Second You Sin
SCOTT SHERMAN
KENSINGTON BOOKS
www.kensingtonbooks.com
Al copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Dedication
Acknowledgements
1 - Wet
2 - New York State of Mind
3 - Like a Straw in the Wind 4 - Isn’t It a Pity?
5 - Can’t Help Loving That Man 6 - Love in the Afternoon
7 - Mother
8 - Send in the Clowns
9 - A Sleeping Bee
10 - Honey, Can I Put on Your Clothes?
11 - The Main Event
12 - Putting It Together
13 - When You Wish Upon a Star 14 - He Touched Me
15 - Watch Closely Now
16 - The Best Thing You’ve Ever Done 17 - All I Ask of You
18 - Soon It’s Gonna Rain
19 - Crying Time
20 - Hands Off the Man
21 - I Got Plenty of Nothing 22 - Remembering
23 - Just Leave Everything to Me 24 - All in Love Is Fair
25 - Being at War with Each Other 26 - Who Are You Now?
27 - Ordinary Miracles
28 - Don’t Rain on My Parade 29 - New York State of Mind
30 - Don’t Believe Everything You Read 31 - What Are You Doing the Rest of Your Life?
32 - Some Good Things Never Last 33 - Gotta Move
34 - Doing the Reactionary
35 - Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?
36 - Fight
37 - I’m the Greatest Star
38 - Tonight
39 - Wide-screen
40 - It Had to Be You
41 - Guilty
42 - I Can Do It
43 - Sleep in Heavenly Peace 44 - I’m Still Here
45 - Here We Are at Last
Copyright Page
This book is dedicated to Marc, who helped me through a
very difficult time in my life with tremendous support, a
listening ear, and a loving heart. There will always be
traces of a song, places that belong to you.
Thank you for joining Kevin and me for his second big adventure. We hope you enjoy the ride.
There are several shout-outs in Second You Sin to some of our favorite artists. Already heavily featured in Kevin’s origin adventure, First You Fall, Barbra Streisand gets some love here, too. So do Ari Gold and Jay Brannan, two singer-songwriters from somewhat opposite sides of the musical spectrum but both of whom are great listens and lust-worthy on multiple levels.
Many thanks to fel ow writers Josh Lanyon and Neil Plakcy for their help, encouragement, advice, inspiration, and wonderful stories.
This book wouldn’t exist but for two great gentlemen who helped me get it into your hands—my literary agent, Matthew Carnicel i, and my editor at Kensington, John Scognamiglio. Thanks, guys, for believing in this story.
Two other fel ows I have to acknowledge are my sons, Sasha and David. I love you boys bigger than the moon. By the time you’re old enough to be reading this, you’l probably both be surly teenagers, but right now you’re more precious than words could ever express. (BTW: I’l stil love you when you’re pain-in-the-ass adolescents, I promise.) PS: There’s a theme in the chapter titles to this book
—can you figure out what it is? Send in your correct answer to the link on the home page at www.firstyoufal .com. On February 1, 2012, I’l pick a winner at random. If you’re right, you’l have your choice between a signed copy of Second You Sin or the chance to have your name in print as a victim in one of Kevin’s next adventures. Or, if you say something nice about the book, maybe both.
1
Wet
Despite my unconventional choice of profession, I tried to have a normal life. I real y did.
So how come weird stuff kept happening to me?
I started my week in church, like the good boy I try to be.
By the time the week was over, I’d find myself covered in whipped cream, attending a party in my underwear, defending my mother against a monster, working for a man I considered a Nazi, losing my semi-boyfriend, and fighting for my life.
But I had to do it al .
As I was soon to find out, someone was murdering the most beautiful male prostitutes in New York.
And it was up to me to find out who.
As a male hustler working in New York City, I’ve done plenty of kinky things. I’ve been tied up, scrubbed down, and hosed out. I’ve played every role my young-looking features lent themselves to.
I’ve been the naughty schoolboy sent to the principal’s office for a paddling, the high school footbal hero treated for a pul ed groin muscle by the horny coach, and the newspaper delivery boy who
“accidental y” walks in on his customer in the nude.
I’ve done it in the changing room of a major department store on Broadway, on a Thanksgiving float used in another store’s popular parade, and in the DJ booth of the city’s most popular dance club during an exclusive private party. With the DJ. I’ve been massaged, shaved, tickled, and wrapped in aluminum foil by some of New York’s wealthiest and most powerful men. I’ve been with guys who wore everything from tutus to superhero costumes to scuba suits.
For the most part, I love my job. If you have an open mind, other people’s kinks are fun and kind of sweet. I like that I give my clients a place to act out the desires they’re afraid to show their boyfriends, partners, husbands, and wives. As long as the activity is safe, consensual, and semi-legal, I’m down with it.
I do have my limits, though. Anything involving urine or, God forbid, that other thing, is out of the question. No how, no way, no matter how much he’s wil ing to pay. Not gonna happen.
