Second You Sin - Sherman, Scott

by Scott Sherman

  Locke looked up at me, a sly smile appearing on his face. I had a feeling he was thinking the same thing.

  “You look likejustthe kind of thing we need around here,” Locke said to my dick.

  Remember what I said about making a living with my Gaydar? Despite the fact that I momentarily had my doubts about Jason when he kicked Lucille out of the office, usually it was pretty reliable.

  What was my Gaydar telling me about Jacob Locke? Let’s put it this way—if it was measured on a scale of one (Kris Allen) to ten (Adam Lambert), Locke was registering a fifty-five.

  The fact that Locke probably liked to play with boys came as no surprise to me. After all, what brought me here was the knowledge that he’d had sex with at least one of my friends.

  What shocked me, though, was what a big old queen he was.

  I remember something an older friend of mine who had attended a year of seminary told me. Most of the clergy-in-training were gay. Although many of them chose to abstain from sex, dormitory life was like bunking with the touring company ofA Chorus Line. The young men and their instructors camped it up wildly, lip-syncing to Judy Garland records and trading dialogue fromAll About Eve.

  When it was time to take the pulpit, though, they reeled it in. You’d never know they’d spent the previous evening conjecturing which cast member of The Real Worldhad the biggest cock.

  Finally, Locke gave my palm a soft and sustained squeeze, and let it slide slowly through his fingers. Talk about a hand job.

  I stood there uncomfortably for a moment when Jason cut in. “How about a piece?” he asked.

  That was direct,I thought. Then I realized he was talking about the pizza, the box of which he extended to Locke.

  “No, thank you, son,” Locke said, still facing my crotch. “I’m not in the mood to eat . . . pizza.”

  I could see why he needed someone to write his speeches for him. I sat down before he decided to take a bite out of me.

  “We have your remarks ready, sir,” Jason said, handing the printed copy to Locke. “Perhaps you’d like to review them?”

  “You’re too good,” Locke said to Jason, looking at me.

  “Actually, Kevin here was helpful in putting them together,” Jason said. “He’s a really bright kid.”

  Locke took the papers from Jason. “Then he should come in while I look at them.” Now he turned to Jason. “Has he seen the inner sanctum yet?” he asked in a teasing whisper.

  Jason shook his head. “No, sir.”

  “Then you must allow me to give him the tour.” He stood and gestured for me to follow. “Come into my web . . .” he crooned, arching his eyebrows.

  It was so obviously suggestive that Jason flinched.

  I followed.

  35

  Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf? Locke ushered me through the closed door beside Jason’s desk, which led to his private office. While the rest of the campaign space was haphazardly organized and messy, Locke’s office was grand and expensively decorated. Plush new carpeting, wood-paneled walls, cherry furniture, and original oil paintings. At one end of the office was Locke’s desk, an imposing piece of furniture, with a black leather pad and marble and gold letter trays and penholders. A plush executive chair with gold studs sat behind it. Two nice but simpler chairs faced the other side of the desk.

  In the middle of the room was a small conference table with seating for six and a speakerphone placed in its center.

  On the far side of the room was a formal-looking black leather sofa, faced by two matching chairs with a coffee table between them. A forty-inch LCD hung from the wall over the sofa. Wires led to a cable box and a DVD player installed on a shelf to the left. A wooden credenza in the corner of the room held two file drawers.

  As we walked in, Locke threw an arm around my shoulder. “Come along, I’ll give you the nickel tour.” He left the door open, for which I was thankful.

  Locke guided me around the periphery of the room, where pictures of himself with famous people hung anywhere there was space. We looked at him with each of the past five presidents, a bevy of politicians from both parties, two popes, and celebrities of every kind.

  Every few pictures, Locke would tell an amusing or educational story about whom he was with and what they were doing. He’d throw in personal details wherever he could, like, “I might not have agreed with Bill on everything he did, but I’d have to say he was the most charismatic president I’ve ever met. That man could charm a snake right out of his skin.” Or, “Standing on that stage with Bono, I could feel the goodness of his soul shining on me like the sun. The only other person I ever felt that way around was Mother Teresa, God rest her soul.”

