Something makes me hesitate. Should I do it, or just leave him alone? Ira’s a grown man, after all. He’d probably prefer being sick in private. But it had been me who’d provided the wine. In some ways, it’s my responsibility as a guesthouse owner to check in on him. I’ll just see if he needs anything. If not, I’ll just let him be.
I open the door.
Ira isn’t retching. He’s fucking Eva.
Her head is hanging off the bed, her hair flowing down almost to the floor, her big breasts bouncing, her eyes closed as she moans in delirious ecstasy. Ira’s pumping hard on top of her. His eyes lift briefly to lock with mine.
I quickly close the door.
“Holy shit,” I whisper to myself. I stand there for several seconds, unable to fathom what I’d just seen. I can’t move or think. Then all at once I hurry to my room, not wanting to hear either of them orgasm.
Needless to say, sleep is not a visitor this night.
The Third Weekend in May, Wild and Wet in Montreal
Henry
My torso is dripping wet and my jeans are drenched. Not from sweat, as you might expect out here on the dance floor, but from three dozen squirt guns, aimed at me by as many hot boys.
Shane did indeed bring an Uzi, a big assault weapon he positions between his legs from which he pumps tremendous volleys of water. “Oh! Oh! Ohhhhhhhh!” he cries, as if orgasming, suddenly shooting a wet cannonball across the dance floor. He douses more than one small guy completely from head to toe.
Water, water everywhere, and not a drop to drink. My mouth, as usual, has gone dry. “You want something to drink?” I shout over to Jeff and Anthony.
They don’t respond—of course—too engrossed in singing to each other the words of Abigail’s “Let the Joy Rise.” Something about looking for one friendly face. I scowl. Screw ’em. Didn’t I know this was how it was going to be?
I stagger over to the bar and order a bottle of water. “Why not just wring out your jeans?” the bartender asks me with a smirk.
I smile. I’m glad I didn’t wear underwear. Wet boxers under wet jeans would have been unbearable. Some of the guys have stripped off their pants and are dancing in briefs and jockstraps. What the hell. The tag line to the party is “Get Naked.”
I look back at the dance floor. Jeff and Anthony still have their pants on, but they’ve both slipped so low you can see the cracks of their asses. Why was it, on Designing Women, the plumber’s ass crack was considered a disgusting joke, but when circuit boys let their cracks show, it’s hot as hell? I laugh to myself. Maybe because the plumber hadn’t looked like these boys, with their rounded pecs and sharply cut triceps and twenty-nine-inch waists. It’s a misperception that circuit boys are bodybuilders: the few really bulky guys stand out, ungainly, from the sea of tiny-waisted, sculpted boys with abdominals for days, those sexy internal oblique lines leading down into their jeans.
“The really big guys have HIV,” Brent assured me once. “You can pick out the positives from the negatives just by looking around the room.”
An ironic flip-flop, I supposed: it used to be you could tell the ones with HIV by their wasted appearances. Now they’re the huge guys, bulked up by steroids, which are sometimes shared with their non-poz brothers.
“So how do you know so much, Brent?” I asked. “Your arms are getting pretty big there yourself.”
I remember how he rolled his eyes.
“Trust me, Henry. There’s not much I don’t know.”
Of course, we were all at the gym just before we got here, giving ourselves that last-minute Party Pump. I know I look good—very good, in fact, given the number of glances I’ve gotten since I arrived. I move my eyes back to Jeff and Anthony. They haven’t been doing much looking in my direction, however. Their legs are locked, their arms entwined over their heads, their hair dripping down into their eyes.
So they’re having a good time. Good for them.
Except the only fucking reason I came to Montreal this weekend was because Jeff had practically begged me to. He’d missed me, or so he said. See, I hadn’t gone to the White Party in Palm Springs, and Jeff pouted for weeks. I just miss hanging out with you on the dance floor, buddy, he said. Please come to Montreal. Pretty please?
And I melted. Damn, I hate that Jeff can still have that effect on me. Here I am, having paid the outrageous entrance fees, put up my cash for the X, and then Jeff barely says two words to me the whole time. Even in Shane’s car on the ride up, Jeff and Anthony smooched in the back seat most of the way. “Hey, it’s like getting a free porn channel,” Shane quipped, not complaining, simply adjusting the rearview mirror so he could keep an eye on the action.
