Will to Live

by M. Christine

  “Will! Sit down, my dear,” Frances said, exuding motherly warmth but at the same time sounding as regal as she looked.

  As Will scooted his way into the seat, she introduced the other person as her husband Stephan, who rose a bit to shake hands. Will noticed that he wore a chain looping an exquisite padlock.

  “Wonderful to meet you, young man,” he said. “The food here is phenomenal. I’m something of an ace hobby chef, and I wish I could pilfer a few of Justine’s recipes. Ah, look out—they’re bringing us the breadbasket!”

  Stephan’s eyes widened as a linen-covered, cascading pile of various rolls and muffins was set down on the table. He quieted down for a bit as he buttered up a brioche roll and consumed it promptly, closing his eyes in bready ecstasy, then washed it down alternately with an aromatic cup of Earl Grey and what looked like a flute of orange juice.

  “What will you have to drink, sir?” the breadbasket server asked of Will.

  “That looks good,” he replied, pointing at Stephan’s glass.

  The waiter was ready to fetch this choice, when Frances discreetly stopped him.

  “Will, that has champagne in it. Is plain orange juice fine for you?” she explained in a low tone. “At least until you’re twenty-one.”

  Will, the son of a low-tier drug dealer and brother of a junkie, was no raging alcoholic, but like some of his peers, he indulged in under-aged drinking at a casual party here and a kegger there. He was truly touched that this woman, the sex-club entrepreneur, was monitoring his intake. He knew that she knew he was an old soul, young but wise to the mean world. Will smiled lovingly at her, nodded slightly, and ordered a straight juice.

  When the waiter was gone, Frances got down to business, as was her manner, though the conversation wasn’t entirely the business Will expected.

  “After our meeting at the club—when you revealed to me your present situation with school and your family—I made some calls. Coincidentally, there are a couple friends of mine on the board of the Polytechnic, and they both assured me that your financial issue has been resolved. You need to call the business office tomorrow to follow up.”

  Will was dumbfounded. Seeing this reaction, Frances let him stay quiet and continued: “Stephan and I have been married a long time,” she said, slipping one hand into her husband’s palm while touching the key pendant hanging below her sexy collarbone. “We’re both very successful professionally, very fulfilled in our business and civic achievements. And as you know, I have a substantial involvement in the alternative lifestyle scene, which enhances our personal life greatly.”

  At this point, Will became suspicious, like he was about to be sexually propositioned by this couple in exchange for pulling some strings at the college.

  “However, we don’t have any children.” Frances had a moment of silence after this statement, remaining composed, but a detectable mistiness clouded her eyes.

  “I love kids,” Stephan piped up during this slight awkwardness. “One of my most prized philanthropic commitments is being a board member at the children’s hospital. We do other things too—we’re a couple of old liberals, I confess—as contributors to family homeless shelters, and various school programs such as Opera Friends. That one I really enjoy attending!”

  “Yet,” Frances, having found her voice, went on, “we cannot see any of those kids grow up. You’re nearly grown up—too grown up for your age really—but it’s clear you are brilliant. We’d like to nurture that, to help you with school and all the next steps of your life, financially and logistically. What do you think?”

  “Wow,” said Will when he eventually found his own voice. “I’m sorry to say I thought you were going to ask for sex.”

  “Oh, we have that in spades! No, Will, we’d just like to feel like parents before it’s too late,” Stephan said. “And with you, you know Frances, therefore me, via the sex club, so there’s nothing to hide. We think humans should be as well-rounded as they want to be. The fact that you’re showing an interest in the amazing world of kink is fantastic! I wish I were as savvy as you at eighteen.”

  “My gut instinct has been my guide to success,” Frances said. “I know you have great potential in all areas of your life, and we are in a position to help and support you, if you’re on board. I’d still love you to work at the club on Friday and Saturday evenings, and during special-genre nights when you’re not in school, if you like. Vincent puts on a bimonthly party on Sundays, and he is already fond of you. Some weekends, though, you’ll need to go to art receptions, to network. We can work it out.

