by Chris Kenry
“So what did you do?” I asked, rubbing my own crotch, an action he observed peripherally. He swallowed hard and continued, haltingly.
“Uh, well, I uh, I sort of turned over on my back and looked at him. He’d pulled the blanket all the way down by then so I could see everything, and he had this giant dick, or at least it looked that way then, and he was stroking it and looking over at me and then back at it. Well, I didn’t know what to do so I just watched for a minute and then I pulled off my underwear and started doing the same to mine and we sort of did it together and kept looking at each other. Then he reached out and grabbed mine and ... I ... uh ... I, ohhh!”
He stopped in the telling then because I had stood, lowered my shorts to the floor, and taken over the role of Tommy Morrison, bass drummer. We moved to my bedroom, where there was also a double bed, and for the next forty-five minutes he shed his business suit and was sixteen again.
A hundred and fifty dollars.
2:45 P.M. Seth @ home. Bike shorts, PC 250.
Translation: Seth, the boy-genius computer wizard, arrived next. At twenty-two, he was one of my youngest clients and one of the wealthiest (by age seventeen he was pulling in fifty thousand dollars a year and his finances had only improved since then). Seth proved enormously helpful in getting our computer system up and running when I expanded the business, and I don’t know what I would have done without him and Sharise from the microbusiness class, who helped us create our Web site. Unfortunately, their systems, which made running the business so much easier, also proved the most incriminating when the trouble started.
It might seem surprising that someone as young as Seth would be paying for sex, but then Seth was not what you’d call an ideal twenty-two-year-old. He stood no taller than five-foot-five, which would have been fine had he not weighed close to three hundred pounds. His hair was clean, but never combed, and he was completely indifferent when it came to clothing, consistently appearing at my doorway in the same white button-down shirt tucked tightly into tan pants, with no belt. The pants were too short and revealed an expanse of baggy white socks that ended in a loud pair of running shoes. Although he didn’t care about his own dress, he was nevertheless highly particular about mine, and always called ahead of time to tell me what I should be wearing when he arrived—usually a tight pair of black spandex bike shorts.
Life is difficult for Seth because he is a person both lauded and rejected by society. Lauded because of his genius and his value to employers, but rejected because of his ugliness and lack of social skills. Oddly enough, that was our connection: we were the same in our oppositeness. I had beauty and social skills, but no knowledge or expertise that anyone could profit from. The sex with Seth usually took no more than fifteen or twenty minutes, after which we would lie in bed together talking while he ran his fingers slowly up and down my back. During these times of postcoital sobriety, we would each take turns telling tales and recounting experiences from our respective ends of the social spectrum.
I had many clients like Seth, those who didn’t fit into conventional society, the overweight, the ugly, the aged, or as I called them, the untouchables. As much as they were rejected by the conventional straight world, this rejection was tenfold from the beauty-, youth-, and money-obsessed “gay society,” which can be, ironically enough, as tyrannical in its exclusion and discrimination as any caste system, class system, or country club.
Until Paul’s death, all of my friends had either money or good looks (usually both) in abundance, and I almost never strayed from this genteel circle. Then Paul died, and my status changed rapidly. Since I still possessed my beauty I was tolerated, but my lack of money could not be ignored. I was invited to a few dinner parties, but since I had no way of reciprocating (having no dining room, for a start) I was soon dropped from everyone’s mental list of dynamic invitees. Nor could I participate in the sport of shopping, always so popular with moneyed fags, and indeed it was even feared by some that soon I might actually be seen on the other side of one of the retail registers, which was another reason for them to avoid me. Nor could I tag along on the leisurely trips to Aruba, or Amsterdam, or even Aspen, and so was no longer asked—was actively avoided so that the awkward prospect would not even be presented to me. I actually felt myself fading from everyone’s memory. I was stashed away like an old photo in their mental album, pulled out and dusted off only when I came up in conversation or they chanced to see me on the street.