Oh, what the fuck. I take a swig of water. Let Jeff and Anthony maul each other all weekend. I don’t care. I know it’s not going to last. Things like this never do for Jeff. They get all hot and heavy and then Jeff backs out when it gets too serious. I still have the letters from poor Alexei in St. Petersburg, imploring me to intercede with Jeff on his behalf. And then there was that tragic kid from Missouri, who I’d driven to the airport and advised to forget he’d ever met Jeff O’Brien.
“He won’t be calling you,” I said. “It’s over.”
“He’ll call,” the kid insisted.
“He’s not going to call.”
The kid was crushed. Better to give him the hard truth than let him live with false hopes.
I wager it won’t be long before Anthony is history, too, and Jeff and Lloyd are back in their never-ending game of cat and mouse. Or cat and dog. Whatever the fuck they call each other.
I try to stop watching them but I can’t. Why am I making myself so miserable? All I know is that I wish I were back in Boston, with a client. Now, that’s sad. Here I am, surrounded by hot, hunky guys, and I’m missing my old trolls. At least my old trolls seem so happy to be with me. These guys—Jeff included—just seem so preoccupied with themselves. Maybe the critics of circuit culture are right. Maybe it is just a self-absorbed, narcissistic, headfirst plunge into hedonism.
And maybe I’m just lonely. On the way up here, I actually allowed myself to dream about finding a boyfriend in Montreal. Now, wouldn’t that be nice? Finally, a man to call my own. I can’t even imagine what that would be like.
The X is making me horny, hornier than I’ve been in a long time. A different kind of horny than I feel when meeting clients, maybe because I’m on the hunt rather than on the payroll. It’s been weeks since I’ve been out on my own like this. Months, even. I look around at the flesh around me. Every bit of it looks good enough to eat. Strange how I feel the need to “dehorn”—Brent’s term for having sex after a long hiatus. I’ve been having sex two, three, or more times a week since February. But not this kind of sex. Not the kind of sex I’m hoping to find here.
I love Montreal. Here the men are far friendlier than in just about any city in the U.S., save Atlanta and New Orleans. Wild & Wet is held on Canada’s Victoria Day Weekend, so the boys are definitely in the holiday spirit. Montreal has an undeniable old-world charm with its brick sidewalks and narrow streets. A year ago, as I was wandering down Rue Ste. Catherine, some guy smiled and we struck up a conversation. Just like that. It was one of the rare times I actually scored on a circuit weekend: Francois and I made mad, crazy love all night. We might have even become boyfriends if he hadn’t been moving to Vancouver. I could deal with Montreal, but Vancouver was just a bit too much of a commute. But I figure, if lightning struck once in Montreal, it could strike twice: the city rates high on Brent’s PH factor. The odds of finding a potential husband here are better than just about anywhere else, I tell myself.
Is it so terrible to want a husband so bad? Someone to call my own? Jeff always has a couple backup husbands in reserve, while I never have one. Not one. Not one significant relationship in my whole, entire life. Unless you count Sean with the Cheeto breath. And I don’t count Sean.
I sigh, leaning in on the bar with my elbows. I turn, suddenly making eye contact w
ith a guy standing next to me. He smiles. He’s definitely yummy. Dark. Maybe thirty-two, thirty-three. Goatee. Closely trimmed body hair.
“Awesome music,” I say.
He nods, looking at me.
“Dance music doesn’t get the respect it deserves in the States,” I tell him. “In Europe, you hear it on the radio. In the States, it’s considered too gay. What about in Canada?”
He doesn’t respond. He just keeps looking at me. I feel like a dork. Henry Weiner, I scold myself, you can pump up all you want and give yourself star-burst tattoos on your stomach, but you’re still just the geek who once stood on the sidelines and couldn’t imagine ever talking to these delicious boys. You still don’t know how to do it.
The guy continues studying my face. Maybe he just didn’t understand me. That’s it! Duh! We’re in Montreal! He probably only speaks French.
Wrong again. “I know you,” he says, in English, with that delicious Quebecois accent both Jeff and I find irresistible.
