was fucking gorgeous. The doors opened onto a stunning sitting room, complete with a pair of cushy leather armchairs and a gas fireplace. There was a beautiful polished wooden table boasting a bottle of champagne—chilling in a bucket of ice, Jesus fucking Christ—and a pair of delicate champagne flutes. To the left was a door that evidently led to the bathroom, and to the right was another door through which I could see a massive fucking bed. We’re talking a California King, an endless expanse of million thread count sheets and duck down duvet.

  “Holy shit,” I muttered, striding into the suite.

  “What are we doing in here?” the guy asked from behind me.

  I ignored him in favor of checking out the bathroom.

  “Oh fuck, come here man,” I called. “There’s a claw foot tub and a double rainforest shower.”

  “Uh,” he said from the sitting room, “maybe you’d better come here.”

  I grinned, wondering what he had stumbled across. He was standing by the table when I got there, brandishing a simple little envelope that had been perched against the ice bucket.

  “What’ve you got?” I asked, reaching for the envelope. It was made of a heavy, expensive paper. I guess the hotel kept nice stationary for special occasions.

  “It’s addressed to Albert and Jean-Paul Chalamet,” he said, pointing at the names that were written in a classic French calligraphy.

  “Well, what do you know,” I said, tearing the envelope open. I pulled out the card within and began to read aloud, translating it for my companion’s benefit. “Dear Albert and Jean-Paul, congratulations on your recent nuptials. Please enjoy the upgraded room on us.”

  “Nuptials?” he said, eyebrows raised.

  “Looks like we’ve been mistaken for the happy couple,” I said airily. “What an unfortunate mix-up.”

  He shot me an unamused look.

  “I assume you’re not Albert or Jean-Paul then,” he said.

  “I mean, I could be,” I hedged. “Which suits me more, do you think?”

  “Jean-Paul, for sure,” he said, looking me up and down. It sent a shiver rocketing down my spine.

  “I suppose that makes you Albert, then,” I said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well,” I began, “I don’t know about you, but this is a first for me. And I intend to take full advantage of the upgrade until the hotel realizes its mistake.”

  He let out a little laugh, and all at once I was desperate to have him pressed against me once more.

  “In that case, I guess we should crack open the champagne,” he laughed. “My real name is Dom, by the way.”

  “Right you are, Dom,” I replied. “I’m Smith.”

  He paused, his hand wrapped around the bottle.

  “You don’t think this is…a little unethical? To drink someone else’s champagne?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “It’s the hotel’s mistake, not ours.”

  And, okay. I know that I take things a little far sometimes. Who the hell pretends to be someone else just because they were mixed up?

  But here’s the thing: I didn’t give a shit. The last ten minutes of my life had been fucking nuts, and I was amped up by the energy of Paris reverberating all around me. If the city wanted to offer me a honeymoon suite on a silver goddamn platter, then I was going to take it, no questions asked.

  Dom, apparently, didn’t feel quite the same way.

  “Isn’t it…I mean, we’re kind of taking advantage of the situation, right?” he asked. But he was peeling the foil off the cork, unscrewing the little cage, and expertly popping the champagne while he spoke.

  “I mean, it’s kind of like stealing if you squint,” I admitted. “But really…is stealing the worst thing in this situation? Couldn’t one argue that it’s just as unethical to pass up such an extraordinary opportunity? Jesus, dude, they offered to send someone up for a couple’s massage if we want. We can’t squander this.”

  “A couple’s massage?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You know, when you both get massaged at the same time and it’s all romantic and shit.”

  “But…we’re not a couple,” Dom pointed out. He was filling the flutes, and he handed one to me as I mulled that over.

  “We’re not,” I admitted, taking a long sip. Then I winked lasciviously and added, “Yet.”

  That got his attention. His eyes snapped to mine and it was like a bolt of lightning zipped through both of us. God, that bald desire in his expression…it was enough to give me an instant hard-on.

  “What makes you think I have any interest in being with you, Smith?” Dom asked.

  I ignored him, opting instead to down the entirety of my flute. I tipped my head back so that he could watch my throat work as I swallowed.

  It did the trick. When I looked back at him, his pupils were blown wide with arousal.

  “The look on your face, perhaps?” I teased.

  He flushed a lovely pink right across his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose.

  Let me tell you something about making YourTube videos. Okay?

  It’s fucking nuts.

  You think you’re just going to throw some content up on the internet because you put the time in already…doesn’t hurt to share it, right?

  Wrong.

  It’ll turn your whole goddamn world upside down if you’re not careful.

