The King

by Tiffany Reisz

  “Poor Steve. He can stay with me.”

  “Sir?”

  “The New Paradise program?” Kingsley prompted. “Right. Yes,” she said, clearly relieved to get off that train

  of thought. “In the New Paradise program she’ll undergo

  intensive therapy to help her understand a woman’s place in

  the world.”

  “Which is?”

  “Underneath men.”

  “Women belong underneath men?”

  “Of course. Women are submissive to men. That’s the biblical model of the family.”

  “I’m a man,” Kingsley said. “And you’re a woman. So you

  should be under me?”

  “In a biblical way,” she said, stammering again. “That’s my favorite way.” Kingsley stepped closer, close

  enough he could feel her body trembling with nervousness.

  But this time she didn’t take a step back. “I’m worried this

  therapy won’t be enough for my friend. She loves to seduce

  straight girls.”

  Chastity’s blush deepened.

  “She is in deep sin, then.”

  “So very deep,” Kingsley agreed. “She has short hair and

  dresses like a man.”

  “That’s awful. A woman’s femininity is a gift from God.

  Women shouldn’t even wear pants as they disguise her womanliness.”

  Kingsley glanced down at the shapeless dress she wore.

  Sam in her suits looked more womanly than this girl in her

  house dress.

  “I agree. I try to get her to take off her pants, but I haven’t

  made any progress yet.”

  “Shameful. She should take her pants off for you. I mean,

  she should wear dresses. All women should wear dresses or

  skirts. That’s what I mean.”

  “Skirts do make it easier for me.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Tell me more about the camps. I might be able to trick

  her into going to a camp.”

  “Well,” the young woman began. “There are a few of them,

  and they run for twenty-eight days. There are three sessions

  every summer. We have camps in Texas, Colorado, Ohio and

  Pennsylvania.”

  “None closer than that?”

  “There was one upstate,” she said, lowering her voice as if

  imparting a secret. “But it closed down ten years ago.” “Upstate New York would have been perfect. Why did it

  close?”

  The young woman raised her empty hands. “I heard…” Kingsley leaned in close, very close, as close as this poor

  plain virgin girl had probably ever been to a man. “What did you hear?” he asked, putting his mouth at her

  ear and letting his breath tickle her neck.

  “I heard a camper died there,” she whispered. “Suicide. It

  wasn’t Reverend Fuller’s fault at all. The investigation cleared

  him and the church of any wrongdoing. You see, suicide is

  nobody’s fault but the person who commits it. But still, they

  shut the camp down.”

  “That’s too bad.”

  “But there’s still Pennsylvania. Do you think your friend

  would like to go to camp in western Pennsylvania?” “I think she would like it as much as I would like it.” Kingsley would rather have his testicles soldered to his eyeballs than

  go to a sexual reorienting camp in western Pennsylvania. “Oh, good.” Chastity smiled broadly. “Then wait here. I’ll

  get you some brochures.”

  She walked off, and Kingsley pondered the possibility of

  seducing her. Fucking a girl named Chastity—how poetic. It

  would probably be good for her, give her a taste for what the

  world had to offer outside the walls of her church. Then again,

  why set her up for a lifetime of unreasonable expectations? Chastity returned with a sheaf of brochures and a hardcover book.

  “I brought this for you,” Chastity said. “Miraculous Womanhood by Lucy Fuller. Wonderful book. Changed my life.

  Maybe it’ll help your friend.”

  “You can keep it,” Kingsley said. “I’ve already read this

  one.”

  Out on the street he found another taxi, and once inside he f lipped through the brochures the girl had given him. One detailed the work of the ministry. Reverend Fuller’s church focused on personal sin and accountability. Kingsley took that to mean the church didn’t actually do anything to improve the world. Lots of programs for people to quit adultery, quit drinking, quit smoking even, and programs for girls who were pregnant out of wedlock. He assumed they talked them out of abortions, had them give up their babies for adoption and then promptly forgot the mothers existed. He didn’t see anything about soup kitchens or homeless shelters. Søren would

  likely have something to say about that.

  He should call Søren. He spoke over a dozen languages.

  Maybe one of them was fundamentalist Christian. Back at the town house, he found Sam making phone calls

  with his red book of names open in front of her.

  “We will need vast quantities of alcohol,” Sam said into the

  phone. “The good shit.”

  Kingsley snapped his fingers to get her attention. “Who’s

  coming tonight?”

  She held up one finger.

  “One person is coming?”

  She pointed at him. Of course he was coming tonight.

  Several times.

  “You should come, too,” he mouthed. She held up a sheet

  of names, confirmations for the party. In red she’d circled the

  names of half a dozen women. He raised his eyebrow at her

  in a question.

  “Targets,” she whispered.

  Kingsley laughed, and Sam handed him the list of names.

  It would be a packed house tonight. Good. For the first time

  in a long time he felt like celebrating. On his way out the

  door he heard Sam snapping her fingers. She put a hand over

  the receiver.