“Don’t think so,” I say, taking another sip of my water, trying to look casual. “I’d remember you.”
He peers closer at me. “I know I have seen you.”
I smile. “Ever come to Boston?”
Suddenly a light goes off in his eyes. “Boston! The Web site! You’re Hank, no?”
I feel my face redden. So it’s finally happened. The Internet is big, wide-open space, and my mug, albeit turned a little away from the camera, is plastered all over several Web sites for anyone to see: HANK. STUDLY ESCORT, BOSTON-BASED. MUSCLE WORSHIP SPECIALTY. $200. OUT ONLY. TRAVEL BY ARRANGEMENT.
“Uh, yeah, that’s me,” I admit.
“Cool,” the guy says. “My name’s Sylvain.” He extends his hand.
I shake it. I feel myself putting my shoulders back, deepening my voice, shifting into my escort guise. “Good to meet ya, Sylvain,” Hank says.
“You here on business?”
Business. He means, Are you here with a client? “No,” I tell him. “I’m here with friends.”
“Are they escorts, too?” asks Sylvain.
“No.” All at once, I feel a little uncomfortable talking about my escort life with a stranger. With a stranger not looking to hire me, that is. At least, I don’t think Sylvain wants to hire me.… We’re just two guys meeting in a bar. Aren’t we?
But Sylvain says nothing more. He just stands there, looking around the room. I’m about to ask him if he wants to dance when he turns back and says, “Well, good to meet you, Hank. Good luck.”
My mouth opens, but I manage only a nod in reply. Sylvain pushes into the crowd and disappears.
Good luck. Translation: I don’t have to pay to bring somebody home.
I want to shout after him: I wasn’t going to charge you! But I just settle back against the bar, a horrible sensation spreading through me.
No husband is going to want an escort for a mate. As soon as they find out what I do, they’re not going to be interested.
Panic grips my chest.
So I won’t tell them. And if I meet someone nice, someone who might turn into a boyfriend, it’ll be easy to give up the escorting … Won’t it?
I finish my water and place the empty bottle on the bar. I realize I’ll meet no one here. I feel bitter, resentful for coming. Wasn’t that the way it always happens at these things? So much sex on the dance floor and no one goes home with each other. Why is it that men line up to pay me for sex, and the guys at these parties won’t even take it for free?
I look over again at Jeff and Anthony, sending curses. I feel guilty when Jeff looks over, catches my eyes, then lights up with a big smile and waves.
“Don’t they make a lovely couple?”
I turn. It’s Brent purring in my ear.
“Actually, they do,” I say matter-of-factly, not even turning to look at him. “Both are very hot. All eyes are on them.”
“Not mine,” Brent snorts. I can tell from his eyes he’s rolling. X, but more, too. There’s always more with Brent. He has letters in his alphabet soup that I can’t even imagine what they stand for. “But your eyes sure seem glued to them.”
“Don’t start, okay, Brent? Don’t start in on how I’m secretly in love with Jeff, okay?”
Brent laughs. “There’s nothing secret about it, sweetheart. Everybody knows. Except maybe him, and even he’s probably got a pretty good clue. Jeff’s thick, but not that thick.”
I just sigh.
“Okay, I’m sorry.” Brent orders himself an Absolut and tonic. “Want anything?”
“No. I’m as buzzed as I want to be.”
Brent looks at me as if I’ve just expressed a concept he cannot begin to fathom. “I’ve yet to ever reach that state myself,” he says, paying for his drink and then settling against the bar, shoulder to shoulder with me. “I’ve got a date with Tina later.”
I smirk. “Of course you do. You’re going steady, aren’t you?”
“She’s a wonderful girl,” Brent says coyly.
I’ve never done crystal. Jeff told me long ago that crystal is the big, bad dog lurking on the dance floor, and he’s insisted I never try it. “Keep away from Tina and Gina,” he’s said, predicting that one of these days Brent is going to OD right on the dance floor in front of us.
But I’m starting to think Jeff can be far too judgmental. There is such a thing as successful, casual drug use, isn’t there? Sure, Brent can be annoying as all hell, but he seems to handle his drugs well. He gets twisted; he’s passed out a few times at circuit events—but he gets to work on time every Monday. He’s successful in his job, happy in his life. At least, he seems to be.