  “To reiterate, you will be well compensated for the job—you’re worth it. Your college tuition is fixed, and I’m setting up a fund for you,” Frances’s words of fortune kept flowing. “But you should start making other living plans—consult with us anytime—to stay out of harm’s way, to stay focused on your goals. Consider finding a studio. I know, so much to process.

  “I’m so glad you came today, Will,” she said. “It would be our pleasure to take you out to brunch once or twice a month—save some Sundays for your mother—and dinner sometimes. I have high hopes for this friendship. Hey, let’s eat.”

  Frances subtly moved a couple of manicured fingers and the waiter appeared to take orders. With the shift in conversation from the life grandeur to food, Will suddenly felt famished. He peeked into the breadbasket and nabbed a massive walnut-covered muffin from which he broke off a piece from the top and popped it in his mouth to melt in all its rich, baked wonder.

  Chapter 11

  Sweeping Changes

  With the sound support of Frances and Stephan, Will made some drastic shifts in his life.

  After squaring away the glitches in his school admission, he found a fine loft space east of the LA River. In between his weekend work at the sex club, he moved his few possessions from the room of his childhood home—including his treasured comic collection—just in the nick of time. During Will’s few trips back and forth to his new place, he caught an itchy-looking Paul lurking in his room, fingering some of the plastic-covered books. Though Paul was the street smart, volatile older brother, Will was much more robust compared to his sibling’s drug-taxed state. So, Will merely got in his face and backed him away from the comic books before boxing them for transport to their new home. He left the bed.

  Will hadn’t bothered to tell Paul anything about art school, his new job, or his new place. However, he loved his mother, and—without giving her too much information about his new endeavors—let her know he was leaving the bleak nest. Ginger’s heart was already in tatters from life, though she wept knowing she would not see her more stable son every day. She wept knowing she let him down, but also wept some tears of relief that he was on the road to something more prosperous.

  With his ample pay from Memorabilia he was already helping Ginger financially, mostly by buying her household supplies and directly paying bills. This was more than his father ever did. Will did give her some cash, but not too much, since it would likely end up in Paul’s bloodstream.

  After living about three weeks in his new spot, he paid a visit to Ginger. As he got out of his car, an unfamiliar rust-spotted maroon compact puttered to a stop alongside him. Will raised his guard. The driver was Paul, and he asked Will to take a ride with him in his mystery vehicle.

  “Please, Will, I need to talk,” Paul said.

  Will obliged, but inquired about the new car, especially since the stereo was missing with wires hanging out of the empty space.

  Paul’s response was kind of a shrug with a cupped wave of his hand, as if batting away the question. Paul steered the car at a nice legal speed, getting a few blocks away before speaking: “Thanks for helping with stuff, man,” he began, sounding remarkably sincere. Then he brought up the bottom line. “So tell me, what’s cookin’ with you? How’re you getting all this bread?”

  After his incarceration, Paul never gave a hoot about his younger brother’s welfare. Intuitively, Will kept silent. “No way,
Paul,” he said. “I’m not telling you shit.”

  Paul sighed and stayed silent for a minute, turning right onto a busier street. At the same time, a tan sedan merged onto the street into the left lane. The sedan driver—a young man who slightly resembled the Franco brothers—glanced over to find Paul, morphed into the notorious prison-era Psychoclops, staring back.

  For some good reason, the kid sped away. Paul wasted no seconds flooring it after him.

  “What the fuck, Paul!” Will hollered.

  But Paul was hell-bent, zipping in and out of lanes. The other car made a left onto a residential street and Paul turned wide, wheels screeching, pulling up neck-and-neck before ramming the kid’s car up against a curb, blocking it. In a surreal flash, Paul burst out of the driver’s seat, reached into the pinned vehicle’s open window to grab the guy by the collar, and punched his head five times.

  Paul let the kid fall limply over the car door and extracted the wallet from his disheveled trousers. He fished out some cash and tossed the billfold into the wet gutter while stepping with Bond-like stealth back into the compact beside a stunned Will. Rubber burned as he raced away from the scene.

