Tart and Soul

by Storm Grant

  Joshua’s face lit up. “Did have much contact with the natives?”

  “Oh, yeah. We were dependent on them for some our food and stuff. One of the local tribesmen spoke enough Spanish to communicate with us. Oh, you’ll love this part. The village chief kept dropping by our camp, all painted up pretty and following me around. The whole tribe wanted me to stay and…” Cam paused for dramatic effect. “Be the chief’s consort.”

  Joshua’s hands twitched as if he wanted to take notes, hardly the reaction Cam had hoped for.

  “Now, I like a tropical vacation as much as the next guy,” Cam said. “But three months in, we’re expecting relief per our orders. We don’t have anything much to do except hang with the locals, and no way to contact home base since we were supposed to maintain radio silence. Then two, very long months after that, another chopper appears in the sky and--bam!--we’re going home. Seems our commanding officer sort of forgot where he’d sent us and wouldn’t admit it, so we were never reported MIA.”

  “Are you sure you’re supposed to be telling me this, Cam?”

  “Sure. This isn’t the classified part. This is the American military is run by idiots part.” Both men chuckled as Cam carried on with his story. “During the Army’s bi-annual asset inventory someone noticed the missing Huey and sent someone to find us. Not us actually, but the expensive helicopter. We found out later that after dropping us off, the pilot had flown directly to Costa Rica and sold the chopper for enough money to retire there in style.”

  Just then the mostly absent counterman approached them, thumbing through his little book of invoices. “Closing time, guys. Time to settle up.” Without checking the tab, Cam handed him the hundred he had pulled out earlier.

  “Hope I can change this,” the waiter whined. A few minutes later he plunked down eighty-nine dollars and some change on the counter. “You guys need to move over there,” he waved toward the waiting area. “Or leave.”

  Cam dropped a minimal tip on the counter, earning him a nasty glare from the waiter. He shoved the change into his jacket pocket, intending to stow it in Joshua’s luggage at the first opportunity. Grabbing Joshua’s over-stuffed gym bag, he headed towards the vacant seating area. Joshua shouldered his backpack and followed.

  Seating them in the furthest corner, in an alcove hidden by a cluster of vending machines, Cam stretched his long legs, sitting awkwardly in the uncomfortable plastic seating. Joshua settled next to him.

  “So I guess you left the military in disgust after that,” Joshua said, pulling off his glasses and rubbing his eyes.

  “Well, I sort of developed this medical condition in South America. A round of specialists finally pronounced it post-traumatic stress disorder plus a bunch of newly acquired allergies. Eating all those unfamiliar fruits and vegetables stirred up some reactions I might otherwise never have discovered. And then, back Stateside, I found it had generalized into a sensitivity to certain types of citrus.” Cam shrugged. “Anyway, I received a medical discharge, and not being trained for anything but maiming and killing--”

  “And defending nonexistent passes against phantom rebels,” Joshua interjected, the light words belying the concerned frown.

  “…I now work for my mother. I tried working in my father’s business for a while. I thought the whole maiming and killing thing might prove handy in the corporate world, but frankly, I’m sick of it all.” Cam knew from tonight he hadn’t lost the knack for subterfuge. He just needed high enough stakes to hold his attention: higher than a hostile takeover, or boardroom coup, anyway.

  “You mentioned your mom’s business. What’s she do?”

  “She runs a successful small business,” Cam responded. “You know, I think we’ve been stood up by both our mothers’ friends. Can I drop you somewhere?”

  “I don’t really know San Francisco at all. Plus I’m broke, as you know. I’ll just crash here.” Joshua glanced at the plastic benches alternating between orange and purple. They were bolted together in rows, separated by welded metal arms. They were no doubt designed to prevent anyone from sleeping on them.