  So, here’s the situation: I’m twenty-four, just finished a Master’s program in Queer Studies, and I decide to upload the interviews I did for my thesis onto YourTube. I got permission from all the interviewees, yada yada, everything was smooth sailing. I was trying desperately to get an offer from Weidler University because all I wanted to do was teach undergrads (by which I mean that I had a fancy degree and no other way to pay off my loans). I was scraping together enough money to hit up Long John’s—the shitty gay club in Weidler, Illinois—every weekend by waiting fucking tables. It was the only way I was going to get laid regularly in a town that size, so I did what I had to do.

  But then Weidler University went with another candidate, and my parents basically told me to fuck off when I asked for a loan, and my stupid cat died. So, I was sitting in my grungy living r
oom drinking New Amsterdam I had pilfered from work straight from the bottle, and probably crying a little bit although I would never admit to that.

  Then: lo and behold! I get a notification from YourTube and my thesis interviews were gaining very steady traction. Suddenly, I had subscribers.

  I had fans.

  People wanted to know more about Sexual Empowerment across the Lifespan of Gay Men, and goddammit, I wanted to tell them all about it. I made a couple of solo videos, and those did relatively well. Then I scoured the internet for anything and everything about making money off of YourTube videos. Turns out there’s a lot to it, but I didn’t exactly have anything better to do.

  I worked my ass off, and after what felt like a literal eternity I was able to quit my job at the restaurant.

  Not only that, but people wanted to meet up with me. Fans, other content creators…they were interested in me.

  Let me tell you, I never thought droning on about sexual empowerment would get me laid. But oh boy was I wrong. Turns out more than a few guys were down to listen to me gab on about the percentage of older gay men who feel confident approaching potential partners while they went down on me.

  It’s surprisingly hard to keep those stats straight while someone’s sucking your cock, even after two years of memorization.

  So, all of a sudden, my energy was going into maintaining and advertising my channel. I worked all day and rewarded myself at night by going to Long John’s. I probably slept with every single gay guy in the general vicinity within the first month, so I started itching for a change of scenery.

  I was so goddamn tired of Weidler.

  What was the logical thing to do? Move to Chicago, of course. Suddenly my dating pool had increased by about a thousand percent.

  Let’s just say that I became incredibly well-acquainted with the condom boutique beneath my apartment. I was making enough money that I could go out whenever I wanted. Plus, people actually use dating apps in big cities. I could hop on whatever app I was into at the moment and have a date set up within minutes.

  It literally got to the point where I was too tired for sex some nights. Never in my life had I been satiated before, and the sensation was a complete surprise.

  A huge part of my YourTube channel began to revolve around how to sleep around safely—both physically and emotionally. People wanted to know how I took care of myself while having so much casual sex.

  Did I get tested regularly? (Yes.)

  Did I find my trysts unfulfilling? (Not at all.)

  Did I make my intentions completely clear before sleeping with someone? (Always.)

  Did people ever leave when they realized I wasn’t looking for a relationship? (Sometimes.)

  Did that upset me? (Nope.)

  The questions just kept pouring in, and over time it became clear that this was where my talent lay. So many people grew up believing that casual sex was somehow wrong or shameful, and they needed someone to tell them otherwise.

  And let me tell you, I was absolutely the man for that job.

  So, my videos shifted to focus on how to be slutty and healthy at the same time. I started working with other local queer YourTube celebrities—many of whom were down to hook up after making a video. And then, three years after I launched my YourTube channel, I heard about a conference in Paris. For the first time in my life I had the money and the time to just jet off to Paris for a week.

  And best of all? A bunch of other random YourTubers with huge subscriber counts had agreed to collaborate with me on videos while I was there. I wasn’t familiar with most of their channels, but I had found little captions about each participating content creator at the conference which included their channel’s stats. The only thing missing were pictures of my future collaborators. Fans had even chimed in, sending me messages asking for specific collaborations.

  I was ready to sleep my way through the city of love. Little did I know that I would get so much more than just laid.

  “Do you want to go out and explore a bit?” Dom asked.

  We were sitting in the plush armchairs having just finished off the bottle of champagne and my mind was loose and bubbly. On any given day my response would’ve been a resounding yes, but that day I was even more eager than normal. I was in the City of Love, sharing a room with an absurdly good-looking man, and now he wanted to head into the streets of Paris together.

  “Hell yes I do,” I said, setting my flute down on the nearest available surface and standing up to stretch.

  “Anywhere in particular you want to go?” he asked, following suit.

  I wracked my brain, trying to think of the best place to go with Dom. Part of me wanted to really lean into the romance of Paris—not that I was looking for a long-term romance or anything, but it seemed a shame to waste the opportunity to make out at the top of the Eiffel Tower or in front of Notre Dame. Then again, there was something appealing about just letting the city guide us wherever it saw fit.

