First You Fall

by Scott Sherman

  “No we weren’t,” I shouted back at him. Freddy frowned. I shouted at him. “I swear. Stop looking at me like that.”

  Freddy leaned over into the car and dropped his voice an octave. “Listen, man. You want to deal with my boy, here, you gots to deal with me. I’m his pimp, and unless you show me five hundred large real quick, we’re gonna have us some problems.”

  The man showed his appreciation for Freddy’s words by demonstrating just how quickly a real y nice car can accelerate.

  “Asshole,” I yel ed after him. Then, to Freddy: “That guy was trying to get me to go with him for sixty bucks!”

  “How much were you charging?” Freddy asked.

  “Nothing! I’m tel ing you, I was just walking, wel, leaning, and the guy pul ed over and propositioned me.”

  “You were standing out here dressed like that and you’re shocked that someone thought you were hustling?”

  I had to laugh. I twirled around for him, showing off my trampy style. “You like?”

  Freddy looked at me hungrily. He dropped his bags and pul ed me towards him. He ground his crotch into mine.

  “I like,” he said hotly into my ear.

  Damn, he was built.

  An old woman stepping into her building yel ed at us, “Get a room!”

  I laughed and pushed Freddy away.

  “No, seriously,” Freddy said, picking up his bags.

  “Why are you dressed, wel, half-dressed, like that?”

  “It’s a long story,” I said. “Come on, I’l tel you about it over a snack.”

  Freddy and I went to a nearby Starbucks. Freddy’s heavy flirting with the boy at the counter doubled the amount of time it took to get our coffees.

  I told Freddy about my meeting with Roger Folds.

  He listened careful y, only looking at Starbucks Boy half the time I was talking. When I told him about Roger Folds’s connection to Michael Harrington, he jumped in.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. “I wanted to tel you I asked some people at work if they ever heard of The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy.”

  Freddy was the director of administration at a local AIDS services center.

  “And?”

  “Some of the counselors have clients who went there. They said it was a pretty fucked-up place.

  They put al this pressure on you to ‘change.’ A lot of guilt and lecturing and nagging. You know, kind of like your mother.”

  “‘Kind of?’” I asked.

  “Yeah, wel, when I say ‘kind of’ I mean ‘exactly.’

  But even worse, if you can imagine it. It sounds like they try to brainwash you. I guess it takes a lot to repress someone’s basic instincts, huh,” Freddy said. “Speaking of which, I wonder what Sharon Stone’s up to these days. I always did think she was underrated as an actress.”

  “That reminds me, I have to tel you something about Paul Harrington.”

  “He knows Sharon Stone?” Freddy asked excitedly.

  “No, what you said about repression.” I told him about May’s comment that Al en thought his son might be gay.

  “Wel, duh,” Freddy responded, bored. “I already told you that. I don’t understand how you can be such a big street streetwalking whore when you have the world’s worst gaydar.”

  “I’m not a streetwalking whore,” I said a little too loudly.

  Starbucks Boy, whose name tag read Colin, started cleaning the table next to us. Which, by the way, was already clean. I had the feeling he didn’t often walk out from behind the counter, but somehow, with Freddy around, he had a sudden urge to straighten up.

  “Hey, I’m not putting you down. I love dick, too,”

  Freddy also said loudly, and not for my benefit.

  “Maybe we could start a club,” Colin chimed in, taking the bait.

  “You know, you’d be charming if you could just get over your shyness,” I said to Freddy.

  Freddy grinned, not taking his eyes off Colin’s butt as the coffee slinger bent over to pick a napkin off the floor.

  “Don’t be petty,” Freddy cautioned.

  Colin came over. “So, are you two together?” he asked Freddy.

  “Only for the coffee,” Freddy said.

  “Good.” Colin handed Freddy a card from his wal et. “Here’s my number.”

  “Oh, I think I got your number,” Freddy said, taking the card from him.

  Colin gave me and my outfit a long look. “Your friend is cute, too,” he said to Freddy, “but I don’t think I could afford him. You’re not a cal boy, too, are you?”