  “Look, Joshua. Josh.” First judicious use of the given name, and immediately he moved on to a diminutive, Cam advanced his nefarious plot to stage two. “I realize I’m a stranger to you, but I’ve enjoyed your company this evening and you’re more than welcome to come home with me for the night. You can reach the publishing guy tomorrow at his office, right?”

  Joshua left off his contemplation of modern seating systems, and contemplated Cam instead. “You do this often, Cam?”

  “First time,” Cam whispered, raising a hand to untuck the hair from behind Joshua’s ear so it tumbled softly around his face.

  “You know, Cam,” Joshua breathed, swaying slightly towards him, “I read an article recently in an anthropological journal that examined same-gender sex in the military.”

  Cam blinked in surprise and sat back a bit. “Go on.”

  “Well, according to studies, people--men especially--often indulge in same-sex relations when deprived of the company of the opposite sex, but it doesn’t mean they’re gay. The practice is more about relief, and maybe loneliness, or even control. Did you see much of that kind of thing in your time?”

  Joshua appeared conflicted. Cam thought he saw curiosity, excitement, and not a little fear. He considered his answer carefully. Joshua fidgeted and bit his lower lip.

  “Cam?” Joshua prompted. “Did I ask something too personal?”

  Pulling himself together, Cam responded, “It’s like this. The military man lives in one of two states: bored or terrified. Or both. Oh, and let’s not forget lonely. So yes, I saw plenty of men who turned to other men for what they needed--friendship, sex, security. Hell, in Antarctica, I saw guys hook up just for the body heat!” Watching Joshua’s face, he decided he’d passed the first half of the test.

  “And you, Cam? Can I ask?” Joshua whispered his question, focusing intently on Cam’s face, but once again worrying at the widening hole in the knee of his jeans.

  Cam grinned. “Oh me? I just like guys.”

  Caught off-guard, Joshua barked out a single note of rough laughter--not a pleasant sound, but music to Cam’s ears nonetheless.

  Sobering after a second, Joshua reached out and placed a hand on Cam’s shoulder, then slid it along until it rested on the bare skin of Cam’s neck where the gray T-shirt ended. The nervousness of a moment ago disappeared, replaced by tension of a new kind.

  For another long second they gazed into each other’s eyes as their heartbeats and breathing quickened. Joshua pulled off his glasses, setting them on the coffee-ringed table on his left. Then Cam leaned in, placing his lips over Joshua’s, licking them wet and sucking gently. Joshua pulled back long enough to murmur, “I like guys, too.” Then he grabbed Cam’s head with both hands and kissed Cam hard. Without breaking contact, he slowly rose from the unforgiving plastic seat to stand between Cam’s outspread legs. The move made Joshua the taller, and Cam discovered he liked “kissing up,” until his neck began to hurt. Suck it up, he ordered himself, hoping his unspoken words foreshadowed things to come.

  Their sighs and groans echoed faintly in the empty station; the last bus of the day had hissed its departure an hour ago. Cam wasn’t worried about discovery while making out in a dark corner the public bus depot, especially one located in downtown San Francisco. Their love-play grew more heated, with Cam trying to shimmy up Joshua like a tree. He stood, forcing Joshua up against the warm, humming side of the Pepsi machine.

  After a few long minutes, things reached the point where they either progressed--and risked arrest--or calmed down. Passion, like most things in life, flows in cycles; and gradually regaining equilibrium, if not composure, they stood a few inches back from each other, breathing great panting gasps.

  Cam’s nose wrinkled in distaste. Joshua clapped his hand over his mouth, turning his head away, “Oh, Jesus. My breath must stink. That burger tasted like shit and that asshole burned the oni
ons. Sorry, dude.” He removed his hand from his mouth, but kept his face turned to the side. “I usually try and watch what I put in my mouth.” He grinned at the innuendo. “You are what you what you eat.”

  “If that’s the case…” Cam paused and winked. “I could be you very shortly.”

