I don’t remember anything that happened between the time those guys started walking toward me on the E train and when I woke up in my hospital bed.
But I do remember how I felt when I woke up. I remember the pain and the humiliation and the decision I made never to be a victim again.
Little as I was, I needed an edge. I was already strong and limber from years of gymnastics, but that wasn’t enough to protect me. So, I took some selfdefense courses at the Gay and Lesbian Community Center. I followed them up with advanced training in one of the principles they taught at the center, Krav Maga.
Krav Maga is a fighting technique initially developed for self-defense in World War Two by Jews in Czechoslovakia who were harassed by Nazi youth. It was later refined and expanded upon by the Haganah, an Israeli defense force.
Let me give you a piece of advice: Don’t fuck with the Israelis.
Krav Maga isn’t a sport like karate or an art like Judo. Krav Maga is about survival. It’s about doing whatever is necessary to neutralize your opponent and take him down fast. It teaches you how to move quickly from defense to offense, to employ the aid of any available objects in your vicinity, and to go for your attacker’s most vulnerable areas first.
It’s not pretty and it’s not fair.
But it works.
Smokey wanted to pull me closer? Fine. I went with it, not only allowing myself to be pulled toward him but actively moving in. It caught Smokey off guard; he expected me to pull away. I felt him stiffen in surprise. Good.
We all have hard and soft parts. It was time to introduce some of Smokey’s squishy bits to some of my hard ones.
I brought my knee up to meet his balls. The air whooshed out of him. “Fuck,” he cried, instinctively bending over at the waist. “You little . . .”
But I was denied the pleasure of hearing whatever Smokey was about to say because as he was leaning down, I was jumping up. The top of my skull is hard, what’s inside his mouth, not so much. Which is why it must have hurt like a motherfucker when I hit his jaw with my head and he almost bit off his own tongue.
Now, he didn’t know which way to bend. He let go of me and stepped back. One hand went to cradle his balls, the other flew to his mouth.
I checked out Piercey. Was he going to rush to his boyfriend’s defense? Apparently not. In fact, he was smiling. I smiled back.
Smokey noticed I was looking away and decided to make his move. He bent forward to rush me. Too bad for him, he was slow. Whether naturally or because his testicles had swollen to the size of ostrich eggs, I couldn’t say.
You know what really hurts? Getting hit in the kidney. Now, Smokey knew, too. He doubled over again.
Time for my hard elbow to meet the back of his exposed neck. I brought it down decisively. Smokey crumpled to his knees.
I brought my leg back enough to let him see how well positioned I was to kick him in the head. “Enough?” I asked.
He nodded. Gently, as if getting ready for a nap, he lowered himself to the ground, curled into a fetal position, and whimpered. I was pretty sure he wasn’t playing possum, but I kept my eyes on him, anyway.
It wasn’t the first time I’ve taken down a big guy. As much as I hated to admit it, it never stopped being fun. I felt better than I had all day.
There was a murmur of voices as everyone went back to their meals. That’s New York for you. When the show’s over, it’s over.
“Why is it,” Freddy asked, “that I love seeing you do that so much?”
“Me, too!” Piercey gushed. “That wasawesome.”
Freddy looked at him. “So, what’s the deal with you two? You going to take him home and kiss his boo-boos?”
“You kidding?” Piercey asked. “It was a first date. Last date, as it turns out. We met on BearTrap.com. I like a bit of rough, but this guy’s just plain rude.”
“There’s never an excuse for rudeness,” Freddy agreed. “Good manners are important even in S and M.Especiallyin S and M, now that I think of it.”
Piercey squeezed Freddy’s prodigious bicep. “What about you, stud? You like it rough?”
Freddy put an arm around Piercey. “I throw it down like it’s going out of town,” he asserted.
I didn’t even know what that meant.
This was usually the point of the evening where Freddy made his excuses and walked off with the flavor of the hour.
I was still watching Smokey, but I felt Freddy’s eyes on me.
“But not tonight,” he told Piercey. “Tonight my friend needs me.”
Well, that was a pleasant surprise. I smiled.
“But that’s just tonight,” Freddy said. “Give me your number because tomorrow I might needyou,baby.”
That’s my Freddy.
21
I Got Plenty of Nothing Ten minutes later, Freddy and I were at The Scoop, a local ice cream shop that makes its own New York–inspired flavors. Since our dinner had been rudely interrupted, it was only logical we skip right to dessert. At least it seemed that way to us. Tomorrow, I’d pay for it on the treadmill.
The Scoop had a laid-back, downtown vibe that perfectly suited our mood. The lights were dim and the music was mellow jazz. We took a quiet banquette in the corner so we could talk.
Freddy enjoyed a Broadway Banana Split, with once scoop each of Chelsea Chocolate, Lickin’ Center, and All That Razz. I had a Subway Sundae with Verrazano Vanilla and Whip Me Cream.
“Maybe Rueben’s overdose wasn’t accidental,” Freddy said.
“Ansell told me he had enough heroin in him to kill
three people,” I answered.
“Exactly. But Rueben was an experienced user,
right? He would have known how much he could
take.”
