Monkey Suits

by Jim Provenzano

  This went on for a few months, about four times a week. The phone would ring.

  “Are you available?” Tony’s faux-sexy voice would purr. Usually Brian was available, despite a pang of dread and excitement. He began to keep a stash of fifties in an envelope in his underwear drawer. Brian’s roommate seemed satisfied with Brian’s job description as a home fitness instructor. He probably wouldn’t have minded if Brian were honest with him, as long as he paid his half of the rent on the first of each month, which he did, in cash.

  He rarely met any of the other young men who were in Tony’s employ, except for one occasion where he visited Tony to cash a few credit card slips. Tony invited Brian to sit in his living room while he got some money. Relaxing on a couch and watching TV was a muscular guy in a black T-shirt, jeans, and boots.

  After Brian introduced himself, immediately regretting having given his real name, he maintained a stilted conversation with the guy. They both seemed embarrassed to be seen at Tony’s. They carefully skirted any talk of their whoring. The awkwardness and humiliation thickened the air between them, filled only by car commercials from the TV. Tony returned, cash in hand, and they parted company.

  Brian made a few attempts to get other jobs in addition to his escorting. He often found himself spending his income from whoring on silly things; expensive dinners alone, nightly video rentals, pricey clothes. He always felt best after visiting the Gaeity, overtipping the strippers, and a few times even renting an hour with a muscled stud, who usually joked about just who should be paying.

  It wasn’t their bodies, but the display that excited him, the sort of class reversal.

  To others, stripping may have been the lowest job above prostitution. But for Brian, the Latino muscle boys swinging their stiff cocks and dancing so fine, (and paying more attention, since he was usually the only patron under fifty), were profoundly honest in selling themselves, sometimes dating him for free. For that, Brian adored them, even envied them.

  His roommate at the time remained oblivious to his carnal commerce and subsequent relief mechanisms.

  Brian avoided thinking about why he kept taking escort jobs. Despite his good looks, he had something to prove, that if a man would pay money for him, he must be attractive. Keeping a day job that paid half as much seemed stupid. He spent a lot of time doing a lot of nothing, save working out at the gym, going to clubs and watching TV.

  Sometimes, however, the work was fun. As he became more experienced, once in a while Tony would call for “a special act.” He’d ask Brian to bring one of several costumes loaned to him. After arriving at the client’s hotel room with his duffel bag, followed by a change in the bathroom, out would pop Chip the tight end, complete with shoulder pads, helmet and black smudges under each cheek. Then it was Chip the highway patrolman, ready for Hide the Nightstick. The rough stuff turned him off, and anything that left marks was out, as Tony had no employee health care benefits.

  But Brian’s few trips to agents’ offices furthered his growing conviction that this might be his only paying gig. The walls of glossy head shots had almost leered at him, dozens of moussed haircuts, glistening eyes, airbrushed skin and white gleaming teeth, smiling, perpetually smiling. Like me. Please, please like me.

  The satisfied sighs of relief for his private performances left clients more than liking him.

  But it was a matter of health that drove the young beauty away from private prostitution. A rather paunchy chain-smoking gentleman with a tawdry Hell’s kitchen flat and a taste for Smirnoff and poppers took Brian for all he could get.

  After plying the boy with a drink (“Let’s just sit a while and get to know each other”), the paunchy man promised an extra hundred, and requested that Chip lie on his stomach and watch the television while getting fucked and moaning, “Stop it, Daddy! Stop it!”

  Why not, Brian figured. The guy wasn’t too big, and he hadn’t had it in the backside in a while. He wouldn’t even have to look at the guy.

  “Just put a rubber on.” Brian lay down, admiring the alcohol-induced blurred image of Joan Collins sporting a red lame gown on Dynasty.

  “Ya got any porn?”

  As he heard the familiar snap of latex behind him, he peered over his shoulder as the man prepared to mount him, rubber-sheathed joint aiming downward for the valley between his butt cheeks.

