A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  “Well, it’s not as if they shared their most recent tax returns,” Liam said in Franco’s defense. “I’m sure the dancers here are compensated well enough to pay for a meal.”

  “He could have offered,” Franco said. “I still would have paid, but he could have at least offered.”

  This was met with Liam’s nod of approval, and all three looked at me.

  “I’d like to point out that their relationship began with an exchange of cash. Unless it was talked about explicitly, that would lead anyone to assume that Franco would be footing the bill.”

  “Have any of you ever been hungry?” Arden asked. His question was met with an awkward silence. None of us had. “I’m not talking about a twinge in your stomach because you’ve skipped lunch. I’m talking about drinking hot water and pretending it’s soup. Or cooking the noodles for an extra-long time so that they bloat before you eat them. I’m talking hunger pains that don’t go away.”

  Franco threw up his hands dramatically. “I was born rich. How can you blame me for that?”

  “When you’re hungry like that, it changes your perspective. And the things you thought you’d never do—acts that others might consider degrading or humiliating—none of that matters when you’re faced with the alternative of literally starving.”

  “I never made him do anything he didn’t want to do,” Franco said defensively.

  “Imagine you meet a man of some wealth, and from day one, he dazzles you. He presents himself as someone who has the resources to ease your financial burden. He’s sweet and charming and generous. He takes you to nice restaurants, buys you gifts, compliments your appearance, and on top of that, he’s not terrible in bed.”

  “Not terrible,” Franco scoffed.

  “So, you think that’s how he shows his affection. He knows you work hard for your money, and he wants to spoil you. And isn’t it nice, after all that sweat and grind, to sit back and be spoiled a little bit?”

  “That’s why I did it,” Franco insisted. “Because he’s special.”

  “But then, all of a sudden, that same man turns those kind gestures against you, makes you feel like you’re beneath him, that you owe him for his generosity. And now, it’s not about helping each other as a team. It’s a transaction, tit for tat, and it feels like a job. The man is acting like a regular old john and treating you like a thing. So, you say, fuck it. He can keep his fancy dinners and his mediocre cock. I’d rather stick to Top Ramen and eat alone.”

  Was Arden still talking about Marquis and Franco, or was this about his relationship with Matteo?

  “Are you saying my cock is mediocre?” Franco said at last, his takeaway. Despite his two shots and Tom Collins, he looked completely sober.

  Arden patted his arm affectionately. “I’m only presenting a theory. I’m sure he still considers your cock above average.”

  “But the other things. You think that’s what I did?”

  “That’s what it sounds like you did.”

  “You’re making a lot of assumptions,” Liam said curtly.

  “Maybe,” Arden said, “but so did Franco.”

  Franco sat back in his chair and nursed his second drink, brooding, and I said to Arden, “I think you broke his brain.”

  “He’s better off knowing, I think.”

  Did I admire him more because he stood his ground? Absolutely. Liam was eyeing the dance floor and Franco was having an existential crisis, so I grabbed Arden’s hand and rested it on my erection to show him just how much I’d enjoyed his display. He turned to me with a flirtatious smile.

  “You like it when I’m mean to your friends?” he purred.

  “Not mean, just honest. You should argue with me more.”

  “But we always agree,” he said, massaging my cock through the cumbersome fabric. He was wrong about that. On things of little consequence, like what I wore or what we ate for dinner, Arden got his way. And on the things where I cared deeply… those topics weren’t up for discussion.

  But I was too enamored with my lover to study those cracks too closely. All I could think about was Arden sinking to his knees in front of me and sucking me off right there in the crowded nightclub. Of course, I didn’t suggest it, mostly because I feared he might actually do it. He liked to show off.

  Instead, I touched his chin lightly and kissed him, because he was mine. Franco threw ice cubes at us and told us to stop bunnyfucking. Liam frowned at the array bodies on the dance floor with a dissatisfied expression. The deejay announced something about the house being on fire, and soon after, the carousel began turning. Franco craned his neck as each new dancer appeared, then huffed in displeasure when they weren’t Marquis.

  Meanwhile, Liam and Arden discussed The Road by Cormac McCarthy, one of the only books I’ve ever regretted reading. Not because it wasn’t a masterpiece, but because now, at the first sign of trouble, my mind immediately jumped to cannibalism.