  Joshua laughed out loud. “I sure hope so. Listen, there’s a toothbrush in my bag somewhere.” Wriggling out from between Cam and the soda machine, he squatted down beside his gym bag and began rooting around inside.

  “Forget it. Let’s get out of here, Joshua. Now!” Phrased like a suggestion, Cam’s words were clearly an order.

  Joshua stood back up and met Cam’s gaze, squinting in concentration even though they were mere inches apart. “What about your mom’s friend? I guess she’s not coming, then.”

  “No. I guess she’s not. So… Can I take you home to mother?” Cam slid a hand over the front of Joshua’s jeans. Joshua sported a very promising package; Cam thought he’d sign for it any time.

  “No.” Backing up, Joshua pulled away from Cam. He snatched up his glasses, shoving them roughly back on his face, nearly poking his eye in the process. “I don’t think so.” Still breathing hard, he wiped his mouth on his sleeve, rudely removing any trace of their aborted passion.

  “What? Why not?” Cam asked, now more puzzled than aroused.

  “Because I distinctly remember you saying you were here to meet a guy; yet when I said “she,” you didn’t correct me. I was suspicious when you first told how long you’d been here. Nobody waits that long for a friend of his mother’s. For all I know you’re planning to murder me and dump my mutilated body in the bay! I wouldn’t go anywhere with you if you paid me!”

  Cam reached into his wallet, drawing out another hundred dollar bill and a business card. “How ’bout I pay you to stay?” He tossed both down on the seat next to Joshua and strode stiffly away, his hopes and his erection dying a little with each step.

  “Hey!” Joshua called after him, waving the hundred-dollar bill, “I’m no whore!”

  No, Cam thought. Even the highest-paid hustler in San Francisco never collected a hundred dollars for a couple of kisses and a mutual grope or two. Julia Roberts hadn’t commanded that high a price.

  Cam wandered around in the rain for a while, depressed over his failure to win Joshua’s trust. Eventually, he returned to his car, thinking how pissed his mother would be that he let one get away.

  I wonder if she’ll spank me. Oh, wait; she has Mistress Tiffany for that.

  * * *

  Seven weeks had passed since the night Cam first met Joshua Silver. Since then he’d managed to recruit a nice girl from Toronto--nice being a relative term. She arrived in San Francisco intending to trick for Tuesday’s Child, but feigned innocence in order to negotiate a better signing bonus. “Business is business,” she said. But Cam felt a little more confident about his recruiting skills after that.

  He tried the bus station again a few times, but hadn’t met any other promising candidates.

  On another note entirely, his mother convinced him to “entertain” a client or two himself. First, he spent an evening with a beautiful woman with political aspirations. Cam squired her to an upscale fundraiser, charming and schmoozing the city’s most influential people. Cam enjoyed himself and received a large cash bonus. That woman recommended him to a couple of friends, and they told two friends, and so on, just like the old shampoo commercial. Some wanted an escort, some sex, and one or two wanted both. He now owned a custom-tailored Armani tuxedo. Just another job-related uniform like when you were in the Air Force, Grace insisted.

  “The Marines, mom.”

  “Whatever.”

  Recalling the incident with the perfume boy that had landed Cam in his mother’s tender care so many weeks ago, Grace and Joy were always careful to brief his prospective clients, telling them up front he had a severe (they didn’t mention weird and sometimes violent) allergic reaction to citrus. They made it mandatory that his clients avoid all scented products. Some customers complained a little, but after one glimpse of Grace’s handsome son, they were quick to see the wisdom in forsaking both oranges and perfume for a night.

  Once, a fad diet led to a near-death experience. Apparently, when consumed in massive quantities, grapefruit permeates certain body fluids. Luckily, Dr. Cohen liked a little bondage so she owned plenty of PVC tubing, which she used to intubate Cam before his throat swelled completely shut. She then concocted a brilliant lie to her co-workers at San Francisco General about the naked, choking man and how he’d ingested the grapefruit.