  What Brian didn’t know, as he winced from the initial pain, was that the condom was a few years old, pulled from the dank recesses of the gent’s bathroom cabinet. Midway through a rather clumsy fucking, the rubber tore a large hole and the man’s seed dispersed into Brian’s chute. Two days later Brian got a cold, flu and a nasty case of chlamydia, cousin of the clap, plus a bad case of AIDS paranoia.

  The bill for penicillin shots and pills spanked Brian back to reality. The day he was healthy enough, he visited Tony one last time to cash in three signed credit card slips and return several uniforms and props, including a football, whip, chains, leather harnesses, handcuffs and a red ostrich feather boa.

  The road back to legitimate employment was a difficult one. A test at a midtown temp agency revealed that his typing speed was fourteen words a minute, and his computer skills limited to Nintendo. He got a job at Tower Records, late shift.

  Following his escort days, Brian went through a period of straight boy obsessions and quite a few journeys into the sex clubs on the West Side. He’d missed the power of his whoring days, and to compensate, he’d simply get drunk after work, go to J’s or the Cellblock. It was at one of these late night encounters where he met Marcos Tierra. That night, or morning, rather, in Marcos’ bed (once again familiarizing himself with horizontal sex), Brian charmed Marcos into getting him an interview with Fabulous Food later that week, months ahead of the next training session.

  “Do you have a tuxedo?” Philipe had asked.

  “Yes,” he had lied.

  Brian spent a hundred fifty dollars of his escort money on a good used tux at the Antique Boutique and another forty on a stylishly Aryan haircut. A week later he was booked for an intimate affair at Sotheby’s.

  An Austrian jeweled dish: $30,000. Brancusi sculpture: $140,000. The piece of the evening, a Degas etching, sold for $300,000 to a Japanese investment corporation. Most of the high rollers weren’t seen. A phalanx of tense suited men walked back and forth from a bank of telephones.

  After the auction, the small reception overwhelmed Brian. People loomed over him, holding drinks and looking down as he stuttered to name the hors’ d’oeuvres. Twice he nearly tripped as large men barreled past him. They seemed to exude an air of dominance and assurance. Some of them, while not obese, seemed to burst with the power and wealth he had occasionally touched as an escort. Yet now their power seemed remote, contained in their bodies. He remembered a Creepy comic book from his youth, where a man on a desert island, while walking and talking, was actually quite dead, only animated by spiders, which burst from his corpse, spilling out of the rotting mouth, ears and eyes. He imagined some of these people vomiting gold coins and chains, as if the wealth coursed through their portly bodies.

  It was after that first party that he’d met Ritchie, who mentioned he was looking for a new roommate in his loft. Looking up at the half naked man, his curly hair and smooth chest striking in the crowded back room, Brian couldn’t resist. Less rent, more space and living with a guy this cute? He couldn’t say no, even if it was in Brooklyn.

  Although Ritchie turned out to be straight, he felt a bond with the guy, even after their drunken coupling that proved both Brian’s persistence and Ritchie’s quick return to heterosexuality.

  Brian dove into catering headlong, teasing the bookers over the phone in flirtatious tones he’d polished from his escort days. Still, it wasn’t enough, especially through the summer. He livd bumped around a few odd jobs, until, on a desperate night, looking for an older man who might buy him dinner, he walked into Christopher’s, a dark bar and restaurant on Christopher Street. An older man bought him a drink within
minutes, listened to his tale of economic woe and offered him a job. He was the manager.

  The Christopher’s job lasted a while, and so did Lee, whom he met there. Things got too sticky for Brian, and then Ed moved in with he and Ritchie. Brian felt free of his damaging passion, and almost forgot his less than legal days.

  Until Tony called.

  “How did you get my number?”

  “Your ex-roommate gave it to me.”

  “But I–”

  “Not to worry. I am always discreet,” Tony soothed. “I have a very special client for you. He has very unusual needs.”

  “I gave it up, Tony. I don’t need it anymore.”

  “He can pay six hundred.”

  “What is it, S and M?”

  “Nothing like that. But it is a bit elaborate. You have to sign a contract of confidentiality.”

