A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  “Yes, just like that,” he said.

  I jerked him, tight and fast, how I liked it myself. He convulsed, then dug his heels into the mattress and arched backward. He’d pulled the sweater up past his nipples so that when he shot, it missed the fabric and splattered across his finely-honed chest.

  My cock tingled with the oncoming release, my balls knotted tight, and I yanked impatiently, wanting to join Arden in his bliss. Ripples of pleasure took hold as the tension I’d been holding onto for hours suddenly eased. I pitched forward and shot on top of his, making a beautiful mess. Arden lay there panting, trapped under a pile of cum. His neck and face were still flush with color while a lazy smile played at his lips. Was this what his clients paid for? To see such a pretty thing ruined?

  I buried the thought.

  Somewhere along the way, he’d closed the laptop, so there was no longer any pretense of being aroused by the video and not each other. I was relieved I wouldn’t have to see that twink manhandled any more. We caught our breath, staring dumbly at each other, until at last, Arden said, “there are wipes in the bathroom.”

  I took that as my cue to button up and retrieve them. I wiped him clean and deposited the mess in the trash. When I returned, Arden still wore that sweater, hitched halfway up his stomach so his skin could dry. Nothing else. As erotic as a freshly fucked pin-up, he could definitely sell me on some new bedsheets.

  “Do friends cuddle?” he asked drowsily.

  “Definitely,” I said, still drunk from my orgasm, from being allowed to touch him and bring him to climax with my mouth and hands. Arden pulled back the bedding and invited me inside, then scooted his bare ass backward until it was cradled in my groin. My cock stirred and Arden pressed more firmly against me. His feet were ice cold where they brushed against my shins, but the rest of him was so warm and inviting. I buried my nose in his hair, and for a few minutes, simply breathed him in.

  “Let me help you with your memoir,” I said after a while. Arden stilled in my arms, and I drew him closer. “I’m between projects, and I need something to do.”

  “For payment?” he asked.

  “No, as friends.”

  “Friends,” Arden echoed. “Friends who fuck?”

  “Friends who enjoy each other’s company. My father has property upstate. We could spend a few days there and work on it together. How does that sound?”

  Arden was quiet for a moment, so I added, “No expectations.”

  “I might like another blowjob,” he said, “as friends.”

  “As many as you want,” I assured him with a light brush of my lips to the nape of his neck. The tension in his shoulders slowly melted away, and he settled again into my arms.

  “I’d like your help,” he said at last. “You’re a good writer, and it’s important to me that I get it right.”

  I didn’t know what it might mean to get it wrong, but I wasn’t in the mood to ask questions. I nuzzled him closer and drifted to sleep with his scent in my nostrils, his soft skin warm against my own.

  The next morning, Arden was gone with a note explaining that he’d had an early appointment. There was also an invitation to help myself to breakfast. I opened his kitchen cabinets to find the strangest thing—rows upon rows of canned goods, alphabetized and arranged so that they faced outward at the same exact angle. Was he like that psychopath from Sleeping with the Enemy? His refrigerator was organized the same way, every condiment lined up with military precision. I checked the bathroom and found, to my relief, that the towels were not evenly hung.

  I didn’t want to risk ruining his careful arrangement, so I texted him “good morning” with dates that would work for me to get out of town.

  While in transit, Franco called me with an invitation to meet for lunch. I was about to blow him off when he casually mentioned, “It’s about your boyfriend.”

  5

  the rumors

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said to Franco a little while later. We’d met at a deli in Hanover Square near Franco’s office since he was on his lunch hour. Franco ordered a Rueben. I ordered a BLT.

  “Seemed like it to me.”

  “We’re keeping it casual.”

  “You?” he scoffed. His blue eyes looked even brighter against his olive complexion. His appearance was impeccable as always—thick, black hair slicked back with the aid of product and a power suit that accentuated his angular lines. I had a thing for men who were taller than me, men who carried themselves with confidence; they drew my eye and held it.

  Meanwhile I still wore my wrinkled clothes from last night, something Franco noticed immediately.

  “Where was this ‘keeping it casual’ man when we were together?” Franco asked.

  I shook my head. “We weren’t together, Franco. We fucked when you didn’t have anyone better to fool around with.”

  He made a face. “What about last time. When we were trying to make it work?”

  “And I caught you having shower sex with another man? Without my knowledge or consent.”

  “But I loved you best,” he said, something he’s always maintained, only by now, it felt like a joke.

  “You were dishonest. We’re better as friends. No need to revisit it. Now, what’s this about Arden?”

  Franco popped a salt and vinegar chip into his mouth, then wiped his greasy fingertips along the paper napkin he’d tucked into his collar to protect his silk tie.

  “Marquis noticed his bracelet. Did you?”

  Marquis, Franco’s date last night.

  “No. Why would I?”

  Franco pulled up his phone, scrolled for a minute, then showed me Arden’s Instagram feed. The picture was of a starstruck Arden accompanied by a severe, well-dressed man, older than Arden by at least twenty years. Both of them wore stylish tuxes. The caption said the picture was taken at the Met Gala.

  “What am I looking at?” I asked Franco.