  She ended up laughing it off and requesting a rematch rather than a refund. Cam apologized repeatedly, both to Dr. Cohen and to his mother. At Grace’s insistence, though, he made good on Dr. Cohen’s “date,” but not until she’d lost that crucial five pounds and detoxed the citrus from her system.

  Two or three times, Cam slept with women he didn’t like. Once he’d tried to make love to a woman who smelled weird and never stopped complaining. He could have handled one or the other, but his sensitivities, coupled with his unease about the whole career change, rendered him unable to perform, even when he’d closed his eyes and imagined himself with a certain refugee from Los Angeles. But her odor and her bitching just grounded him in reality, his pet fantasy failing him that night. His mother studied him as she’d grudgingly refunded the very unsatisfied customer her money.

  “You’ll get the hang of it yet, Cam, with time and practice. You got used to the Army, didn’t you?”

  After he’d failed to get it up for a customer two or three times Grace sat him down in her private suite, and they’d had perhaps the world’s strangest mother-son talk. It took time, and all her wiles, but she eventually convinced him to open up about his situation and his sexuality. After that he saw only a few select female customers, and once in a while, a very special male customer. Mostly he helped around the place, making sure to earn his keep, although the military finally coughed up some back pay he was owed. He spent most of it to reimburse his mom for the Clothing Emporium damages. Since his mother provided food, a nice room and a vehicle for running her errands, Cam had few living expenses. Still, it felt good to reach into his wallet and find his own money there, and not Mommy’s or Daddy’s handouts.

  * * *

  Rainy nights were busy nights at Tuesday’s Child. The worse the weather for their streetwalking competitors, the better the business for the indoor girls. Lonely clients were drawn to the warmth of the oversized fireplace in the great room and side parlors of the gracious mansion. A few drinks and a little encouragement, and the bawdy behavior spilled out into the hallways and alcoves that made the house unique.

  Shrill laughter and low moans were inescapable. Cigarette and cigar and pot smoke painted the air blue--not just on the main level and the working floor, but all the way up to Cam’s private suite, now occupying the former attic. He usually found the slope-walled apartment homey, but this particular rainy Friday evening it just felt claustrophobic. No janes or johns had requested him, and Amber was tending bar. Eventually he ceased trying to relax and volunteered to go recruiting, much to his mother’s delight.

  He enjoyed cruising in the relative peace of his car. He drove toward the dreary bus depot, remembering the one time it had seemed bright and, well, gay.

  He cut through the red light district on his way, checking out the competition as he drove. Without warning, he slammed on the brakes, wheels hydroplaned on the wet asphalt, his mind taking a second to catch up with his reflexes.

  There, against the wall, shivering under an overhang, stood Joshua Silver, soliciting!

  Cam parked the car half a block away, sitting for a moment, just drawing in one shaky breath after another, staring in his review mirror. He didn’t wait for his heart to stop hammering, but leapt from his vehicle and stalked toward his prey.

  He bypassed the young boys and girls who shivered in doorways and under store awnings, trying to stay dry on the ra
iny San Francisco evening. Each one called out to him in turn. “Wanna date, Sweetheart?” “Lonely, Daddy?”

  Ignoring them all, he strode through the rain, terrified he was wrong, panicked he wasn’t.

  Cam halted in front of the hooker, running his gaze appraisingly over the rain-soaked figure. Joshua wore tight black jeans and a black leather jacket over a white T-shirt: a typical outfit for hooker and teen alike. The blond curls hung dripping and lank, his eyes were pretty much devoid of life.

  “Wanna date?” the guy asked with as much enthusiasm as he might have ordered a cup of Ebola.

  “Yes,” Cam answered, drawing the “s” out in a sibilant hiss.

  Joshua drifted up out of whatever haze he was living in, recognition flowing into his startled hazel eyes. “Shit,” he whispered. “Cam.” His tone unchanged for both words.