by Jo Adler
“Because they both have the same—”
“Address,” he cuts in. “And the same initials. The members are older men of substantial wealth. I’d guess they’re from forty to seventy or so.”
“And the guests?”
“Not forty to seventy,” he says with a wicked giggle. “Guests are usually our age, give or take a few years.”
“Okay,” I say. “That’s early twenties to mid-thirties?”
He shrugs. “Sounds about right. I went a couple of times earlier this week, and I certainly wasn’t taking a poll. I was hunting for a new daddy. Those visits were soft opens to make sure all the moving pieces worked properly and the staff was hot to trot. And speaking of muy caliente, I hooked up with a daddy from Madrid that was into pony play and another one that liked his boys to—”
I wince. “Please stop saying that. They’re not your daddy, and you’re not their son.”
He moves closer, grabs my lapels and pulls me in. “Daddy! Daddy! Daddy! Now, get used to it! And get over yourself! You like older men. That’s nothing to be ashamed of, kitten.”
“And that’s another thing that drives me fucking crazy!” I say. “I’m not a kitten, poodle, pumpkin or muffin. And I’m definitely not a girl!”
When I finish, Oliver claps his hands. “Since you seem to be a little squeamish tonight,” he says, pointing at a glossy white shopping bag on the console table near the door, “I’ve got some good news.”
He walks over, reaches into the bag and comes out with two metallic harlequin masks. They’re both covered in purple, green and gold glitter, with long black silk ribbon ties that flutter in the air as Oliver holds them up for inspection.
“Isn’t this a clever little twist for the evening?” He drops the masks back into the bag. “There’s a Mardi Gras theme, and all of the daddies and boys will be wearing something like this. Nobody will have a fucking clue who you are, so you can be as positively naughty as you like.”
“I’m not into costumes and all of that,” I say firmly. “I mean, it’s cool if—”
“Get off your fucking throne, Nicholas!” he blurts. “This isn’t about right and wrong. It’s not an ethics lesson or a test to see who can get into the kinkiest shit. It’s about going to a party. Can you handle that?”
“A party in a kink club for daddies,” I say. “Not exactly my usual destination for a Friday night.”
Oliver smiles. “Which is exactly why you should come with me!”
The longer I stare at his gleeful grin, the more I start to suspect that he’s probably right. A night out could be a good diversion. I can send my old roommate a quick text to cancel our run. Then a shower to wash away the grit of the day. And then off into the city with Oliver for an evening escapade. What’s the harm? How long has it been since I went out? Besides, if it turns into tedium, I can always leave the club early if I’m not having a good time.
“Okay, why not?” I say. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I do need to shake things up a little.”
“There you go, kitten,” he says. “You’re making a very wise choice.”
Oliver pulls one of the harlequin disguises from the shopping bag.
“Think of it this way,” he says, peering at me briefly through the mask before putting it down again. “We’re talking about a group of hot, rich men having drinks in a swanky townhouse on the Upper East Side of Manhattan.” He pauses and smiles. “Who can resist something so chic? Maybe we’ll both meet the man of our dreams tonight.”
“That’ll be perfect,” I say. “As long as we’re dreaming about two different men.”
2
▬ ☼ ▬
ADAM
When the cab pulls up in front of the elegant townhouse near Central Park, I hand the driver forty bucks, slide out of the backseat and gaze up at the façade. The building resembles many of the other stately residences on the Upper East Side of Manhattan: classic Beaux-Arts style, entrance portico with columns, three-story oriel window and a refined limestone exterior.