  Although he kept his arm around me for the entire fifteen-minute travelogue, he was a very different man from the one I’d met outside. His voice was deeper, the timbre more somber, and he displayed no trace of his earlier campiness. He was articulate, authoritative, and smooth, revealing just enough details to make me feel like an insider while, at the same time, establishing just how connected, caring, and successful he was.

  It was a calculated presentation. I imagined he’d given this tour to many others, from contributors to reporters to other dignitaries. It was the Jacob Locke Show, carefully orchestrated to entertain and impress. He was on script now, and he delivered his lines well.

  The last picture he led me to showed him standing in a sandy locale, a sea of young black children surrounding him, cheering.

  “This was in South Africa,” he recalled, “on one of my missions to an orphanage I founded to help children whose parents died of AIDS.” He let out a heavy sigh. “Sadly, many of the young people themselves are infected by that terrible, terrible plague. This is the work I feel the Lord calling me to, making the lives of young people like these all over the world safer and healthier. Giving them a shot to survive, to thrive, because doesn’t the Good Book teach us that every life is precious? Even the unborn ones. It’s why I’m out there every day, fighting the good fight, enduring the attacks from the liberal media and the lies of the unsaved. Those who want to bring not just me down, but our American way of life, the Judeo-Christian principles that make our country not just strong, but uniquely blessed and held above all others. That’s why I need your help.”

  How we got from children with AIDS in Africa to a pro-life pitch and an attack on the liberal elite was beyond me, but I admired the way Locke pulled in these and other conservative/religious hot buttons to close his tour on a moving call to action. All he needed was a string choir playing “America the Beautiful” in the background and it was enough to inspire a contributor to write a check or bring a congregation to its knees.

  Which is where I thought, for a moment, he was trying to bring me, as the pressure on my shoulders suddenly increased as he started to push down.

  But, no, he wasn’t forcing me into Blow Job Position #1.

  “Make yourself comfortable,” he said, directing me to one of the chairs facing his desk. He sat on the other side and picked up the remarks Jason printed out for him.

  “Let’s take a look at what you’re trying to”— dramatic pause—“put into my mouth.” He winked, I nodded blankly as if I didn’t get the joke. He began reading.

  “Why that boy doesn’t print these out bigger, I’ll never know,” Locke said. He opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of glasses. “Bothersome astigmatism. Another of the blessings of aging. Now, I need reading glasses like some old coot. Can’t say I like that much. The doc has me on a training program that’s supposed to be helping, but I haven’t seen any improvement. Guess I’ll just have to pray on it some more. But would you make sure Jason gives me the large-type version for the taping?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  Locke looked down at the paper, then at me, then at the paper, then at me again. “All right, Bright Young Thing, you better get on out of here or I’m not going to get a lick of work done.” He put the emphasis on the word “lick” in that last senten
ce.

  “Yes, sir,” I said, getting up. The whole reason I had come here was to scope out Locke; now I couldn’t wait to get away.

  “Later,” Locke said, “I want to hear all aboutyou.I have a couple of ideas how a boy like you can be a real asset to this campaign. To me. I can see you’re ambitious. Stick with me, and you could go far. Jason tells me you have a lot of potential. You know how it is in politics, though. One hand washes the other. You have to do what it takes to get ahead. You willing to do what it takes, boy?” He dropped a hand in his lap.

  Apparently, it wasn’t just his political speeches that were a mess of clichés. This guy was about as subtle as a colonoscopy, only less pleasant.

  “It would be an honor to talk with you again,” I said, continuing in my role as the naive young innocent.

  Locke grinned like the Big Bad Wolf, only hungrier. I turned and beat a hasty retreat. I felt his eyes on my ass as I left.

  As I exited Locke’s office, Jason looked at me expectantly. “Y’all do OK in there, chief?”

  “Right as rain,” I said, wondering what the hell that expression meant, anyway.