  My mouth dropped open. “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Sitting right here.”

  They ignored me. “I know,” Freddy mock-whispered. “He’s a little obvious. But when you’re working the streets, you can’t afford to be discreet.”

  “Hey!” I said.

  “Doesn’t it scare you?” Colin asked me. “Just going with anyone?”

  “I don’t just ‘go with anyone,’” I hissed. “I’m not a whore.”

  “Wel, not that kind of whore,” Freddy clarified, smirking.

  “I hate you,” I told him. Then, to Colin, “I’m glad to see you’re not afraid of catching my friend’s scabies.”

  “Scabies?” Colin asked.

  “Little mites that live under the skin. Extremely itchy and unpleasant. Very contagious, too.”

  “Mites?” Colin wasn’t the brightest light on the tree.

  “Bugs.”

  Colin looked terrified.

  “You have bugs under your skin?” he asked Freddy.

  “My friend’s just funning you,” Freddy said. He stood and pul ed up his T-shirt. “See,” he said.

  “Does that look like scabies to you?”

  One look at Freddy’s flawless abdominals was enough to convince Colin that he’d suffer far worse than a skin infection to run his tongue down those furrowed ridges.

  He put his hand on Freddy’s bel y. “Cal me.”

  Then he turned to me. “Maybe you’re the one with the scabies. Given your line of work and al.” He walked away triumphantly.

  Freddy snorted coffee through his nose.

  “Very attractive,” I told him. “Now can we get back to work?”

  Freddy and I talked some more about my conversation with Roger. Freddy asked to see my to-do list. He knows I’m lost without it.

  I handed him my iPhone.

  1. Fol ow up with Roger Folds-fight?

  2. Talk to Randy Bostinick

  3. Research Paul and Michael Harrington.

  4. Look into those gay suicides-was that true?

  5. Fuck Tony

  “Hmm,” Freddy said, “let’s start with number five.”

  “Magic Eight Bal says ‘future looks dim’ on that one.”

  “Oh, sorry to hear that,” Freddy said. “You real y need to get laid.”

  “I get laid almost every day.”

  “I mean by someone who’s not paying for it.”

  “Details, details,” I sighed.

  Freddy gave the list another look. “OK, you took care of number one. Why not just work your way down?”

  I took the list back. “Talk to Randy, huh?”

  “He should be at the gym tomorrow.”

  “You know, even before I talked to Roger, Tony had me halfway convinced that Al en real y did kil himself.”

  “And now?” Freddy asked.

  “Now, I guess I have more reason to think it might be true, but I stil can’t believe it.”

  “Just talk to Randy. I’ve watched enough episodes of JAG to know that you fol ow up on every lead.”

  “You watch JAG?” I asked. I couldn’t think of a straighter show. Wel, maybe Everybody Loves Raymond.

  “Did you ever see that guy who plays the lead?”

  “Jag?”

  “I’m not sure if that’s his name, or just the name of the show. I don’t actual y have the sound on. But who cares about that. I have something to add to your list.”


  “What’s that?”

  “We should go to Michael’s Harrington’s place.

  The Center for Creative Cunnilingus, or whatever it is. Check it out.”

  “Talk with Michael?”

  “Naw, that lovely little chat we had with him at the reading of his father’s wil was more than enough for me, darling. But let’s see what his organization is like. I think they have open houses where they tel you about their programs.”

  “Do you real y think we should?”

  “Honey, what would Farrah Fawcett Majors do?”

  “Are we JAG or Charlie’s Angels here? You’re mixing your metaphors.”

  “We watch JAG, but we are Charlies Angels, OK? I’m the glamorous Farrah and you can be the serious one, what’s-her-name? The one from that movie with that cutie from the Rookies. What was it cal ed? My Husband’s a Fag?”

  “Kate Jackson. And it was Michael Onkean and the movie was Making Love. For its time, it was actual y a pretty daring film about a closeted married man who…”

  Freddy rol ed his eyes. “Tangent, darling, tangent.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “Like al that talk about JAG and Charlie’s Angels was so on topic. Speaking of which, how come you get to be Farrah?”