“Tell me something,” he’s saying, eyeing me. “Is it true you’re whoring yourself?”
I laugh. “Well, finally, Brent, you’re the last to learn a very juicy piece of gossip.” I level my eyes with his. “Yes, it’s true. I’m an escort. Big deal. I don’t care who knows anymore. All that’s different between me and everybody else here is that I actually have sex—and get paid two hundred bucks a pop for the effort.”
Brent smiles. “I pass no judgment on you, Henry. Don’t get all huffy. In fact, I think it’s awesome. More power to you. I’d do the same thing if it wasn’t for the thought of all those potbellied trolls who’d want to hire me.”
I feel defensive of my clients. “They’re not all trolls.”
Brent flicks his wrist at me like an auntie. “The point is, Henry, when I saw your photo on a Web site a few weeks ago, I was just hurt that you never told me.” He takes a sip of his drink. His blue eyes peer at me from over his glass. “I thought we were better friends than that.”
“Better friends?” I make a face. “Brent, I’ve never confided anything to you. Ever.”
Brent frowns. “No, I guess you haven’t.” He sighs. “I wish you would, though. I tell you stuff all the time.”
“You do not.”
“I do. I tell you about who I trick with. Who I fall in love with. Which, granted, happens every other week, but still I tell you. I tell you all about every trip I ever take. I’m always telling you about the parties you miss, Henry. I’m always keeping you up to date.” He positions himself a little aggressively in front of me. “Who’s the one who’s always inviting you out to Geoffrey’s for breakfast or to Club Cafe for happy hour? Not Jeff O’Brien, Henry. Me. When I walk into a club, you’re always the very first person I talk to. Can you say that about him?”
Our eyes hold each other. In his own way, Brent has a point.
“Henry Weiner, I consider you one of my best friends in the entire world.”
Brent sounds a little emotional. Sure, it’s the drugs and the alcohol, but in his own fucked-up way, Brent’s being sincere. And trying—as best as he knows how—to tell me that he cares.
I smile. “Okay, Brent. I’ll confide something to you.”
“What?” he asks eagerly.
“If I found a husband tonight, I’d give it all up.”
“The escorting?”
/>
I nod. “Yeah. And this, too. All this traipsing around to party after party. I’d settle down, watch figure skating on TV on Saturday nights, get up early on Sunday to go get doughnuts and the paper. Maybe get a dog.”
Brent shakes his head. “No, you only need the dog when you’re single, Henry. My pug, Clara, not only keeps the bed warm but offers the perfect conversation-starter walking on Tremont Street. I adore Clara, but truth is, once you’re married, you don’t need a dog anymore.”
I smile. “So how come you haven’t found a husband, Brent?”
He looks away. “Husbands before the age of thirty-five never last. They just break your heart.”
I try to find his gaze, but he keeps his eyes averted. Was there some pain in his words? Some hidden human experience to Brent Whitehead?
He turns back to me, cocky again. “I think thirty-five is the best age to settle down. I’ve got two years left to go. Then I’ll consider settling down. Not too young that I’ll be missing out on anything, but also not too old that I’m being forced into retirement.” He grins. “I want to go out when I’m still on top. Like The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”
I laugh in return. “You know, under your nasty little exterior, Brent, you’re not such a bad guy.”
He beams. “You see, Henry? I can be a much better best friend than Jeff O’Brien.”
“Did I hear my name?”
It’s Jeff. He’s pushing his way toward us, slipping his torso past others just as buff and wet and glistening as he is.
“Only to say that here you come again,” Brent sniffs.
“Lookin’ better than a body has a right to,” Jeff sings in response. No one laughs. He makes an exasperated face. “Get it? Dolly Parton? ‘Here you come again?’”
“And here I go,” Brent sings back. He winks at me. “Ta, Henry. I’ll be in touch.” He moves off back to the dance floor, cocking his squirt gun.
“What’s up with him?” Jeff leans over the bar to order waters for the troops he’s left behind on the dance floor. He makes a face as he hands over the cash. “Christ, I’ll have to liquidate my 401k to pay for all this.” He moves in close to me. “So how come you’re not dancing?”
Where the Boys Are Page 24