Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott

by Scott Sherman

  “No, it’s at some friends’ house.”

  “‘Some friends’?” Tony asked. “What kind of friends?”

  “What do you mean, ‘what kind of friends?’ Friendly friends.”

  “You know what I mean.”

  “Another couple.”

  “What kind of couple?”

  He was really pissing me off. “A nice couple, Tony. Good people. I think you’d like them. Does it really make a difference?”

  Tony stroked my hair. “Kevvy, you know how I feel about you. But I’m not signing up to a join a movement, here. I just want to be with you.”

  “It isn’t a recruitment session, Tony. It’s just dinner. If you don’t want to go, fine. I’ll go alone.” I rolled over onto my side, as far from him as I could get without falling off. Under my breath, I muttered, “I guess I better get used to going places alone, huh?”

  Tony rolled over and wrapped me in his arms. “If I wanted you to be alone, Kevvy, I wouldn’t be here.”

  “Right,” I said.

  “I just . . . I’m just not as used to all this as you are.”

  I pushed his arms away. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Kevvy,” he began. He scooted closer. I edged farther away.

  Unfortunately, I ran out of mattress before I ran out of hurt feelings.

  “Ouch,” I said, falling onto the floor. A sharp pain ran from my hip to my shoulder. “Fuck.”

  “Hey,” Tony said, throwing his legs over the bed and crouching next to me. “Are you OK?”

  “Fine,” I snapped. “Just dandy.”

  “ ‘Dandy’?”

  “I’m fine, Tony. No big deal. Let’s just go back to bed.”

  “OK,” he said, lifting me up and laying me down.

  Tony was so strong in so many ways.

  “Why don’t you go ahead and let your friends know we’ll be there for dinner.”

  “Really?” I said. “This isn’t just a pity yes?”

  “Maybe a little. I just don’t want to hurt you.”

  I rubbed my sore back. For a guy who didn’t want to hurt me, Tony sure had a habit of getting the job done.

  Howdo you knowif it’s love or pain?

  “They’re really nice guys,” I promised. “You’ll like them.”

  Tony took over the rubbing of my back. “No problem,” he said, grinning. “I’m sure it’ll be ‘dandy.’”

  18

  Soon It’s Gonna Rain At six AM , the alarm clock on Tony’s phone rang. I think we had gotten about three hours sleep. The more time I spent with people who had one, the less appealing a “real job” seemed.

  Bad thing for me was that the slightest noise wakes me up, and once I’m awake, I can’t get back to sleep. Not so Tony, who continued to snore quietly. I called his name. I poked him with my elbow. Shook his shoulder. Nothing.

  I thought about biting him, but that would be mean. Likewise, dousing him with a glass of ice water. I put my mouth close to his ear. “Crap,” I said in a normal tone. “My mother just walked in.”

  Tony jumped to his feet, his hand reaching reflexively for his gun. “Where?”

  “Where what?” I asked innocently.

  “I thought you just said . . .”

  I got out of bed and kissed his cheek. “You must have been dreaming. Go grab a shower; I’ll put up some coffee.”

  “Huh,” Tony said groggily, stretching. Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt him like this. My thoughts ran to the less artistic.

  I didn’t drink coffee, but I liked making it for my man.

  Tony came into the kitchen wearing only a towel and the smell of Irish Spring on his still-damp skin. His freshly shaven face was red and smooth.

  “Do you want some eggs,” I asked.

  He shook his head.

  “Bacon? Pancakes?”

  “You don’t have any of those things, Kevvy.” He

  poured himself a cup of black coffee and took a sip. A pained look crossed his face. He put the cup in the sink.

  “How’s the coffee?” I asked.

  “Same as usual. Tastes like shit.”

  I held up the can. “I don’t understand. I follow the

  recipe.”

  “That’s not a recipe, babe. It’s just instructions.” “Well, whatever it is, I follow it. It’s not my fault I

  don’t have a round spoon.” Tony took the can from me. “It’s a ‘rounded’ spoonful.”

  “Isn’t that what I said?”