Which brings me to the question of how I found myself, on this particular Sunday in November, being peed on by one Wil em Patrick O’Reil y I I, the golden stream arcing majestical y to soak the entire front of my two hundred dol ar John Varvatos hoodie.
“Pee!” Wil em shouted happily. “I put my pee on you!”
Yeah, I let Wil em pee on me. It wasn’t so much that he was cute (though he was) or rich (wel , his parents were) but the fact that he was three years old that let him get away with it.
“Sorry, Kevin, I should have warned you he’s a soaker,” Cindy, my co-teacher in the playroom, cal ed out as she watched Wil em hose me down.
“Some boys are like that. The minute you get their pants off, they can’t wait to celebrate.”
Cindy was in her mid-sixties. She wore her long gray hair in a ponytail and dressed like a hippie-Wicca from Woodstock. She didn’t seem to have a mean or sarcastic bone in her body.
“It’s OK,” I cal ed back to her as she handed out more Play-Doh to the other kids in the class. “I’l consider it a baptism.”
I looked down at Wil em on the changing table, where he lay with a delighted grin.
“Good aim, kid.”
Wil em laughed. “I pee all over you.”
“I’l notify the awards committee,” I told him. “Now we both have to get changed.”
Wil em stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t wanna get changed. I wanna play with Play-Doh!”
“Sorry, buddy,” I said. I cleaned him with a baby wipe and put a fresh diaper on him. “Now that the missile’s back in the silo, you want to get back to the other kids?”
Wil em nodded enthusiastical y.
I lifted him to the floor.
“How about next time,” I said, “you try to make that pee-pee in the potty?”
Wil em grimaced. “Potties are poopie,” he explained.
“But,” I said, “if you use the potty, you don’t have to get changed and y
ou’l have more time to play with the Play-Doh.”
Wil em looked thoughtful. “I scared of potty,” he said quietly.
I knelt down. “Why are you scared of the potty, Wil em?”
“My brudder said I fal in and go to poopie land.”
“Your brother’s just teasing you,” I said, thinking I’d have to mention something to Wil em’s mother when she picked him up. “You can’t fal down the toilet. I promise.”
Wil em took my hand. “If I go potty, you come with me?”
I gave him my most serious look. “I promise.”
Wil em kissed me on the cheek. “I wuv you, Kebbin.” He ran back to the Play-Doh.
I love you, too, buddy, I thought. I love you, too.
The truth was, I pretty much loved al kids. If I weren’t making such easy money as a hustler, I could see being a teacher. In the meantime, I satisfied my paternal yearnings here at the Sunday school program of The Metropolitan Unitarian Universalist Church of Manhattan.
I started coming to the church a few months ago, after a near-death experience that found me hanging naked from the ceiling of a serial kil er’s torture chamber. As said kil er was choking me, I didn’t see my life flashing before me, but I did, in a very Peggy Lee moment, think, Is that all there is?
Although I wound up being saved by my semi-boyfriend, the incredibly beautiful and conflicted Officer Tony Rinaldi of the New York Police Department, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be more to existence than just getting by.
I might not have made it to heaven that night, but I got close enough that I wanted to make sure I knew the password.
I wasn’t raised in a religion, so I asked friends about theirs. Eventual y, I found out about Unitarian Universalism. It’s a religion that has no dogma and no ritual. They don’t tel you what to believe in or what to do. You’re encouraged to live in a way that’s honorable and respectful of the natural world and other living things. The UU principles value democracy and freedom. You don’t even have to believe in God or Jesus to be a UU—although you’re encouraged to be courteous to those who do.
UU churches are supportive religious communities that prize diversity and intel ectual curiosity.
Plus, the reverend of my church is a bril iant, inspiring speaker, openly gay, and total y hot. Every week, I listen to his sermons and am simultaneously spiritual y uplifted and turned on.
Sexy enlightenment? Works for me.
A couple of months ago, one of the Sunday school teachers cal ed in sick. Reverend Jack asked if I could fil in. Although I had hoped that his first request of me would involve massage oil and nude wrestling, I would pretty much do anything he asked.
So, I helped out. Working in the preschool room reminded me just how much I enjoy being around children. When an ongoing position there opened up, I was happy to volunteer. Now, every Sunday, I attend the early sermon and help run the preschool for the second session. The kids are great, and my coleader, Cindy, is funny and warm.
She’s also been a teacher long enough to know just how uncomfortable working in a urine-soaked sweatshirt can be.
“Go see Shirley in the office,” she told me. “She probably has some T-shirts left over from some church event or something.”
Shirley-in-the-office was one of those women who seemed to work at every church in the world: somewhere between seventy and one hundred, hair pul ed back in a tidy bun, harlequin glasses permanently perched on the tip of her patrician nose.
She took a sniff as I walked into the room.
“Let me guess,” she said in her hoarse rasp that proved that not everyone who smoked died young.
“That’s not juice.”