  Freddy pul ed his T-shirt down, stretching it across his chiseled pecs. “Honey, check out the boobage.

  It’s al about the nipples.”

  CHAPTER 11

  Is That a Foot in My Lap or Are You Happy to See Me?

  The next morning I woke up at six, groaned, turned to go back to sleep, and remembered that I had to meet Randy at the gym. Shit. I dragged my ass out of bed and was about to make a protein shake when I realized something amazing. I heard no crashing pans, no loud snoring, and no invitations to “wake and embrace the day.” Just silence.

  My mother was stil sleeping.

  Final y, a little peace. I had my drink, took my meds, grabbed a quick shower, shaved the usual places, and began the important task of choosing my outfit for the gym. I needed something tasteful, yet erotic, simple, but seductive, revealing but not too… aw fuck, let’s face it: I needed to dress like a whore again. Randy wasn’t the type to be interested in my sparkling conversation.

  I threw on a pair of skimpy, almost translucent white running shorts with side slits. Truthful y, they looked more like underwear than pants. I squeezed into a tight little white T-shirt that has a picture of a basebal player and the word “Catcher” on it. I put on sneakers with no socks, a combination I found unsanitary but sexy. I took a look at myself in the mirror and realized there was just one thing missing: Nipple action. Freddy was right: It’s al about the boobage.

  There’s an old stripper trick I learned from the movi e Showgirls. If you apply ice cubes to your nipples, they’l harden and stick out. Knowing how much Randy liked juicy tits, I figured I better meet him with my headlights on high.

  I grabbed two ice cubes from the freezer and held them to my chest. But they melted too quickly and started dripping onto my shorts. Shit, I looked like I wet myself. I wanted to look excited to see Randy, but not that excited. I stripped off the shorts, put the ice cubes back on my chest, and leaned over so that the drips would fal harmlessly into the kitchen sink.

  “What, I shudder to ask, are you doing?”

  My mother was standing behind me.

  I dropped the ice cubes.

  “Mom!” I screamed. “Hel o! Naked here! Could you give me a minute?”

  “Oh, please, like I haven’t seen that little tushy a mil ion times.” She swatted my ass.

  “Mom!”

  “Could you please stop screaming like that, darling? Maybe we can save the outraged ‘Moms’ until after I’ve had my coffee.” She reached around me to fil the pot.

  I grabbed some paper towels off the rol by the sink and wrapped them around my waist.

  “What were you doing, anyway?” my mother asked. She looked in the sink, then at me.

  “My lord, were you icing your nipples?”

  If I turned any redder, I would have exploded.

  “Mom!”

  “Again with the ‘Mom!’” she got herself a cup.

  “I was not,” I said through gritted teeth, “icing my nipples.”

  “Liar. Look at those things. You could take someone’s eye out.”

  “Listen,” I told her. “I real y am going to die if you say one more word.”

  “I used to do the same thing before my dates with your father, may the Lord rest his soul.”

  “Dad’s not dead,” I reminded her, pul ing on my skimpy shorts.

  “Wel, not yet,” she said a little wistful y.

  I threw on my shirt and hurried to the door. “I gotta run.”

  “Wait!” my mother cried after me. “You forgot your pants!”

  Randy worked out at Pexx, a hot new gym in Tribeca. His magnificent body had made Randy a bit of a legend in NYC gyms and he usual y belonged to the best and newest ones. This was partly because A. new gyms often hired him to create some buzz, and B. he had already slept with al the real y hot guys at his last gym, so why not move on?

  I took a cab to Pexx and arrived there sweaty and aggravated. Like most taxi drivers, this one didn’t believe in using air conditioning. I growled as I handed him the fare.

  Pexx was a high tech gym, al stainless steel and industrial carpeting. The air was chil ed to a polar degree-I could have skipped the ice. Electronic dance music pounded from invisible speakers. I went to the front desk and told them I was thinking of joining. They gave me a day pass and I was in.

  I walked into the weight room and spotted Randy right away. Al I had to do was fol ow the stares of half the guys in the room.