  Tony sighed and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to get dressed now. Try to stay out of the kitchen until I get back. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

  “I could make you some toast,” I offered.

  “Do you have bread?” Tony asked as he walked back into the bedroom.

  “Uh, no.”

  “Key ingredient.”

  I looked in the refrigerator. Take-out containers from various Asian restaurants within my delivery area, milk, protein powder, two containers of low fat yogurt, a couple of bottles of water, and an unwrapped slice of spinach pizza. At least, I hoped that’s what it was. I took it out and sniffed. OK, that wassonot spinach. I threw it away before whatever was growing there developed independent motor skills.

  If I was really going to make a play for Tony, I realized, I might need to ramp up my housekeeping. He was used to a wife. I was more like a fraternity brother.

  I kissed Tony good-bye at the door. “See you tonight?” I asked.

  “Uh, not tonight,” Tony said. “Tomorrow maybe?”

  I waited a minute to see if he’d offer an excuse, but he didn’t. Oh well, I’d agreed to no strings, right?

  Which was good, because if there were any, I’d probably use them to strangle him.

  “Give me a call,” I said, trying to sound casual and upbeat, like someone scheduling a racquetball date at the gym.

  Tony winked and was gone.

  After Tony left I sat at a stool in the kitchen and felt sorry for myself. Very satisfying.

  One of the most helpful things for people like me with attention deficit disorder is to make lists. I wrote one in my head as I wallowed:

  Things Tony Wasn’t Willing to Give Up to Be with Me: • His identity as a straight guy

  • The approval of his family, friends, the church, and God

  • The chance to have and raise children

  • His job as a police officer (not that he couldn’t be a gay cop; he didn’tthinkhe could be a gay cop)

  • Sex with women

  It seemed like a long list. My pity-party was interrupted when my iPhone buzzed to alert me to a text message.

  Freddy: “You up?”

  I hit the “call back” button.

  “Darling,” he answered. “I just wanted to . . . hold on.” There was a smacking sound. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you—” He sucked on something and said, “Damn, one second,” and I endured some more wet slurps.

  “What are you doing there?” I asked. “Or should I ask ‘who are you doing?’ ”

  “You should have asked me that last night, darling. Now, I’m trying to get rid of these damn pubic hairs I have caught in my teeth. I swear, that boy was part monkey. But a sexy monkey with long hair. Like Hugh Jackman.”

  “Could you spare me the details of your sordid sex life?”

  “Darling, it’s nature’s dental floss. All natural. It’s certainly a lot more green than those ridiculous queens at the local market who act like they’re saving the planet because they’re slowing down the line with their reusable grocery bags. The other day, the cashier asked me if I wanted paper or plastic, and I said plastic, and this skinny boy in line behind me with long hair and wearing some kind of sandals asked, ‘Do you know how many dolphins get strangled every year in those bags when they wash out to sea?’ and I told him, ‘No, but I know a dizzy twink who’s about to get strangled right here right now if he doesn’t mind his own goddamn business.’ I mean, I’m trying to buy some eggs and lube here,
I’m not looking to save the whales or anything.”

  “Is there a point to this call?”

  “Like you never ramble.”

  “I’m sorry, I’m just a little cranky about things with Tony.”

  “Things not going well in Pleasantville?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “I have time.”

  “I’ll tell you later. I’m just trying to figure out if what I want is any good for me.”

  “Men are like snack foods. The ones you want are nevergood for you.”

  “OK, that’s too deep for this early in the morning. Can we pick it up again later?”

  “Fine. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about tonight.”

  “Forget what?”

  “Dinner with Rueben. Remember? The third Angel? The sassy Latina spitfire along the lines of a young Jennifer Lopez.”

  I really needed to remember to write things down. “Of course I didn’t forget,” I lied reflexively. “I’ll see you there.”

  “Perfect. Just remember your place on the team, darling. Wear something plain and unassuming. Nothing says big brains like a dowdy pantsuit in a bad synthetic. Something that the mother onBeverly Hills, 90210would wear, but from the original series, darling, not that horrible remake.”