  Franco shook his head as if threatening to revoke my gay card. “That’s Matteo Giacomo. A very famous fashion designer.”

  “Arden is a model.” Seemed innocent enough.

  “He’s wearing the same bracelet.”

  “Okay.”

  “Giacomo designed that bracelet. It has diamonds on the inside of the band where no one can even see them. It’s worth a fortune.”

  “Arden has a $700 shirt from Issey Miyake.”

  “A gold bracelet isn’t a shirt,” Franco insisted. “It’s an extravagant gift to a kept boy. They’re fucking.”

  It might be true—maybe this Matteo character was Arden’s mysterious benefactor—but my hackles were up. Why couldn’t Franco mind his own goddamned business?

  “He has racks of clothing from modeling shoots. He can’t be fucking all of them,” I said hotly.

  “It’s that kind of business,” Franco said as if he were the authority on such matters. “¿Como se dice? Predatory.”

  I glared at him. “So, what if they are fucking?”

  He looked stunned for a moment, then his cunning eyes narrowed. “You knew? That he’s a prostitute?”

  “Escort.” I wasn’t sure if there was a difference, but the picture proved Arden was desired for his company as well as… other things.

  “You’re dating a hooker,” Franco crowed a little too joyously.

  “Keep your voice down,” I hissed. “It’s none of your business what Arden does for money. Besides, I’m helping him with his memoir.”

  He blinked as though I’d said something incomprehensible. “A memoir?”

  “Yes, a memoir. It’s a story about your own life. Kind of like an autobiography.” Even though Franco was fluent in English, there were sometimes words he didn’t recognize.

  “Does your father know about this?”

  My father wouldn’t approve of Arden’s sex work, nor would he approve of me helping someone else with their writing project when I was supposed to be working on my own. “It’s none of my father’s business who I’m dating.”

 
; “So, you are dating?” Franco said, victorious.

  “Friends,” I amended.

  “Liam is going to shit a brick,” Franco gloated, excited at the prospect. I’d taught him a lot of Americanisms over the years. Shit a brick was one of his favorites. He’d been stupid drunk when I’d first explained it to him.

  “You’re being extremely judgy right now, Franco,” I said. “You’re a man whore, and Marquis is a stripper, for Christ’s sake.”

  “He’s a dancer,” Franco corrected.

  “Who gives lap dances with his ass hanging out. I was there when you met him, remember?”

  “That’s my type, Mikey, but you…” He shook his head in mock disappointment.

  “Me what?”

  “You won’t even date outside of Manhattan. And now you’re spending your nights with a prostitute with a criminal past.”

  “He’s not a criminal”

  Franco leaned forward and sniffed. “Jesus, I can smell him on you. What do you even know about him?”

  I leaned back to put some aromatic distance between us. “I know that he’s from Florida,” I said defensively, “and his favorite book is The Old Man and the Sea.”

  “And he was an alcoholic at twelve.”

  “Well, you’re an alcoholic at thirty.” I motioned to his beer, his second, as evidence.

  “I have a stressful job,” Franco sputtered, his bravado wilting because I’d hurt his feelings. “We can’t all be bestselling authors.”

  I dragged my hands down my face and stared at him. “I appreciate you looking out for me, Franco. And my compliments to Marquis for his Instagram sleuthing. Arden is a friend, and he’s been nothing but honest with me. If I need rescuing, I’ll blink twice, okay?”

  Franco shook his head. “I’m trying to prevent another broken heart. And a scandal. And a ruined laptop. Is your work secure?”

  “Yes,” I said like a scolded child. He’d made me promise to back up my work regularly after the last incident.

  “That’s good. You don’t want to lose your Pulitzer Prize because your boyfriend goes loco en el coco.” He thunked my head with his knuckle to make his point.

  I pushed back from the table, feeling scummy and suddenly in need of a shower. I’d wanted to broach the subject of Franco helping Arden with his finances but not anymore.

  “Thanks for lunch. I’ll get you back next time.”

  Franco smiled. There was a smudge of Russian dressing on his upper lip. Maybe he wouldn’t notice, and he’d go back to work like that. “So long, Romeo.”

  I grunted in response. No sooner had I boarded a train to make my way home when Liam called me.

  “We need to talk about your boyfriend.”

  “Liam, I’m on the subway. I’ll call you later.” I had to shout because of the background drone of machinery.

  “You headed home?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Fine. I’ll meet you there.”

  Where was the goddamned fire? I hung up with Liam, still irritated by my conversation with Franco. Was he only looking out for me, or was it some weird jealousy thing? Twenty minutes later Liam was waiting for me outside my building in the Lower East Side. There was no fancy lobby or concierge at my place, just a nondescript door which led to a narrow stairwell and a small landing where my bike was chained to the metal railing. My apartment was situated above a hat shop, which meant it was usually quiet at night, rare for this neighborhood.

  “How long have they been working on that?” Liam jerked his thumb at the construction project across the street. A fancy high-rise was going up about fifty feet from my balcony-slash-fire-escape. Some days the workers were there until eleven at night busting up concrete with jackhammers. It was disruptive, but it gave me an excuse to not be writing.