  “How do you feel about just wandering and seeing where we end up?” I asked, nearly bouncing with excitement. There was so much pent-up energy in my body just waiting for an opportunity to explode into action.

  And, okay, maybe this is ridiculous. But I wanted to see how Dom would react to impulsivity. Was he someone who would cower in the face of the unknown? Or would he greet the adventure with open arms?

  I didn’t have to wait long to find out.

  “Wandering sounds amazing, actually,” he said with a smile. “This is my first time in Paris, you know.”

  “Seriously?” I said. “Oh man, this is gonna blow your mind, I swear to fucking god. It’s just such a charming part of the world.”

  “I take it you’ve spent some time here?” he asked, leading the way to the door.

  “Uh, yeah, you could say that,” I said. “My grand-mère lives in Normandy. I’ve spent a lot of time gallivanting around France.”

  “Gallivanting, huh?” said Dom, nudging his shoulder against mine.

  We continued chatting as we made our way down to the lobby and out into the street.

  “I mean, call it what you like,” I elaborated, “I was just given a lot of freedom as a teenager. So obviously I took advantage of that and explored all the cities that were within a reasonable train ride of her house. I’ve spent most summers in France, which kept me sane since the rest of the year I was stuck in Weidler fucking Illinois.”

  “I grew up in New York,” Dom said as he steered me down a narrow cobblestone alleyway.

  “City or state?” I asked.

  “City,” he said. “My mom still lives there actually. She has one of those beautiful brownstones in Brooklyn. It’s one of the rare houses around there that has an actual backyard with this massive treehouse that she and I built when I was a kid.”

  “That’s cool,” I said. And I wasn’t just placating him. I had always felt lukewarm about my parents. They provided for me as a kid, they were reasonably nurturing, decently kind. But they weren’t cool with the gay thing, and on top of that their lives were just so goddamn boring. Their days revolved around playing bridge with their friends and working long hours at their respective law firms. The idea of my mom building a treehouse with me was like something from an alternate universe.

  “Yeah, that was one of the best summers of my life,” Dom said, smiling at the memory. “She had to work a million hours a week at two separate jobs to keep us afloat. We inherited the brownstone when her parents died, but they had sunk all their money into that house. It was sort of strange growing up relatively poor but living in a gorgeous home like that.”

  “So how did she fit in the treehouse project if she was working so much?” I asked. Something about Dom’s story was gripping me in a profound way. Part of it was his cheerful, fond tone of voice—it was clear that he had a ton of affection for his mom and his childhood. But part of it was also the light in his eyes. He was so engaged, alight with excitement and connecting with me on an incredibly genuine level.

&nb
sp; “I went to day care all day while she was at work that summer,” said Dom. “And then when she picked me up in the evening we would rush home and throw something in the crock pot for dinner. Then we would spend a couple of hours on the treehouse. She even showed me how to install floodlights so that we could keep working after dark. I don’t think either of us got much sleep, but those days were so precious, you know?”

  Fuck me. Dom was gorgeous and well-spoken and totally at ease opening up to a complete stranger. Something inside of me was coming to life, a pool of molten desire that was so very different from my usual baseline horniness.

  “That sounds amazing,” I said, clearing my throat. “Is the treehouse still there?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Dom. Then he bit his lip, looking sheepish. “It’s actually still my happy place. Sometimes I literally fly across the country to visit my mom just because I need to spend some time up in that tree decompressing.”

  “I’m sure your mom loves that,” I teased.

  Dom let out a glorious peal of laughter. “I think she’s glad to have me out of her hair. She’s always telling me that I’m underfoot when we’re cooking together or whatever. It’s like I’m too helpful and just get in the way.”

  “I bet you’re the mom friend in your group,” I guessed.

  “Guilty as charged,” said Dom with a smile. “And you’re…a bit of a loner?”

  I considered that. It was true that I didn’t have a ton of close friends in person. Most of my tightest relationships those days were with other YourTubers I had met over the internet. But I was reasonably sociable…enough to feel like I was a fully-fledged adult living my best life or whatever.

  “I have friends,” I said. “But, I mean, you’re right, I do like to spend a lot of time on my own. I moved to Chicago a couple years ago and I’m still putting down roots there.”

  “Are you planning on staying long term?” Dom asked. His face was open and curious, and—was I imagining it?—a bit hopeful.

  I bit my lip, unsure of the answer myself.

  “I’m not, like, one hundred percent committed to staying,” I said. “I can’t really think of anything that would pull me away from Chicago at the moment, but it’s not like I’d pass up a cool opportunity if it required me to move away. Most of my friends live in other parts of the country anyways.”