  “Any other advice?”

  “Sensible shoes, darling. You might want to check out Payless.”

  “You,” I reminded him, “are a cruel bitch.”

  “I’m a delicious chocolate treat with a creamy white filling,” Freddy said. “Of course I’m no good for you.”

  After I hung up with Freddy I opened the calendar program on my iPhone and put in the meeting with Rueben. I also saw that I had a one o’clock with a steady client who had a few kinks that his wife wasn’t equipped to handle.

  But first, it was time for some career development. I grabbed a shower and headed for the gym. My body is my business and keeping in shape is a job requirement. I suffered through a grueling ninetyminute workout with my personal trainer, whose most recent employment, I suspected, was a stint at Guantanamo Bay.

  I went home, showered again, and slugged back a protein drink and an Adderall.

  I was all set to go when I remembered I had a phone call to make. Tony had agreed to go meet some of my friends for dinner and I had a specific couple in mind. I called them up and told them what I needed and why. They were only too happy to help out. We made a date for tomorrow night.

  I texted Tony and he said he was free. I put dinner in my calendar, too.

  I got dressed and was off to visit The Dentist.

  I hailed a cab outside my building and inched forward through traffic to SoHo. I think I could have walked faster. Why was there so much traffic in the middle of a weekday? There were definitely too many people living and working in New York City.

  My iPhone buzzed with a text message from Mrs. Cherry. “Don’t forget your one o’clock, lamb chop!” Mrs. Cherry knew how scatterbrained I could be, and reminding me of my appointments was just good business. I typed back a message assuring her I was on my way.

  By 1:10 I was sitting in The Dentist’s chair listening to the Muzak version of “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).”

  “So, Kevin, how have you been?”

  “My toof kine of hurrz,” I said, as The Dentist ran his latex gloved hands inside my mouth. “I fink I haff a caffity.”

  “Oh dear,” The Dentist said, “you have a very big cavity indeed, dear boy.” His facemask hid his expression but his eyebrows arched suggestively.

  The Dentist is a fifty-something man with salt-andpepper hair and a trim little body. Definitely a DILF. Not that I’d have the opportunity to.

  The Dentist brought the inhaler to my face. “Now, this is just a little nitrous oxide, son. It will make you feel drowsy, and a little light-headed, and you won’t remember anything when I’m all done. Is that OK?”

  “No pobbem,” I answered, as the inhaler settled over my mouth and nose.

  “Now, breathe deeply son.”

  I did as instructed, catching what I’d guess was a hint of chamomile from the fine piece of china The Dentist held over my face.

  Yeah, the inhaler was a teacup, and the dental office was really his living room, and The Dentist was a married Broadway actor who’s appeared on some soap operas and commercials.

  When I first met The Dentist, he explained the origins of his fantasy to me. When he was a young teen, struggling with his sexuality, he had a big crush onhisdentist, Dr. Delaware. He’d always get turned on when the dentist would put him under with laughing gas. His fantasy was that the dentist would seduce him while he was drugged.

  “In my mind,” he told me, in his deep actor’s voice, “it was the perfect opportunity for me to have sex with another man without having to take responsibility for it. I was, after all, under the influence of a narcotic. Who could blame me?”

  Somehow, the scenario got turned around, and The Dentist liked to role-play that I was the innocent teen at his groping hands. Like a lot of guys with kinks, The Dentist had a part of his libido stuck like a needle in a record. He kept repeating the same song.

  If society didn’t teach young people to be ashamed of their sexuality, there wouldn’t be so many traumatized adults running around with the compulsion to act out their repressed adolescent fantasies.

  So, in a strange way, it’s the people who are most interested in repressing sexuality who create the conditions that lead to the freakiest kinks.

  Which is good formybusiness, so I say, go Team Shame!

  Speaking of business, my monthly visits with The Dentist were definitely one of my easier gigs. I just had to lie there pretending to be in a stupor while The Dentist felt me up and masturbated himself to orgasm.