  When he snaked the car a good distance, Paul eased up on the accelerator, driving as if nothing had transpired. The brothers did not say a word to each other. Paul ventured down a street that flowed into a busy intersection, stopping safely at the red light. Wisely, Will exited the car and slammed the creaky door shut. He walked—never looking back at Paul in that dubious car—back toward Ginger’s house. Once there, Will did not go inside to see his mom but got into his own ride to retreat to his studio space.

  Chapter 12

  Summer of Will

  A busy summer was churning for Will. On Friday and Saturday evenings he showed up at Memorabilia around six p.m. to help Vincent move furniture and equipment around. He also swept and hoisted ice at the bar.

  “You don’t have to do that, man,” Vincent would say.

  But Will was glad to chip in with those tasks—he was getting a significant amount of money from Memorabilia. Plus, he didn’t feel right about being paid just to be eye candy and for the fringe benefits that came with being the house stud. So, he helped in any way he could, which helped him form friendships with employees like Vincent.

  Some Sundays beginning as early as noon, Will reported to the Memorabilia building to assist Vincent in hosting a bimonthly club event called Kodiak.

  Attendees of Kodiak were men of all shapes, dimensions and musculatures who donned casual utilitarian jeans or Hemingway-in-Key-West shorts. There were plenty of steel-toed boots, though Will spotted some Birkenstocks cradling hobbit-hairy feet. When this event took place, the air was ripe with the scents of body odor and craft beer. Though some he-men kept their lumberjack shirts on, many bears milled about comfortably with exposed fuzzy torsos, some with cuddly pot-bellies, some as fit as a fiddle and ready for love.

  Though heterosexual Will did not partake in any physical bonding at Kodiak, he did enjoy conversing with some of the regulars about anything under the sun—politics, the economy, sports, travel—as well as kicking back in the lounge, watching Seven Brides for Seven Brothers or Return of the Jedi on the state-of-the-art TV panel. With the lack of a decent father figure in his life, Will looked forward to Kodiak Sundays, where mature dudes with names like Josh or Victor would inquire about school and advise him on financial or legal matters. Concurrently, in the darker recesses of the club space, there was a blur of shadowy figures pistoning their hips, heads and forearms in a primal ballet. In theory, Will’s presence at Kodiak was as handsome bait, but it was understood that he was straight and the men always treated him with respect.

  Sometimes there were specialty nights at Memorabilia, which would occur on a weekday, usually Thursdays. These were often parties paid for by affluent individuals or adult-entertainment companies. The equipment and fully-stocked private rooms remained, but if a sex toy company rented the place out, their invited guests were presented with a bag of smutty swag and treated to a catered evening.

  One night, a somewhat laughable porn performer and entrepreneur arranged with Helene to hold a party, or, as he called it, a bloomin’-do. His actual name was Robert Manoukian, the spawn of a wealthy San Fernando Valley family, but professionally he went by David Coppafeel for a short time before settling on the less obvious Biff Wellington.

  Now Biff Wellington spoke intermittently with a fake British accent while often wearing a top hat—even while performing in pornographic movies—and fashioned himself much like The Artful Dodger, cravat and all. However, he seldom read books, much less Dickens, therefore conversations with Biff Wellington were rife with awkward, ill-placed droppings of Dickensian characters along with American clichés of English terms.

  “I went Bill Sikes on her ass!” he was heard spouting on occasion, in reference to one of his frequent female industry partners who he perceived as getting too “mouthy” for her own good. “I crammed my fat spliff into her yap, shut up her complaining. And it worked out well, it did. Her reaction was perfect: surprised at first, then got into it, drooling real nice for the camera. Great scene, great cum-shot.”

  So, when this tolerable buffoon had his Uriah Heep party, which was what he called the event, he implored his guests to use the themed pass phrase of Ullo Guvna, phonetically spelled out on the invites and on the signage posted at Memorabilia’s lobby.

  Helene, Ivy, and Vincent all bit their tongue in response to Biff’s hokey premise.

  “He paid in full, upfront,” Ivy said when looking over his rental contract. “Through the teeth.”