“You think he killed himself on purpose?” “You knew him better than I did.” Freddy might not
have eaten his pasta earlier, but he attacked his ice
cream with a singleminded ferociousness not seen
sinceJaws.
I thought for a moment. Rueben had been through a lot. He was a pretty tough customer. Yeah, he’d come to depend on Ansell, but so much so that he’d commit suicide over a single spat? I could see him storming out of Ansell’s apartment, but only to
intentionally overdose half a block away?
“It’s a stretch,” I admitted.
“So, if he didn’t killhimself,whether accidently or
on purpose . . .”
“He was murdered?”
“Maybe Ansell was madder at Rueben than he led
you to believe,” said Freddy, through a mouthful of
cold heaven. “He could have killed Rueben.” “Possible,” I said. “Or maybe Rueben’s death is
related to the others.”
Freddy put down his spoon. Anytime he did that
during dessert, I knew that meant he was about to
say Something Important.
“That’s it”—he pointed his finger at me—“you’re
getting out of the businessnow.”
“Rueben wasn’t killed on the job, Freddy.” “No, but how many dead boys have to pile up
before you figure out that you’re not exactly in the
safest of professions?”
“People die all the time, Freddy. And we don’t
even know that Rueben’s death is related to the
others. Or that any of them are related at all.” Freddy’s jaw moved back and forth, but he didn’t
say anything. I could see he was furious.
“Why the sudden freak out, anyway?” I asked. “You
already knew about Brooklyn Roy and Sammy White
Tee. Not to mention Randy. What makes Rueben’s
death such a big deal for you?”
“Because Iknewhim, you idiot. I was just talking to him two days ago. This is all getting too close to
home, Kevin. If anything happened to you . . .” “Nothing’s going to—”
“I couldn’t take it, OK? I
f anything happened to you,
I . . .” Freddy’s voice trailed off and he shook his
head. “You’re the most important person in my life,
you stupid asshole.” Freddy picked up his spoon
and jabbed it angrily into his ice cream. But he didn’t
eat.
I felt myself tearing up. Freddy wasn’t exactly the
type to talk about his feelings. The flame between us
burned out a long time ago, but the embers still
burned hot. We may not have been lovers, not
anymore, but there was still a lot of love between us. Perhaps Freddy and I were going to spend the
rest of our lives in some in-between state. Not quite
lovers but more than friends. We needed a word for
it. Frovers. Lends.
Maybe once we finally have equal marriage rights,
we’ll call our spouses “husbands” or “wives” and
reserve the word “partners” for couples like me and
Freddy. ’Cause that’s what we felt like. Partners in
crime.
Or was that all?
I slid next to him on the banquette and put my head
on his shoulder. He put an arm around me and
stroked my hair. We sat like that for a few minutes.
Then he took his arm away and started eating again.
Whatever crisis or opportunity we might have
awkwardly been heading toward had been averted. I
scooted back to my bowl.
“OK, so we’re back to square one,” Freddy said.
“If we’re going to save your sorry ass, we better
figure out if someone’s really offing these boys.” “All righty then,” I said, happy to have the business
of murder take our minds off the business of our
questionable relationship. “Tony tells me the first rule
in any case is to ask ‘who benefits?’ ”
“From killing male hookers?”
I nodded.
“OK, I’ll play. Let’s see . . . a pervert. Some homo
Jack the Ripper. He gets off on killing pretty boys.” “Maybe,” I said. “But wouldn’t you think he’d kill
them during sex or something? If it’s a pervy thing, I
mean.”
“What, I’m the expert on sex crimes now? I don’t
know. Ask your boyfriend.”
I was pretty sure if I told Tony I thought someone
was killing male sex workers, he’d handcuff me to
my bed. But not in the fun I’m-putting-a-blindfold-onyou-and-you-have-to-guess-wheremy-lips-are-goingto-land-next kind of way. More like the you’re-notleaving-this-house-until-you-promise-me-you’llneverhustle-again way.
No sense getting him worried just yet.
“Let me think about that,” I said. “Who else
benefits from the death of working boys?”
“A closeted client who doesn’t want word to get
out about his extracurricular activities? He hires a
hooker, then offs him. It’s a one hundred percent
guarantee of confidentiality, right?”
“Most of my clients are closeted,” I said. “None of
them have tried to kill me.”
“Yet,” Freddy added reassuringly.
“It seems thin,” I told him.
“Maybe someone famous,” Freddy offered.
“Someone in the public eye with a lot to lose.” “Being caught with a hooker doesn’t end your
career. Just look at Hugh Grant.”
“No, I said someonefamous.” Freddy drew out the
word like I didn’t know what it meant.
“Hugh Grant is famous.”
“He is? Who is he?”
“A British actor.”
“Darling, the only British actor I care about is
Robert Pattinson. He can suck on my neck any day.
Oh, and that guy who plays James Bond.”
“Daniel Craig.”
“Daniel Craig,”Freddy sighed. “Now, there’s an
English muffin I’d like to toast and butter. Talk about
your nooks and crannies. Whoever managed to write
cock and ball torture into a mainstream film like
Casino Royaledeserves an Academy Award.” “We’re getting off track.”