As I stand on the sidewalk, I remember the first time that I took in the same view a few months earlier. My friend had recently inherited the property from his uncle, and the last thing he imagined was living in such an ostentatious place. But when he came up with the idea of using it as a private club for daddies and boys, he asked if I would help with the project. “It’s a perfect fit!” he’d declared while trying to convince me to take the job. “You’re an architect and interior designer with a stellar reputation. You love classic buildings almost as much as you love fucking younger guys. And you truly do enjoy helping others fulfill their dreams. Even better, if we pull this off, you and I will both have a new spot to meet young bucks who are hot to trot.” I was content meeting people online or at my favorite bars in the Village on the rare occasion that I wanted to hookup, but Devon had whined long enough that I realized it was easier to do the work than argue with my friend.
Devon envisioned Dirty Secrets Social Club as a venue where a select group of prominent daddies could meet younger men. Although the bedroom suites on the upper levels and the dungeon spaces in the basement could be reserved by members that wanted to have sex on the premises, I was most interested in what happened on the first floor: a great room that was used as a cocktail lounge and two smaller spaces outfitted with dining tables and chairs where members and their guests could enjoy dinner and dessert. For a certain group of wealthy men who desired privacy because of their personal lives, high-profile professions or social status, Devon’s exclusive club was the ideal setting to explore fantasies, expand their sexual repertoire or engage in any number of kinks and fetishes.
As the plan came together, Devon decided that the first membership roster would be limited to several dozen men that he and I already knew. We were both forty-two, so we’d been part of the New York City scene long enough to have developed a network of trusted friends with comparable preferences. The younger men were also selected on a discretionary basis by Devon’s brother, a thirty-year-old personal trainer named Elliot who came out a few years earlier when he followed his sibling to New York.
I was reflecting on how quickly the plan came together as I stood on the sidewalk, admiring the limestone exterior and catching fleeting glimpses of members and guests as they arrived. The longer I stood outside Dirty Secrets, the more I realized that I should’ve stayed home. Mingling with a bunch of daddies and their prospective boys was the last thing that I wanted to do at the end of a long and tiring work week.
Also, although most people thought that I breezed through life without a care in the world, the end of my last relationship left me bruised and apprehensive. I’d been thinking that it might be time to abandon the idea of finding another man to share my life. Only a couple of close friends and my business partner knew the depth of my shock and sadness following Brent’s cruel betrayal and cold farewell. After nearly ten years together, I came home from a business trip to Toronto and found a note taped to the bathroom mirror: Can’t do this anymore. Need someone less damaged. Take care of yourself. Love, B.
My reaction to the cowardly move had been to withdraw from everything that wasn’t absolutely necessary. I worked from home most days, avoided invitations to social gatherings and limited my contact with anyone I didn’t already know. When Devon approached me for help with his new private club, I’d initially suggested other architects and designers. Despite my best efforts, he eventually wore me down and I agreed to take the project.
In the end, working on the renovations for Dirty Secrets Social Club was the best thing that I could’ve done. It was unlike any other commission in my career. Never before had anyone asked for such an eclectic combination of fixtures and finishes: kitchen counters made from Statuario marble, a half dozen leather slings, 19th-Century Biedermeier mahogany and satinwood cabinets stocked with gags, blindfolds and muzzles, vintage kilim rugs from Azerbaijan, fluid-proof bed linens, padded spanking benches and vintage crystal chandeliers that I found in a beloved P
arisian shop.
As I gaze at the townhouse and think about finding the chandeliers with Brent during our final trip to Paris, I hear a car door slam and a high-pitched voice call my name.
“Yoo-hoo, Adam!”
When I turn around, Devon is walking toward me with his right hand extended and a gleaming smile on his face.
“Are you going into this den of inequity, Mr. Coleman?” he teases. “What will people say?”
“They’ll tell me that I’m a fool for ever listening to you in the first place,” I answer.
He issues a piercing giggle. “You’re probably right. But what the hell do they know? While they’re bored shitless at some fancy Sutton Place dinner party, you’ll be sliding your cock into a delicious young boy that’s looking for the firm control of a real daddy!”
I smile, but resist the bait to talk about sex. Instead, I ask Devon why he isn’t already inside his grand opening celebration.