I became one of the untouchables, and as such took my place on the other side of the fence, which was maybe not all that bad, for it was in my exile with the Seths of this world that I learned the value of my looks and grace, but also I learned the silly uselessness of ostentation and the ugliness of snobbery. All of which made me a different person when, later, my fame became my passport back over to the other side. My time as an untouchable added a texture to my life that was not there before. It’s hard to explain what I mean, but I think the pictures Ray took on our disastrous trip to the nursing home best illustrate what I’m trying to say. In them, my flesh looks taut and smooth and simple. More often than not it falls into the background and goes unnoticed—I am little more than a backdrop. The fascinating subject matter, what really jumps out and captures your attention, are the wrinkled, thickly veined hands, the age-spotted arms, the deeply lined forehead, which are all like an atlas of wisdom and experience.
4:00 P.M. Tom, new, football, @ home. All Fucked Up.
Translation: The next client was new. A new client and a new experience. Memorable, but hardly pleasant. He had called in response to my football-player ad, which I had run despite the fact that it seemed so boring in comparison to the others. I didn’t know his age or status or what he was into, so I put on the shorts I’d worn in the photo, figuring they’d be a safe bet. When he arrived, I saw that he was very goodlooking—tall and solidly built, with thick black hair. He was dressed casually in jeans and a houndstooth-check shirt, and he smelled, not unpleasantly, of cologne and cigarette smoke. He removed his dark sunglasses and assessed me from the doorway. His eyes were green and had a sort of spooky intensity—that pop-eyed look of surprise seen most notably in Barbara Bush and Boston terriers. He crossed the threshold and looked me over, grabbing my shoulder and turning me around, examining all sides of the merchandise.
Obviously he’s done this before, I thought.
“You’ll do fine!” he said, and smacked my ass. He walked past me into the room, dropping his sunglasses and keys (which hung on a ridiculously large Porsche key ring) ostentatiously on the end table.
“You got anything to drink?” he asked.
“Sure, what would you like?”
“Scotch?”
I nodded.
“Is it shit?”
Oh, Christ, I thought, feeling tired. I’ll bet this is a size issue; let me make up for what I’m lacking downstairs by being a haughty little snot.
“It’s Dewar’s,” I said, trying my damnedest to sound polite.
“Okay, it’s shit,” he said, and took a seat on the sofa, spreading both arms over the back. I went into the kitchen and removed one of the many airline bottles (courtesy of Andre) from the door of the refrigerator, and some ice from the freezer. I poured his drink, and then seriously considered spitting in it. Instead I took a deep breath and reminded myself that this was the last client until nine o’clock, and the sooner I got it over with the sooner I could take a break. I went back in and handed him the drink, saying nothing. His feet were up on the coffee table, exposing a pricey pair of Italian boots I had long coveted. He held the glass in one hand and started stroking his crotch with the other, swallowing the drink in three quick gulps. He set the empty glass on the end table and pointed to his crotch with his index finger.
“Suck it,” he said, looking up at me and then down at his crotch.
What a jerk! I thought. I don’t have a problem being submissive—in fact, sometimes I prefer it—but this guy had obviously seen far too many prison movi
es. I got down, spread his legs apart, and unbuckled his belt. His cock was not small. In fact, it was a size to match his ego, and as it got hard it became impossible to fit in my mouth. I pulled back and started using my hand on it.
“Take it!” he yelled, and pushed my head back down forcefully. I did the best I could but ended up sort of licking it around the head. He reached over me, grabbed the fabric of my shorts in both hands, and ripped them at the seam, exposing my ass.
“Yeah! This big dick’s gonna feel good up that tight, white ass! You fuckin’ slut.”
His hand came down hard on my lower back. I rose and glared at him.
“Don’t,” I said, and then slowly resumed my task.
Smack! He did it again, harder this time. I jumped back this time, overturning the coffee table as I did so, but just as quickly he was up too, grabbing my hair in one of his hands and pulling me back down toward his crotch. I tried to push him away with my arms but he was surprisingly strong and managed to grab both my hands by the fingers with one of his hands and hold them in a vise grip, twisting them and laughing demonically.
“You’re gonna take this cock!” he boomed. “Get it lubed up and I’m gonna fuck the shit out of you!”
I was scared and angry now.