  “Good on ya,” Jason said. “He like his speech?”

  “He’s still reading it. Oh yeah, he wants you to print him another copy in a bigger font.”

  Jason rolled his eyes upward. “Lord, Jesus.” He sighed. “If I gave him the large-print version first, he’d be complaining that I treat him like an old man.”

  “Ah,” I said. “Vanity.”

  “No man is perfect,” Jason agreed. “He’s doing these exercises the doctor said would improve his vision, but I think Doc’s just shining him on. At least he’s doesn’t dye his hair.”

  Locke actually looked very sexy with his silver mane, but I didn’t think Jason would appreciate my saying so.

  The doorbell rang and Jason went over to let in the crew that would set up the video feed. “Would you let Father Locke know they’re here?”

  I knocked on Locke’s open door and did as Jason asked.

  “Mahvelous,” Locke said, extending his hands in a divalike pose. “I’m ready for my close-up, Mr. DeMille.”

  As Jason would say,Lord Jesus.

  While the camera crew set up in his office, Locke transformed again. Gone was the preening queen as well as the polished politician. Locke took one look at the brawny blue-collar videographers and went into full all-American-guy mode. He joked with them about football and “the old ball and chain.”

  As they laughed and chatted amiably, you could tell they thought he was a great guy. I heard one of them say, “Most of these political types are real dickwads, but this one’s a stand-up guy, you know?”

  When it was time for the actual taping, Locke gazed into the camera with an intense concern and delivered his lines with conviction and strength. I looked around the room and saw the video crew nodding along. When he was done, they gave him a standing ovation. Locke accepted their applause modestly. The video crew packed up and got out of there in less than ten minutes; they didn’t want to be working on a Saturday night any more than I did.

  After Jason walked them out, Locke emerged from his office. “Jason, it’s been a long day for me, and I better get to bed if I’m going to beat this cold.”

  Strange, I thought. I remembered that he’d canceled his travel due to illness, but he didn’t seem sick at all.

  “Yes, sir,” Jacob said. “I’ll call your car.”

  “Good man,” Locke answered. When Jason went to his desk, Locke gave me another wolfish grin. “And you, Bright Young Thing? Have you thought about what I said?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered, eyes wide. “I’m here to serve in any way you need me to, sir. All you have to do is ask.” My words could have been perfectly innocent, but I tried to make them open to just enough interpretation to keep him interested.

  Locke cleared his throat. “I have a feeling we’re going to get along fine, boy.”

  I bit my lower lip. “I certainly hope so, sir. I’m willing to do what it takes to get ahead.” I looked up at him adoringly. “You’re a hero to me, sir.” I looked down and, sure enough, the front of Locke’s pants were fuller than before.

  Locke leaned in toward me and looked around to see if anyone was watching us. Sure enough, Jason was hanging up the phone and heading over. I don’t know what Locke was about to say or do, but he looked disappointed. He leaned back.

  “Jason,” Locke barked, a little pissed. “When am I back in the office?”

  “Monday, sir.”

  Locke turned to me. “Will you be here?”

  “Yes, sir,” I answered.

  “Excellent. Jason, did you call my car?”

  “He was just down the street, sir. It should be here now.”

  Locke put his hand out again. I placed my hand in his and, as before, he held on long past the normal handshake. “You stay good now, you hear?”

  “Yes, sir. Good night, sir.”

  “And I’ll see you Monday?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Locke smiled. “I need a moment with Jason. Would you excuse us?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Locke went into his office with Jason and shut the door. I looked around for a glass, a stethoscope, anything I could use as a listening device, but no such luck. Instead I made myself useful getting something I knew Locke would need.

  They were in Locke’s office for less than five minutes. When they came out, Locke had his arm around Jason again and looked pleased.

  “Sir,” I said, “if I may?” I held out the coat I’d retrieved for him.

  “What service,” Locke observed, as he slid his arms in. “I’m telling you, Jason, this one’s a keeper.”