He holds up the shopping bag hanging from his left wrist. “Because I had to go back home and retrieve this treasure.” He reaches into the bag and comes out with a glittering gold masquerade mask. “I paid a thousand bucks for this beauty. There’s no way that I was going to the party without it.”
I squint at the gaudy object. “A mask?”
The smile on his face vanishes. “I knew that you’d forget! That’s why I called you earlier. And I bet that you didn’t see my text either.”
“About what?”
“The theme for tonight,” he says in his syrupy voice. “It’s Mardi Gras Madness. Everyone must wear a mask to get in the door.”
“Are you serious?”
He nods eagerly. “Dead fucking serious.” He holds the flashy gold mask over his eyes. “Wearing these will amplify the intrigue and suspense.”
“As well as the camp quota,” I grumble, wishing that I’d stayed home to watch a movie and order Chinese.
“C’mon, grumpy old man,” he says. “The concierge will have extras for anyone who forgot or didn’t get the message.”
“What about the people that agree with me?” I ask, following Devon toward the townhouse. “There must be at least one other guy that thinks the whole mask gimmick is kind of silly and juvenile.”
Devon grins. “Sweetheart,” he says, “the only juveniles you need to worry about tonight are the hunky boys who will be here hunting for a daddy.”
I cringe at the remark, not because it isn’t true but because I’m not as blatantly vulgar as my friend. It’s always been a matter of balance. I’m gay, but don’t let it define me. And I definitely prefer younger men. I hate the labels and cheeky, mincing theatrics that many of my friends use to describe their passions and pursuits. I definitely respect their choices, but following the crowd never works for me.
“You’ll thank me in the morning,” Devon adds. “After that sweet young thing finishes worshiping your cock for the umpteenth time.”
I clench my teeth. Devon and I have been friends since college, which is nothing short of a miracle considering the differences in our personalities. He’s loud and flamboyant. I’m more easygoing and independent. I like to keep things casual and loose. Devon is all about formality and following Emily Post’s rules of etiquette. He also loves to be the center of attention everywhere he goes. I’m more of an observer, unless I’m alone with a younger man. Then I definitely want to call the shots.
As if he’s reading my mind, Devon scoffs at my T-shirt and jeans. “I can see that you decided to really dress up for the evening,” he says coldly. “If the contest was for most casual attire, honey, you’d be going home with the grand prize.”
I smile. “What’s wrong with what I’m wearing?”
“Nothing at all,” Devon replies, “if you’re trying to attract an auto mechanic or coffee shop barista. Those tattoos absolutely scream middle-aged man having a mid-life crisis.”
I glance down at the sleeves that I’ve been working on for the past few years. “I thought you liked my ink.”
He smiles. “I do. But a night like this really calls for decorum and something a little less grubby.”
“Fuck that,” I say. “Tonight isn’t about me. It’s your big party. I’m like all of your other friends that will be here. We’re all immensely proud of you for actually following through with the idea to open Dirty Secrets. And what I wear to your grand opening is utterly irrelevant. People are going to be talking to you, not me. Everyone wants to support you and show some love for the new venture.”
“But you’re part of it,” he says. “You did the interiors and branding. Without you, it would be nothing more than a glitzy landmark property on the Upper East Side.”
I smile. “And that’s nothing to sniff at, babycakes.”
Devon turns and gazes up at the stylish townhouse. “Do you think that old Decker Shaw would approve?”
“Hard to say,” I reply. “He’s been dead for more than a century. I don’t imagine anyone back then could’ve pictured such a chic meeting place for poofters and sodomites.”
“Well, we sure the fuck can!” Devon cheers. “Ready to go inside?”
I nod. “As ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, knowing the lack of enthusiasm in my voice will not go undetected.
“What’s going on with you, Adam?” He leans closer and narrows his gaze. “It’s been six months since you learned the truth about that duplicitous tramp. Six months that you’ve wasted by moping around the house, turning down every invitation and acting like life was no longer worth living. If you’re finally willing to rejoin the human race, tonight can be the first step along a new path.”