  Over time, I learned that he most enjoyed himself if I pretended to retain some consciousness. At first, I would just issue the occasional moan, noticing how it made his breath race. Then I started saying things, like “oh yeah,” or “more,” which really got him going.

  After a few visits, I added more elaborate non sequiturs in my best stoner voice, like, “Oh yeah, Mary Sue, touch me there,” or, “Dude, I’m not kidding, you better stop tickling me or I’m gonna wet myself.”

  Today, I threw all kinds of shit out there, but since whatever I said only increased his passion, it was all good.

  “Hey, get back in your sleeping bag, man . . . Do these jeans fit me right? They feel so tight . . . Not here, Laura, not in science class.” The Dentist reached his climax as he ran his hands over my nipples and I said, “Oh my God, Principal Jones, you’re making me feel all funny in my private places!”

  Excited enough to forget his usual impeccable aim, The Dentist ejaculated all over my two hundred fifty dollar For All Mankind jeans.That’s gonna cost you extra,I wanted to say, but that would be mean.

  Like a lot of guys with a kink, The Dentist’s anticipation and execution of his fantasy were so exciting that the logical part of his mind shut down while enacting his fetish. But the second he came, rationality returned, and he felt a little sad and ridiculous.

  A hooker in my easy chair while I wear a paper mask and wave around a fake drill,The Dentist was probably thinking.Really? Has it come to this?

  Some guys I’ve known who work in the quoteunquote sex industry think their clients’ kinks are pathetic. When the session is over, they act insulted, patronizing, or appalled. Where’s the fun in that?

  I think part of the reason I’m successful with clients like The Dentist is because I totally get what they’re going through. The Dentist has his pretend laughing gas and silly little teacup and I have Tony. We’re all stuck onsomething.Who am I to feel superior?

  So, I understood how The Dentist felt, and I made it my job to make his landing as soft as possible.

  “That was fun,” I told him, taking the paper towel bib off my neck.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah, and look at that load you shot. Pretty hot. You mus
t have been storing it up for days.”

  The Dentist smiled. “Sorry about your trousers.”

  “It’ll wash out,” I assured him.

  The Dentist tousled my hair. “You’re such a good kid. Let me get my wallet.”

  In the elevator going to the lobby, I took the cash The Dentist gave me from my pocket. A two hundred dollar tip. Nice. Kindness, I was glad to see, has its rewards.

  Freddy and I weren’t supposed to go to Rueben’s until later that night, but I had a pocket full of cash, a pants leg damp with another man’s jizz, and a song in my heart. Or something like that.

  Rueben’s apartment, well, actually Ansell’s apartment, wasn’t far from The Dentist’s, and I didn’t feel like schlepping all the way up to my place just to come back here later. I decided to walk over and see if he was available.

  Although Freddy and Rueben’s idea of the three of us as a male crime-fighting team was pretty lamebrained, I was looking forward to hanging out with them.

  Maybe it would distract me from the fact that Tony wasn’t available tonight.

  Again.

  Not that I was dwelling on it.

  After all, it wasn’t my fault he was . . .

  OK, maybe I was dwelling on it.

  Focus, Kevin, focus.

  Friends of mine were dying or getting hurt.

  But were Freddy and Rueben right—was there even a crime to fight?

  The more I thought about it, the less likely it seemed that Randy’s accident and the deaths of Sammy White Tee and Brooklyn Roy were related. Sure, they were all sex workers, but so was I and about a thousand other guys in this city. Other than their hustling, what did they have in common? I thought about them and me and Rueben and realized: not much.

  Maybe Tony was right. Just because I had stumbled onto one murder ring a few months ago didn’t mean I had to start seeing intrigue everywhere I went.

  In a few minutes, I was at Ansell’s door. I rang the doorbell and waited. Nothing. I rang again. All right, maybe dropping by early wasn’t such a good idea. Did I have Rueben’s number? I fished my iPhone out of my pocket and, just for good measure, rang the doorbell one more time.

  “What is it?” Ansell Darling flung open the door. “What do you want?”