“Let go!” I cried, struggling as he tightened the grip on my hair and pushed my head down. I struggled to pull back but it was useless and only made him pull harder on my hair. In desperation and anger, I pushed forward and rammed my head as hard as I could into his crotch. He yanked me back violently and threw me backward, over the coffee table. I landed hard, on my back, my head bouncing against the floorboards.
“Fuckin’ bitch!” he yelled, eyes flashing. “You like it rough, huh?” And before I knew it, he had me by the hair again, pulled me up, and then threw me facedown onto the couch, my arms locked behind me, my face buried in the cushion. I tried to kick but he was sitting on my legs. I heard him rip off the remainder of my shorts and then felt the searing pain as he forced a dry finger up into my asshole. I panicked. I couldn’t move and I couldn’t breathe. I tried to scream, but I couldn’t get any air in my lungs. I convulsed my body violently, but all of his body weight was on me and I barely moved. I managed to free one of my arms, and for a moment he let go of the other one in order to try to grab them both again, but I flailed them around wildly and then pulled them down in front of me so they were up against my chest. Then, with all the strength I could summon, I pushed my torso up off the couch and twisted around, just like the discus thrower, and landed one solid punch on his ear. He grabbed my hair again, which enraged me this time as it was arching my back severely, and with another surge of adrenaline I twisted around, hearing my spine crack and my hair rip away from my head as I did so. I punched the side of his head, harder this time, again and again, as fast as I could. Then, on the third or fourth strike, I opened my fist and I grabbed the skin of his neck in my hand, digging my fingers in and pushing my thumb as hard as I could into the concave area just below his Adam’s apple. He immediately released my hair and jumped up, clutching his throat and coughing. I scrambled to get off the couch, but before I could I felt his hand smack into my face. The impact pushed me far enough away that I was out of his reach. I stood up quickly, grabbed a floor lamp, ripping the cord from the wall, and held it threateningly, like a baseball bat. My heart was racing and I could feel and hear my pulse as it throbbed in my head. He looked at me with those psychotic, bulging eyes and then started to laugh between his coughs, shaking the strands of my hair loose from his fingers.
“Get out!” I said, my voice shaky and low, but my body rigid and ready to strike. He looked at me, almost offended, but then smiled and said, “We were just getting started.”
He then took his wallet from his back pocket and flipped through a thick pile of cash, pulling out a hundred and dropping it on the floor. He watched it fall and then looked up at me expectantly.
“Get the fuck out before I call the police!” I said, shaking the lamp. He looked back down at the money.
“There’s lots more where that came from,” he said, fanning three more bills out of his wallet, his eyebrow raised.
I could not quite believe this, and as usual in incredible situations, my wit abandoned me.
“Just get the fuck out!” I yelled. Neither of us made a move. Then he clicked his tongue, shook his head disappointedly, picked up the hundred from the floor, and put it back in his wallet.
“You coulda made a lot of money,” he said, shaking his head, his tone that of a stockbroker admonishing me for failing to heed his advice on an investment that had proven profitable. Again I could not quite believe it. He walked over to the end table, calmly retrieved his sunglasses and his keys, and walked out the front door.
“Fuckin’ stupid prick!” he yelled, slamming it after him.
Still clutching the lamp, I walked over to the door, turned the dead bolt, and latched the chain. I’d been in fights before, but never any that had taken me so completely by surprise. I dropped the lamp and fell into one of the chairs, feeling an uneasy relief, like I’d just survived the climax of a Hitchcock movie. When I was breathing normally again I picked up the phone and called Ray. There was no answer. I tried his cell phone, but still no answer. I was starting to shake, which I found strange because I knew I was safe; the danger had obviously passed. I got up, checked that the door was locked again, and went to the kitchen, where I quickly took another one of the airline bottles from the fridge, twisted it open, and took a sip. It burned going down, and I coughed. I lifted it again and emptied it. The liquor steadied me a little, but my whole body had begun trembling and my wrists and scalp and asshole burned just like the liquor. I could feel my face swelling where he’d hit me. I went into the bedroom and dressed quickly, pulling on a pair of jeans, a sweatshirt, and a ball cap. I put on a pair of shoes and tried to tie the laces but my hands were shaking too hard, so I abandoned them and stepped into some sandals. I went to the front door and peered through the peephole into the hallway, seeing no one. Slowly I unlocked the dead bolt and unlatched the chain. I pushed open the door a crack and peered down the hallway. Empty. I pulled the ball cap low over my forehead and walked quickly out the back door of the building to my car and drove straight to Ray’s house. When I arrived, his car wasn’t in the driveway, so I parked there, went into the house, and locked the door behind me. I took off my shoes, ran straight upstairs, and crawled under the heavy white comforter, shivering.