I manage a smile and give Devon a slap on the ass. “Speaking of nightmares,” I say. “Let’s go inside so I can get this over with and go back home.”
I’m nearly to the front door when I feel Devon slip something into my back pocket.
“What was that?” I ask, spinning around.
“That, dear one, is the keycard for the master suite on the top floor. It’s yours for the night if you happen to meet a sweet young thing in need of some TLC from a hot daddy.”
My half-hearted smile brightens. “I appreciate the thought, but that’s not going to happen. I’m not looking for a boy. I’m looking for a glass of Macallan, a few minutes of conversation and then a quiet evening alone at home.”
“Can I give you some advice?” asks Devon.
“I’m good,” I tell him. “But I appreciate the offer.”
He mumbles something under his breath. Then he says, “Feelings of loss and regret and anger are totally normal after someone near and dear breaks your heart. But if those sentiments turn into despair and depression, you really need to speak with a therapist or someone else that you trust.”
I glare at him. “Thank you, Miss Winfrey. Now if you’re done with the self-help bullshit, can we please go inside and get a drink?”
3
▬ ☼ ▬
NICK
As we approach the front door of the townhouse, I take a quick peek at the brass plaque beside the entrance. There are two lines of ornate script:
DSSC
Decker Shaw Social Club
For some reason, I figured that Oliver was pulling an elaborate prank earlier when he told me the place was currently called Dirty Secrets as a cheeky homage to a long-dead millionaire’s private hangout. He’d done something similar plenty of times in the past, so I half expected him to pirouette away from the glossy black doors right before ringing the bell. “Gotcha, fucker!” he’d scream, throwing both hands overhead. “Joke’s on you!”
But there’s no prank; the plaque confirms the building was previously home to a social club owned by Decker Shaw.
After surrendering our glossy black invitations to the beefy security guards that answer the door, we’re greeted in the foyer by a pair of handsome guys in black satin Zorro masks. They’re each holding silver trays: one filled with flutes of champagne, the other piled high with Mardi Gras masks for anyone who arrived unpre
pared.
Oliver is completely silent until we walk into the expansive living room and he hears my request to the bartender.
“Shots of Patrón?” he scoffs. “Since when do you drink tequila?”
“Only when my teeth chatter from nerves,” I say.
He groans harshly. “Get a grip, babe. This is a night for fun, not high anxiety.”
“But what if none of the—”
“Zip it,” he blurts. “Your self-esteem took a beating courtesy of Taylor’s infidelity, but you can do this. Just take a deep breath, say a little prayer and relax.”
“I’m relaxed,” I say under my breath as we wait for the hunky blonde guy behind the bar to fix our drinks.
Oliver jabs his elbow into my ribs. “Wrong,” he whispers. “You’re scowling again. Try to fucking smile for a change.”
“This mask is uncomfortable,” I confess. “It reminds me of being a kid on Halloween.”
He issues a muted laugh tinged with evil delight. “I know, isn’t it totally perfect? Tricks and treats. What could be better for a Friday night?”
“Hmmm…maybe something that doesn’t involve an itchy piece of plastic over my eyes,” I say, glancing at two handsome men as they walk into the living room from the foyer. They both look forty or so, and they’re dressed in matching Wall Street armor: dark blue suits, crisp white shirts, striped ties and gleaming black wingtips. One of them smiles, but I quickly look away. I’m attracted to men who are less conventional and more creative; fellow artists, filmmakers, chefs and entrepreneurs.
“Here you are, gentleman,” the bartender announces when he returns. “Two shots of Patrón Platinum, one glass of chardonnay.”
“Thanks,” I say, glancing at his name tag. “We appreciate that, Paul.”
“My pleasure,” the blond replies. “Enjoy your evening, gentlemen.”