  “Huh?”

  “He’s rather well-known, and must maintain his, um, private life.”

  “Must be loaded.”

  “Quite. Like I said, four hundred. Cash.”

  “Tasty.”

  “It’s also a bit unusual.”

  “Kinky?”

  “No, just ... unusual.”

  “When and where?”

  “Oh, you are a dependable devil.”

  At eleven that night, after signing a densely worded contract at Tony’s (he’d barely scanned the text), Brian went to the desk of the Helmsley Palace and picked up a key to a penthouse suite. After entering the silent yet lit front room, he entered the bedroom and took out his list of typed instructions:

  Lay out the black silk sheet in the bag on the bed

  Light the candles beside the bed

  Undress

  Shower and apply the ointment (on the dresser) to your body

  Blindfold yourself with the scarf

  Lay on the bed

  Wait

  Standing naked beside the bed, he poured the oil into his hands. It smelled of herbs and bitter animal fluids. He felt nervous, as if surely the man listened from the other closed door, or perhaps watched through a hole. He realized that rich people sometimes rented hotel rooms permanently. Maybe the guy lived here.

  Brian lay on the bed a few minutes before he heard a door softly open. A voice, gravelly, with a New England accent, whispered low. “You are beautiful.”

  Brian nearly responded. “Don’t speak,” the voice murmured. “Let me worship you.”

  Not once did Brian see the man’s face. It was a relief not having to pretend he was attracted to what was assuredly a sagging wrinkled portrait of wealth and success. He let his body feel each sensation as the man’s hands and tongue delicately trailed the path of his light stomach hairs and muscular contours. The hands gently brought Brian’s arms up and tied them softly to the bedposts with scarves. The hands continued stroking his thighs and chest. Brian grew hard. His erection pulsed up against his belly, slowly warmed by a sensitive mouth.

  “This is going to feel very unusual.” The voice said. “Don’t be afraid. You can wash it off later.” A warm trickle fell on his belly, causing him to twitch. More droplets fell on his cock and thighs. He heard a bottle set down on the nightstand next to him. The warm fluid spread over his skin, rubbed around by the hands. The smell was a spicy mixture, like a sort of sauce.

  The mouth suckled over his body, then swallowed his stiff penis, sucking slowly, drawing the surging orgasm from him. Brian gasped as the mouth continued, swallowing his bursts of sperm. He knew it was wrong. This wasn’t safe, yet it felt so good, and well, it was the other guy’s decision, anyway.

  Brian grew soft, but the mouth and hands continued, drawing his penis again to stiffness and to another orgasm. The hands and tongue licked the fluid from his skin, then finished.

  “Stay here for ten minutes. Then you can wash up and leave.” Feet padded lightly to the door, which opened and closed. Brian heard traffic rustling below him. The liquid cooled on his skin. A dribble ran down the inside of his thigh. He relaxed, nearly falling asleep. I am the best whore in a town of whores, he mused.

  At the time he had no interest in the identity of this strange client, for he was determined that this would be his last night as an escort.

  After what seemed like only five minutes, he easily pulled his wrists free of the scarves and sat up, removing the blindfold. On the black silk sheet between his legs lay six crisp unfolded one hundred-dollar bills.

  His body was smeared with blood.

  Lying on his own bed, still undressed and unshowered, with only a bagel and a cigarette for breakfast, Brian considered that night a mere odd slice of his past. He’d worked very hard to forget the panicked moments of that strange night, how he had jumped into the shower, holding his mouth closed under the freezing water, watching the blood thin as it swirled down the drain. He’d checked his skin for cuts and told himself it must have been animal blood. Only when he was clean could he giggle a moment, remembering his fear of showering as a kid after he’d seen Psycho.

  He hadn’t considered how lucky he’d been not to bump into any of his clients, at least the ones he’d remembered. Sometimes, at the oddest moments, when he cut a finger, watched a violent movie, or leaned over the shoulder of a seated party guest, he’d try not to wonder who that man might have been.

  He would soon discover that Manhattan could sometimes be a very small island.