When Ray finally did arrive I was asleep and it was almost dark. He sat next to me on the edge of the bed, causing me to wake with a start, whipping back the sheets and jumping up in a disoriented panic. He quickly turned on the light next to the bed and regarded me curiously. It was then that he saw my cheek, which in the time I had been sleeping had become swollen and bruised. His expression changed, and he crawled across the bed tentatively, catlike, and approached me.
“What happened?” he asked, and moving his hand up, he touched the bruise. I pulled away and tried to orient myself. His eyes were wide with concern and darted back and forth from the bruise to my eyes questioningly. I rubbed my head, feeling the sore spot where my scalp had been pulled, and the bump where my head had bounced on the floor, and it all came back to me. We sat next to each other on the edge of the bed and I recounted, in a confused, drowsy voice, what had happened. He listened attentively, his arm reassuringly around my shoulder, but as I spoke I could feel his body tense.
“I’m calling the cops,” he said suddenly, and picked up the phone by the bed.
“And what will you tell them?” I asked, knowing the impossibility of making such a call. The same knowledge soon came to him.
“Shit,” he said, and slammed down the phone. “Shit, shit, shit! You’re sure you don’t know who he was?”
I shook my head.
“Well, we gotta find out.” He was all compressed energy, and I watched him uneasily as he swaggered around the room like a boxer, punching his palm with his
fist in frustration. When he reached the end of the room he stopped and rocked up and down on the balls of his feet. Then, without warning, he drew back his fist and landed a punch squarely on the wall in front of him, sending paint chips and plaster falling to the floor. I watched this from the edge of the bed, too startled to move at first. He stood, similarly dazed, but then dropped to the floor clutching his bleeding fist. I rose and went over to where he was sitting by the fireplace and examined his hand. He had split the skin over his stained knuckles and was bleeding. I got up and went quickly to the kitchen, where I grabbed two dish towels from the bar over the sink and moistened one with some water from the tap. It’s good that I had some nursing to do because I don’t know how I’d have reacted to his outburst otherwise. I went back and he was still sitting on the floor, rocking back and forth, staring into the empty fireplace, the blood pooling beneath him. I knelt down, took his hand gently in mine, and noticed that he was trembling. I dabbed at the knuckles with the wet towel and then wound the dry towel tightly around his hand to stop the bleeding. He looked up at me, his eyes full of embarrassment and tenderness, and he took my head in his hands.
“I’m sorry,” he said, and his body shook violently as he tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sob. “I was so scared,” he cried. “You’re okay, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re okay.” His expression was almost pleading, as if he’d been the one who hit me. I took him in my arms and held his shaking body as tightly as I could.
“I’m all right,” I said. “It’s okay. Everything’s okay now.” But I did not believe it. I knew then that Ray felt strongly for me, was in love with me, and even as I held him tightly, reassuringly, I felt myself pulling away, more frightened than I’d been at any time that day.
19
LABOR RELATIONS
At the beginning of each microbusiness class Tina went around the room, and for fifteen minutes we the students were given time to relate how our businesses were doing. Fifteen minutes to celebrate and share our triumphs and successes or, as was more often the case, fifteen minutes to whine and moan about our failures and problems. On this particular morning, I was the last to arrive, having come straight from a bed at the Westin Hotel, still dressed in my smoky evening clothes from the night before, and all eyes followed me as I quickly took my seat, all bleary eyed and bedheaded, quietly eating my usual breakfast (a chocolate doughnut with rainbow sprinkles and a large 7-Eleven coffee), vaguely conscious of the fact that I looked more like Richard Gere in American Gigolo than the Richard Simmons I was supposed to be.