  “Months. Not sure when it’s going to be finished.”

  “You do love to slum it,” Liam said.

  I decided not to read into his comment. I’d deal with a lot more bullshit if it meant being financially independent from my father. The place was mine, and the relatively inexpensive rent allowed me some wiggle room if my books fell short of my publisher’s expectations. Or if it took me longer than usual to write my next novel.

  I led him into my apartment. It had great natural light coming in from the windows, and the floors were the original hardwood, recently refinished. One of the walls was exposed brick, which I thought gave the place character. It also had a stackable washer and dryer and a second bedroom that I used as an office, both of which sold me on the place initially.

  Liam took me up on my offer to fix him a drink, so I mixed us both seltzer with Limoncello and a little mint as a refresher. I brought the drinks to the fire escape where Liam was appraising the workers across the street.

  “I need a man who does hard labor,” Liam said. “Someone gritty with dirt underneath his fingernails who comes home sweaty and stinking, and I have to tell him to leave his dirty work boots by the door.”

  “That’s… specific.”

  “Or maybe a fireman. I like those suspenders they wear. I could snap it against his hardbody chest. His face would be all sooty from saving lives.”

  I was scandalized by this rare glimpse into Liam’s fantasies. He was normally so reserved about such things.

  “Feeling horny right now, Liam?”

  “Terribly. I wish there was construction going on near my place.”

  “They have a blue-collar night at Carousel. Marquis could probably introduce you to someone.”

  He glared at me like I’d offended him. “That would be a short-term solution to a long-term problem.”

  I didn’t know the full story because it was something Liam rarely spoke about, but some old-fashioned relation had set up Liam’s trust fund with the stipulation that he had to marry by age thirty or forfeit his piece of the Bickel pie. Liam had little more than a year left to figure it out.

  “You don’t have to marry the guy,” I said, trying to be helpful.

  “If only I possessed your charms,” Liam said flatly.

  “You just have to bite that forked tongue of yours. Don’t try to one-up a man or prove your smarter than him, at least not right away.”

  Liam considered my advice, took a sip of his drink, then turned to me.

  “I have a friend who went to Brown. I asked him about your friend Arden. He told me an interesting story.”

  I sat back against the railing and let the cool breeze mellow my mood.

  “I don’t care what it is. It’s in the past.”

  “Don’t you think it may have some relevance to his character. A leopard doesn’t change its spots.”

  “What was he, eighteen? Nineteen? We all do stupid shit at that age. Jesus, you and Franco are so far up my ass about him.”

  “What did Franco say?”

  Now I’d done it.

  “Nothing. Go on, tell me your story. Get it out of your system.”

  “Well, my friend said that while he was a T.A., there was a terrible scandal that broke about a student trading sexual favors with a professor in exchange for a passing grade. There were pictures that circulated. And a video. The professor got fired. The student was put on probation.”

  “And the student was Arden?” I asked.

  “None other.”

  “I thought Brown didn’t have grades.”

  “You still have to pass the class.”

  “What was the subject?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “What was the subject the professor taught?”

  “Oh, something introductory. Economics?”

  “He told me he was bad at math.”

  Liam snickered, then stared at me. “You’re serious.”

  “He spent several years on a boat without any formal education until high school. He’s self-taught.”

  “How did he get into Brown in the first place?”

  “He said he wrote an essay.”

  “Their admissions requirements have bee
n backsliding for a while.”

  “He’s smart, okay? Just because he…” I didn’t want to complete that sentence. It felt disloyal. And Arden wasn’t even there to defend himself.

  “Just because he traded sex for a grade?” Liam offered.

  “We’ve all done things we’re not proud of. It happened years ago. I’m not going to hold that against him.”

  “Haven’t you wondered why a man as attractive as him is dating you in the first place?”

  “We’re not dating.”

  “Fucking, then.”

  “It’s not for my fortune. Or for my apartment, according to you.”

  “Who do you think will take over your father’s business when he retires?” Liam asked impatiently.

  “That’s a long game if ever there was one.” I decided to take it a step farther and be even more ridiculous. “Maybe he’s an aspiring author and wants me to show my father his unpublished manuscript.”

  “That’s probably it,” Liam said as though we’d solved the mystery of why a beautiful man like Arden would trifle with a toad like me.

  I scoffed at that. “Or maybe he likes me because I’m a likable guy and not terrible to look at. Look, we enjoy each other’s company, and like I told Franco, I can take care of myself. I don’t need you all dumping on Arden or digging into his past. Let a man have his secrets.”

  “Well,” Liam huffed. “I thought you’d appreciate the information.”

  “I don’t.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “I won’t.”

  Liam then said he had plans to meet up with Charlemagne and some other writers to workshop their poems. “You’re welcome to join,” he added. “I’m sure we could offer you feedback on whatever it is you’re working on.”

  “Maybe next time.” I wouldn’t survive Liam’s circle of magpies. I’d freely admit that my skin wasn’t thick enough. “And if I happen to bring Arden around again, don’t try to embarrass him like you did last night. It wasn’t nice, and I won’t tolerate it.”