“Right. Fine, so what do we have so far?” “Jack the Ripper and Hugh Grant.”
“Hmmmm . . .” Freddy tilted his bowl to his mouth
and slurped the last of his ice cream. I wondered if
finishing mine could really be made up for by fortyfive minutes of aerobics.
“I know!” Freddy jumped in his seat like an excited
third-grader with the right answer. “You!”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you benefit. So do all the other hustlers,
right? Kill off your competition and whoever’s left
standing gets to charge whatever he wants. It’s the
law of supplies and Depends.”
“That’s ‘demands,’ not ‘Depends.’ Depends are a
brand of adult diaper.”
“Like you never had a client who was into that.”
Freddy sneered.
I considered Freddy’s suggestion. It didn’t strike
me as much of a business model. “I don’t think we’re
ever going to run out of boys who’ll peddle their
papayas for a couple of hundred bucks.”
“Well, maybe it’s a war between pimps? Or some
mob shakedown thing?”
That didn’t seem entirely impossible. But Randy
worked for Mrs. Cherry, like I did. If she thought there
was any real danger, she’d tell me. Wouldn’t she? This was all getting to be too much for me to think
about. Fuck my body-fat ratio. I took another
spoonful of dessert. “This is giving me a headache,” I
admitted.
“That’s just a brain freeze from your ice cream,”
Freddy said. He reached over and grabbed my
bowl. “Luckily, I’m immune. Let me finish it for you,
darling. Wouldn’t want you to suffer.”
Great. An hour of brainstorming and still no leads.
And now, I didn’t even get to finish my ice cream.
This was shaping up to be a very depressing
investigation.
22
Remembering After Freddy and I finished our servings of sugar and fat, I went home and crashed. I woke up the next morning feeling tired and bloated.
Even though Freddy stole half my ice cream last night, I still had to pay the price for eating the other half. So, despite being sore from yesterday’s torture session with the Marquis de Personal Training, I hit the gym and did forty-five excruciating minutes on the StairMaster. Not my favorite exercise machine, but it burns calories like a forest fire and gives you an ass you can bounce a quarter off of. Which is about the most you can do with a quarter these days, anyway.
Then it was back to my place for a protein drink, anAdderall, and a shower. I threw on a pair of baggy khaki pants, a tight long-sleeved Transformers Tshirt, and my white Keds. I wore a Levi’s jean jacket over the whole mess.
It was a volunteer day for me at The Stuff of Life. I got there a little early for my shift, so I stopped off to say hi to my friend Vicki, the volunteer coordinator there. Vicki was a smokin’ little dykette, with the looks and slicked-back pompadour of a pretty Elvis Presley. In her tight Lee jeans and untucked cowboy shirt, Vicki had the hot swagger of the sexy town mechanic who wipes the grease from her hands on her pants before she feels you up.
I always had to remind myself around her that I liked boys.
“Hey, cutie,” she said. “I like the T-shirt. ‘More than meets the eye,’ huh?”
“I hope so,” I answered. “How’re things
here?”
“Business as usual. Money’s a little tight, but more people are coming in to volunteer. I guess they give how they can.”
“Who’s my crew today?”
Vicki checked a roster on her desk. “OK, this one may be a little tricky.”
“Shoot.”
“Work release candidates.”
Work release candidates were guys incarcerated for nonviolent crimes at one of the city’s many prisons. They were eligible to work nine-to-five jobs outside of the jail, but first they had to prove themselves under supervised conditions, like here.
This wouldn’t be my first time working with one of these groups.
“I can handle it,” I said.
“You with a bunch of guys locked up with only their right hands and each other for comfort on those dark and lonely nights? You’re gonna be like chum in the water, cupcake.”
“Naw, they’re mostly white-collar criminals or firsttime drug offenders. It’s not likeOz.”
“The Wizard of?”
“The HBO adults-only series. It’s a soap opera about male rape in prison. Stayed on the air for six years, so I guess there’s a bigger audience for situational homosexuality than you’d think.”
“Please, don’t all straight boys want to be held down and fucked ‘against their will’? I’ve pegged enough guys in college to know what I’m talking about.”
“‘Pegged’? Is that some lesbian thing?”
“You don’t know what ‘pegging’ is?” I shook my head. “It’s when a girl wears a strap-on and fucks a guy up the ass. It’s hot.”
“You fuck guys?”
“I’ve been known to dabble. Equal opportunity penetrator, if you know what I mean. But don’t spread it around. The Lesbo Police get kind of uppity about that kind of thing. I could lose my membership card. You’ve never been pegged?”
“Well,” I said, blushing, “I’ve never needed to. I mean, the guys I’m with don’t really need the strapon, right?”
“I’d peg you right here, right now.” Vicki winked. “Cute little thing like you. Bet I could give it to you better than half the guys you’re with.”
“OK, ewww,” I said. “No offense.”
I actually thought it could be kind of hot, but my life was complicated enough, thank you.
Vicki was too cool and confident to even acknowledge the rejection. “That showOz,it sounds likeBad Girls.You know it?”
“No.”
Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott Page 16