  “We have to bill high with goofballs like him,” Helene informed Will, who was kicking back in the office, waiting for the evening work to start. “If we act like we’re catering to him, he’ll take advantage, act like he’s the king.”

  “Or Scrooge,” Ivy said, joining Will in a laugh.

  Will’s good friend Yuri was confirmed to show up. Coincidentally he was acquainted with Wellington from intermingling social scenes like art shows, concerts, and daisy chains. Biff worshiped the budding music star, envying his artistic esteem and status that were not at all sullied by Yuri’s sex antics. Yuri was open and proud about his sex life. Girls were delighted to have their anuses bathed with his celebrity tongue, so he had no shortage of ass-adventurous, pretty females in his company.

  Biff, however, compiled his fortune with the coattails of his family’s wealth, creating his upstart porn company with their dollar seedlings. Porn being always in fashion and demand, Biff Wellington Productions made money. Eventually it was acquired by one of the megalithic adult companies, which allowed him to retain a generous stake and creative control, as well as have access to more streamlined, higher-quality porn making.

  In the charm department, he was embarrassing, and the girls he could get were with him for professional advancement. Biff’s performers were paid decently, better than minimum wage. The ladies played the game, faking horniness as they wiggled around on his dick, using him as a springboard for better recognition, top-billing, and whatever else they could grab.

  In good time, the Victorian England-themed evening began at Memorabilia. Porn starlets dressed in typical slutty clothes, not costumes inspired by Downton Abbey, and some older-looking professional video studs trickled in, marveling at the topnotch sex furniture and expansive play areas before heading to the bar. The music was pumping with primarily British pop tunes of time periods incongruous to Biff’s concept.

  Will stayed in the shadows to avoid the crowd. Yuri strutted in from the foyer, bursting with energy, and spotted his friend tucked in a nook. They greeted each other and warmly embraced.

  Yuri’s legal obstacle cleared up, allowing his career to explode more: his band was locked in to play some big festivals.

  “Hey, we’re both doing well now, eh?” Yuri said, playfully poking at Will’s muscly physique.

  A couple of young blond chicks approached Yuri after they reco
gnized him. They started latching their acrylic nails through the belt loops in his pants and into his pockets. One scratched around his fly, searching for a sign of a thickening cock, when an obnoxious booming voice distracted party folks: “ULLO, GUVNA!” Biff shouted. He held his arms up high before snatching his top hat off to use sweepingly in a theatrical bow. He had a wench at his side, who would have seemed a little like a bimbo were it not for her Renaissance Faire attire.

  “Hey, man,” Yuri said, offering his right fist to bump after he extracted it from one of the blond groupies latched to his side.

  “Wads will blow!” Biff blurted, as if pitching a porn production. “They will shoot, those wads.”

  Trying not to roll his eyes, Yuri turned to Will in order to introduce him to the blowhard. When Will stepped out of the shadow to shake hands with Biff, heads turned and at least two jaws dropped. A bunch of females migrated closer to where they stood, intrigued by the celebrity of Yuri, but Will was the hypnotic magnet.

  “My friend Vincent!” Yuri called jovially to the big man. Vincent stomped over, clapping a big paw into Yuri’s open hand. Both of them embraced and loudly patted backs.

  “Hey, pal,” Yuri said. “Any rooms have accommodating chairs set up?” Yuri’s mouth quivered a bit, as he was anxious to make out with a butt crack.

  “Yes, the lounger, but it’s in the one with no door,” informed Vincent. “There’s a brand-new floor pad underneath it, with a sewn-in head cushion.”

  “Clicks for me. Either one of you ladies up for a wardrobe change?”

  Yuri reached into his back pocket to produce, magician-style, a dainty harness. From his shirt pocket he retrieved a packet of folded, rose-colored squares of plastic that looked like rain bonnets but were in fact dental dams. His eyes rested on the porn actress to his right, since she clung more closely than her friend, who still intently traced his penis bulge with her long nails. She looked down at her busy fingers, ooing and awing at his rock-star erection.