  Randy was lying on an exercise bench doing chest presses. He was wearing baggy green basketbal shorts. The curve of his red underwear, and the throbbing menace within, was clearly visible.

  His muscles bulged obscenely beneath his tight tank top. His arms looked as hard and smooth as marble straining beneath the heavy weight.

  I remembered my own workout straining beneath Randy’s heavy weight and felt a tingling in my groin.

  Stop that, you’re here on a mission.

  Randy finished his set and sat up, bumping his head on the weight bar. He rubbed his head, cursed, and looked up. His eyes rol ed in their sockets. If this were a cartoon, he’d have stars and little bluebirds circling around his head.

  Then he saw me. “Kevin,” he shouted.

  He jumped off the bench and picked me up, effortlessly spinning me around. “You look tasty as ice cream,” he said, hugging me close.

  “Thanks, you too.”

  His hugging started to turn into grinding. “No, I mean real y, real y great,” he said huskily. “You know I always was kind of sweet on you. Such a hot little-brother piece of trim you are.” He grabbed my ass. “I missed these cupcakes.”

  Randy spoke his own language of primal needs: everything was either sex or food. I pushed myself away. “What a surprise to see you here,” I lied.

  Randy looked me up and down. I don’t know if eyes can smolder, but his seemed about to burst into flames. Al this sexual attention was starting to get to me.

  “Come on, work in with me,” Randy offered. I looked at the three forty-five-pound weights on each side of the bar. “What,” Randy smirked, “want me to throw some more crackers on that?”

  “Ha-ha,” I said, “very funny.” I walked around to the back of the bench. “How about I spot you?”

  Randy lay back down. “How about you just stand there and inspire me.” In this position, he was looking right up my shorts. “I see London, I see France…” he began.

  “Just lift,” I said. And he did, impressively, his body a perfect symphony of strength and symmetry.

  And he was right-he didn’t need the spot at al.

  I stood there for two more sets, and we made some smal talk. Randy continued to flirt outrageously, and I continued to remind myself that I didn’t come here to g
et laid. I needed to know what he knew about Al en’s death.

  I was trying to figure out how to bring up Topic A when Randy sat up.

  “Your turn.” He took two plates off each side. This I could handle.

  I lay on the bench and grabbed the bar. Randy’s crotch loomed like heaven above me. His cotton-enclosed cock coiled menacingly.

  It seemed to be growing.

  I felt myself hardening in sympathetic response.

  “Look at you down there,” Randy whispered huskily. “So fucking sweet and creamy. Such a smooth milkshake of a boy. I could slurp you right up.”

  I put my hands on the bar to lift, but my blood seemed to be rushing elsewhere.

  “I could rip those shorts right off with my teeth,”

  Randy purred.

  My eyes were riveted to his growing crotch, which seemed to be lowering.

  Growing and lowering.

  Then al of a sudden his half-hard cock slipped out of his underwear and flopped on my forehead.

  “Hey!” I sat up suddenly.

  This is when I learned A Very Important Lesson that should be part of every SAT study course: In an accident where a rapidly ascending big head impacts a slowly descending little head, the little head is going to get hurt.

  Or, in simpler turns, when you head butt someone in the crotch, it’s gonna hurt.

  “Shit!” Randy screamed. He grabbed his bal s and doubled over. “Holy fuck!”

  I jumped off the bench and put my hand on his back. “Sorry, sorry, I got kind of startled.”

  “Ow!” Randy hopped up and down a little before crouching again. “Fuck me, that hurts!”

  “OK, OK,” I said, “I’m sorry.” I waited a few minutes until he seemed to be breathing normal y again.

  “I feel terrible,” I said, flinging back my bangs and biting my lower lip. It’s one of my most seductive moves. “Let me buy you a protein shake and make it up to you.”

  Randy nodded. “You got it, little man. And then we can talk about why you real y came here.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked him.

  “You didn’t come here just to work out, did you?

  You think I aced Al en Harrington.”

  Holy shit. “I do?”

  “Wel, I figured as much when you saw me there that night,” Randy said.