“It was at one point,” I offered.
Shirley gave a little shudder. “That is just one of the reasons I never had children. Filthy beasts.” She waved her hand as if shooing something away.
“Listen,” I said. “Cindy thought you might have something I could change into.”
Shirley got up slowly. Her bones creaked like a door that hadn’t been opened in years. I wanted to get her a can of oil.
“In here,” she said, taking me into a smal room behind her desk. Boxes were neatly stacked against the wal s. She walked over to one and pul ed out a white T-shirt that said “For Sale.”
I didn’t think Shirley knew what I did for a living, but the coincidence was bizarre.
“We used these for the mannequins at the church bazaar,” she explained. “But don’t worry, wearing it won’t make you look like a dummy.” She snorted at her joke.
I waited for her to leave, but she stood there and stared.
“Uh, I’m gonna get changed now,” I said.
“I’d imagine you would,” Shirley answered. “You smel like a urinal.”
“A little privacy?” I asked.
“Honey, look at me. If I were any older, they’d hang a plaque around my neck and declare me a historical site. It’s not that often I get to see a cute young thing like you get half naked. Why do you suppose I watch those insipid soap operas—for the plots? If you think I’m missing this, you’re crazy.” She crossed her arms and nodded.
I sighed and pul ed my damp hoodie over my head. Shirley whistled.
“Wel , look at you. Strong little thing, ain’t you?”
It’s a reaction I often get. I’m a smal guy. Just five foot three and a buck twenty-five. But thanks to years of gymnastics and weight training, what little there is of me is pretty wel built.
Of course, for me, looking good is a job requirement. With my youthful features and blond unruly hair, I’m your typical boy next door. Assuming you live next door to an Abercrombie & Fitch.
I keep myself in the best shape I can—not too muscular, but slim, lean, and cut. In my clothing, I look like a skinny kid, but when I’m undressed, the results of my hard work are evident.
Shirley was getting a good show, as I had to struggle to get the T-shirt she’d given me over my head. I checked out the label. XXS.
“You have anything bigger?” I asked her.
“Sorry, that’s al we have left,” she rasped. “Keep working, it’l stretch.” She looked down at her flattened chest. “Trust me, sooner or later everything does.”
I continued to writhe. Eventual y, I squeezed into it.
If it were any tighter, I’d have died from strangulation.
It clung to me like a second skin, the sleeves only covering the top inch of my biceps, and the bottom stopping an inch and a half above my bel y button.
“Woo-eee, look at those abbydominals,” Shirley observed. “You should dress like that al the time.”
She dropped her voice down to a whisper.
“Although, not in church, honey. It’s not real y appropriate.”
“Wel , it’s not as if I chose this. . . .” I began. “Oh, never mind.”
Shirley-in-the-office watched as I left the room.
“You should wear tighter pants, though,” she offered.
“Show off that cute butt of yours. Oh, yes, you’d fit right in on one of my shows.”
As I walked back into the classroom, Cindy looked at me, blinked twice, and went back to reading the kids a story. When she was done, she pul ed me out of earshot of the class and nodded toward my shirt.
“Didn’t they have anything in an adult size?”
I grimaced. “Shirley said this was al they had left.”
“Wel ,” she said, “at least it’s better than walking around soaked in pee-pee.”
“I look ridiculous, don’t I?”
“Oh, no, you look fine,” she lied. “I mean, at least you have the figure for it. Just don’t walk past the middle school classes—those twelve-year-old girls wil eat you alive.”
2
New York State of Mind
After class was over, the parents came down to the classroom and picked up their kids. A few of them looked at me a little funny, but I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. My little talk with Wil em’s p
arents would probably go better when I wasn’t dressed like the Whore of Babylon. A slap on my butt, though, got my attention.
“Look at you,” said Nick, a darkly handsome guy in his late thirties who tended to be on the serious side.
“Where have you been hiding al those muscles?
And why bring them out to play today?”
“Hey,” I said, giving him a quick hug. “Usual story.
Changing a diaper, unexpected hose-down, had to grab whatever was handy.”
“Yeah,” Nick said. “Been there, hated that. Could have been worse, though. Getting painted with what comes out the other end’s a real bitch.”
Nick’s partner, Paul, walked over with their son, Aaron, in his arms. He was a real y adorable kid they’d adopted through foster care.
Aaron left one arm around Paul’s neck while hooking the other around Nick. He pul ed the three of them as close together as his little arms could.
“There’s your Christmas-card photo right there,” I said.
“Hey, Kevin,” Paul said, giving me a peck on the cheek. Paul was about ten years younger than Nick, fairer, too, with a shy smile and cute, floppy hair.
“You stil have to come over for dinner one night.
Aaron is dying to show you his action figure col ection.”
“I have Supahman and Ba-Man and Wonna Woman and ’Pider Man and . . .”
Paul bounced him in his arms. “Whoa, big man, save the whole list for later, OK? We want Kevin to be surprised.”
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