  “Your priest called. You’re supposed to call him back,” she

  said before returning to her own phone call. As he walked

  out of the room he heard her on the phone with the caterer. “We’re having an ‘I Don’t Have AIDS’ party tonight, and

  we need food for a hundred people. Caviar? Good call.” In his bedroom he found that Signore Vitale had a suit and

  some shirts delivered. Sam had put them on his bed with a note

  that said, “Wear the suit and even I might consider spreading

  for you. I won’t do it, but I might consider doing it.” She had

  underlined consider three times.

  Even her considering spreading for him was better than

  not considering it. He’d wear whatever Sam liked if it made

  her happy.

  He sat on his bed and picked up the phone.

  “Tell me it’s good news,” Søren said when Kingsley greeted

  him.

  “It’s good news,” he said. “All good.”

  Kingsley could hear the relief in Søren’s breath all the way

  from Connecticut to Manhattan.

  “Gratias tibi, Deus,” Søren breathed in Latin. “I have been

  praying nonstop for two weeks. If you ever scare me like this

  again—”

  “I won’t,” Kingsley said. “I have to get tested again in six

  months. And six months after that.”

  “And?” Søren prompted.

  “And I have to use condoms unless I’m monogamous, which

  I’m not.” Kingsley sighed heavily.

  “Exactly.”

  “Anyway, thank you. For making me get tested. And for

  being there.”
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  “It’s always a pleasure forcing you to do things you don’t

  want to do.”

  “I like it better when you force me to do things I want

  to do.”

  “Kingsley. You know—”

  “I know. Forget it. I need to ask you something. Have you

  heard of these camps where they send gay teenagers to be reoriented?”

  “God loves you the way you are, Kingsley. You are created in His image and are fearfully and wonderfully made.” “It’s cute when you think you’re funny,” Kingsley said.

  “Now, what do you know about them?”

  “Not much except they don’t work. Reorienting therapy

  works as well as trying to turn a left-handed person into a

  right-handed person. You’re fighting nature tooth and nail.

  It’s far more likely to turn a person suicidal than straight.” “It would have made me suicidal.”

  “Do I want to know why you’re asking?”

  “Long story,” he said. “Does your church have posters of

  aborted fetuses hanging up?”

  “There was one in the narthex when I arrived here in

  March. I made them take it down.”

  “How did that go over?”

  “I told the objecting church members they weren’t allowed

  to post any signs that featured dead children as that seemed to

  convey the opposite message intended regarding the sanctity

  of life. And might I ask where all these questions are coming from?”

  “I talked to someone from the WTL church today.” “Please, don’t tell me I inadvertently turned you into a fundamentalist when I baptized you.”

  “That was an attempted murder, not a baptism.” “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “Fuller has an office in the city. I stopped by and talked to

  an assistant. The church runs reorienting camps. I found out today someone committed suicide at one of them, but the

  church was cleared of any responsibility. No charges filed.” “You sound angry. Are you taking this personally?” Kingsley paused before answering.

  “Sam was sent to one of those camps.”

  “I see. And this upsets you.”

  “Sam’s perfect. Yes, it upsets me.”

  “Kingsley, don’t look now, but you have a crush on your

  secretary.”

  “I do not have a crush on my secretary.”

  “Methinks the Frenchman doth protest too much.” “My secretary is gay, remember?”

  “I’m straight, remember?”

  “You told me that once before. I think it was after you’d

  fucked me so hard we broke a spring in the cot.”

  “Are you finished with me? I have to check on Eleanor. We

  have an Ursuline sister here this week, and Eleanor is giving

  her a tour of the church property.”

  “This is a cause for concern?”

  “Eleanor asked the sister if she wore hole-y underwear. And

  if that wasn’t bad enough, she asked the sister if she also had,

  and I quote, ‘a hard-on’ for Captain von Trapp.”

  “I need to meet this girl. And soon.”

  “That is the opposite of what needs to happen. I’m hanging up now.”

  “Don’t go yet. I have one final question to ask you. It is

  très importante.”

  “Fine. What’s the question?”

  “Will you come to my party tonight?”

  21

  THE PARTY WAS TO START AT NINE, AND AT EIGHT fifty-five, Kingsley stood in his bedroom trying to decide if he would fuck three girls tonight or fuck one girl three times. He concluded it would be best to split the difference. He would fuck one girl twice and a second girl once. But the question remained, which girls? Knowing Sam, they might end up in a fight over one.

  He heard a soft knock on his bedroom door.

  “Come in,” he called out, and Sam entered holding a large box. He would have paid more attention to the box except Sam looked so arresting he couldn’t see anything but her.

  “Like it?” she asked. “I’m a sexy not-French penguin.”

  Kingsley walked to Sam and took a turn around her. She wore a well-tailored tuxedo. The vest was cut low and went under her breasts, drawing exquisite attention to them. The jacket was cinched in at her waist, and she wore 1940s-style black-and-white brogues on her feet.

  “You aren’t a penguin,” he said.

  “I was going for penguin.”

  “You have failed. Instead, you are the most beautiful woman in the city.”