  10 “Don’t play with the pumpkins!” commanded Craig, his white paper hat jutting up from his flushed face. He seemed like a life-size puppet behind the lengthy steel counter. Despite the complete kitchen MOMA offered, the meal was completely new, with recipes he’d only recently perfected. He wanted to scream at the waiters, their attitude and lax behavior infuriating him. They chattered like monkeys.

  Craig took another gulp of Sprite. It was tepid. He wanted to yell at the waiters again, but he knew the doors, perilously close to the dining room, disguised no kitchen noises. Lenny had twice warned him to keep them quiet.

  The line of waiters stood whispering among themselves.

  “Of course he’s going to win.”

  “Don’t remind me.”

  “You have to accept the inevitable.”

  “The inevitable holocaust.”

  “The Republican Party isn’t out to get every gay person in the country ...” John Kent paused a moment to consider his thoughts. A quite tall blond with somewhat gaunt English features, he was quietly arguing with Kevin Rook, whose patience was wearing thin as they stood in line.

  “Really?” Kevin countered. “Which ones? Just the bad ones? The drag queens? Straight-acting only need apply?”

  “Quiet down,” Lenny hissed.

  “Now, John, don’t get Kevin’s blood up.” Billy Heath, a short veteran waiter known for his impeccable Katherine Hepburn imitations, stepped between them. “He might inspire us all to riot if we’re not careful.” Billy patted Kevin’s shoulder as the flushed color faded from his cheeks. Kevin glared at John in a silent truce and focused on his balancing act with the soup. He turned back for a last stab.

  “You creatures make me sick, so desperate to please the people that would rather see you dead. Do you think they give a fuck whether you die? You’re like a pig eating bacon.”

  “Well, I don’t think America needs to see us screaming and yelling and throwing blood all over buildings to get what we want.”

  “And what is it you want? Real estate?”

  Billy cut in again. “C’mon boys. Let’s keep our heads.” Kevin turned his back, seething. Lee, who stood near him, caught his eye and offered a silent shrug of support. “I thought you looked great on CNN,” he added.

  Each waiter held a tray with a carved open pumpkin the size of a basketball. The holiday theme was further accented by garni of autumn leaves, which also matched the centerpieces. They were supposed to be simply plucked from nearby Central Park trees.

  However, the warm autumn weather had yet to bleed the green from the foliage, and a bag of artificial autumnal
leaves had been bought from a prop store on the West Side for three hundred dollars.

  As they approached the huge steaming tureen, a second chef poured the smooth ochre soup into the row of severed pumpkin heads. A third chef wiped away any drips.

  “Do we get to make jack o’lanterns after dinner?” quizzed Billy Heath. Having worked for Fabulous for six years, he got away with such remarks.

  “Of course,” answered Craig quietly. “And we’ll use your head as a model.” Shushing commands immediately followed low laughter.

  What could have been an audacious and tacky appetizer was swiftly elevated to the stature of genius through Philipe’s careful and strict rule: Presentation is everything. The waiters swirled out in a careful trail, going from the center host table and spiraling outward to the lesser important tables. The guests applauded in patters of appreciation.

  Lee arrived at his table to find two seats empty, and a man who could only politely be called portly puffing on a rather odorous cigar. The other guests were obviously annoyed by the smoke. Judging from the table arrangement, he surmised that the obnoxious smoker was the host of the table, and above criticism. He wondered if the fat man would continue to smoke throughout the meal. He was about to request that the gentleman extinguish his cigar, as the room was a non-smoking area. He did remember that this was untrue for the evening at least, and that there were five clear glass ashtrays on the table, but he didn’t want to let that stop him.

  What did stop him was the figure of Philipe standing three yards away, silently regarding Lee’s serving technique. He felt simultaneously honored and horrified. As he ladled the soup into the white china bowls, the guests pulled back with a combination of caution and admiration.

  “That looks rather fattening,” commented an elderly woman in a black fur-lined gown. The tint of her hair almost matched the pumpkin.

  “Oh, it’s quite good,” Lee assured.