  “I hope, sir,” Jason answered. “He’s already been a big help around here.”

  Jason walked Locke out to his car. When he got back, he asked me if Locke had said anything.

  “About what?” I asked.

  “I don’t know,” Jason answered. “For a bit there, when you two were talking, he seemed in a foul mood.” He was referring to the moment when he’d interrupted as Locke was leaning toward me ready to . . . I’m not sure what. Whatever it was, it was enough to give him a woody.

  “Did something come up toward the end?” Jason asked.

  Other than his dick?“If it did, it must have been something small. He seemed OK to me. He was probably just tired, being sick and all.”

  “Yeah, that’s probably it,” Jason agreed, relieved. “So, what did you think of him?”

  “Amazing,” I said. “Everything I expected and more.”

  “I told you he is an amazing man. He’s just so good and so loving, well, sometimes people misinterpret his kindness, is all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jason looked at the wall about five inches to my left. Whatever he had on his mind, he didn’t want to be saying it. “Just, you know, how friendly he is. We live in such a cynical time. People aren’t always used to someone who’s so open with his feelings.”

  I wondered if there’d been any sexual harassment allegations against Locke. I’d have to remember to check Michael Roger’s BlogActive when I got home; he always had the scoop on closeted, hypocritical politicians.

  If I didn’t like Jason so much, I would have pressed further. But it was clear this topic made him uncomfortable. “No, everything was fine,” I assured him. “I’m really glad to have met him.”

  Jason looked grateful to be done with our conversation. “That’s great, Kevin. Now, I got some stuff to finish up tonight, but you go and get out of here.”

  After thanking him again and saying good night, I did. Jason locked the door behind me.

  36

  Fight I was about to walk home when I realized I needed to talk to someone about my big day of crazy. I took my iPhone from my pocket to call Tony. Crap. Forgot that wasn’t an option.

  Freddy, then. I remembered he was trying to contact me when I turned the phone off. I restarted t
he phone and it buzzed wildly in my hand. Twentytwo unread texts from Freddy, four from Andrew Miller, and voice mails from Freddy, Andrew, and my mother.

  Apparently it was the end of the world and I’d missed it. Everyone was trying to reach me.

  Everyone but Tony, that was.

  Fucker. I hoped his balls shrivel and fall off.

  Not that I was bitter.

  I skipped the messages and texts and called Freddy back. “What’s up?” I asked.

  “Where the fuck have you been?” Freddy barked.

  “Nice to talk to you, too.”

  “I’m serious. I’ve been trying to reach you.”

  “I know, I had the phone turned off. What’s the emergency?”

  “Where are you?” he asked. I told him.

  “Fine,” Freddy said. “I’m at Tea and Strumpets. Come meet me.”

  Tea and Strumpets was a local coffee bar/tea house/Internet café that was a popular hangout in my neighborhood. It was a fifteen-minute walk from Locke’s offices. I started downtown.

  “Let me go home and change first,” I said. I didn’t want to show up there in my Young Republican drag. Tea and Strumpets was the kind of place where you wanted to look hot, not like you were recruiting for the Mormons.

  “No time,” Freddy said. “Get your lily white ass here yesterday, Kevin.”

  “All right, all right,” I said, stepping up my pace. “What is this all about?”

  Freddy asked, “Do you really not know?”

  “No,” I said, suddenly anxious. “Can you just tell me what’s going on?”

  “Baby,” Freddy said, “you get over here and I’m going toshowyou what’s going on. This, you’re going to have to see to believe.”

  “You know I hate suspense,” I told him. “Would you just spill?”

  “If you’re talking,” Freddy said, “you’re walking. If I were you, I’d berunningdown here. Toodles, doll.” He hung up.

  I’m wearing the wrong shoes for this,I thought as I started jogging.

  As always, Tea and Strumpets was crowded. I saw Freddy at a table in the back. “Hey.” I waved.

  Freddy beckoned me over. As I walked back, I saw two guys I knew from my gym. I nodded at them and brushed past, intent on getting to Freddy.