  “Anyone can write a run-on sentence,” Liam was saying with regards to whether McCarthy’s lack of punctuation was revolutionary or cumbersome. “Look at Jack Kerouac. Look at William Faulkner.”

  “See, I would think that as a poet, you would appreciate him bucking convention,” Arden said. “Like ee cummings.”

  “It’s lazy and self-indulgent. Grammar and punctuation are what separates us from animals,” Liam said. “Without rules, there’s just chaos.”

  “But you’ll have to admit, there’s some genius there, in simply deciding not to use quotation marks because it clutters the page.”

  “It’s not genius, it’s madness,” Liam said, and even though his dander was up, I could tell he was enjoying the exchange.

  “Who the hell cares?” Franco shouted. “There he is, and he won’t even look at me.”

  Marquis had just come into view. The theme for the night seemed to be some version of hell with the dancers dressed as demons and devils. There were red and orange scarves affixed to the base with air shooting upward, so that they undulated like flames. Marquis wore a studded leather collar and cuffs and a matching black jock strap. His tightly coiled hair was trimmed with a fresh fade, and eyeliner rimmed his eyes. Everything about him looked severe and untouchable, including his impressive physique. Franco said he’d been a gymnast, and I could see that his level of grace and control could only come through years of training. Where the other dancers used the pole more as a prop, Marquis treated it like a combative lover.

  His muscular thighs wrapped around the golden rod as he fell backward into a death drop. His hands planted on the platform, and his legs parted in a full straddle before they clutched the pole again. He raised his head and torso from a handstand using only his core strength and the grip of his inner thighs, then, once at the top, slithered sensually back down. I’d never thought of pole dancing as an artform until I saw Marquis perform.

  “I know he sees me,” Franco said. “He’s punishing me.”

  Franco was becoming more distressed by the minute as the carousel turned and Marquis came closer. The attention to his performance was overwhelming. Dollar bills rained down on his pedestal like autumn leaves. Men who were bolder tucked cash into the elastic of his jock and let their hands linger over his glossy, lustrous skin, blessed to have been able to caress that exquisite body.

  “You should be paying for his dinner,” Liam said, his face a mask of lust. That seemed to be the consensus throughout the club.

  Marquis was directly in front of our table now, and Franco was completely frozen where he sat, his gaze riveted on the man’s performance. I couldn’t tell if Marquis’s cold indifference was part of his act or if it was calculated to wound Franco, but the exchange between them was tense. Arden, who had none of Franco’s reservations, stood in front of the pedestal and fed bills to Marquis with abandon, an ecstatic expression lighting up his face. I’d seen that look many times before, whenever mischief was afoot. Marquis bent down to whisper something in Arden’s ear, both their gazes turning for a moment to settle on Franco wh
o only frowned and sat stewing in his own stubborn pride.

  “What did he say?” Franco demanded upon Arden’s return.

  “He thanked me for the tip.” Arden kissed my cheek and squeezed in beside me on our shared loveseat. The carousel continued its revolution with the dancers now entering the backstage area, similar to a luggage terminal at an airport.

  “Fuck, what am I going to do now?” Franco said in a panic. Arden stirred his drink and glanced up at him.

  “He’ll be coming around again.”

  “Will he?”

  “Yes, and might a make a suggestion?”

  “I’m begging you.”

  Arden leaned closer and whispered something in Franco’s ear, and then, the piece that I picked up, “Make sure he comes to you. And make it count.”

  By now, we were all heavily invested in the outcome of Franco’s play. The steady beat of the music droned on, and my lover turned to me and said, “I’m still waiting on that dance.”

  I led Arden to the dance floor. I’d spent a lot of time in night clubs in my college days and had picked up enough moves that I could hold my own. Arden’s body molded easily with my own, ass cradled by my hips, similar to how we fell asleep at night. He was good at following my lead, and when my hands made their way up his sweat-slick chest, Arden simply unbuttoned his shirt to give me unfettered access. Other men eyed him lustfully, and I made it known by my roaming hands and possessive glower that he belonged to me, and me alone.

  “Look up there.” Arden pointed to where Marquis was dancing, this time as an angel. His chest and shoulders shimmered with some iridescent body glitter, and he wore a white harness, feathered over his shoulders to give the illusion of wings. Franco stood at the foot of his platform, his face an expression of utter worship. Marquis slid down the pole and leaned toward him, only to spin away again.

  “You think they’ll get back together?” I asked.

  “I think he’ll give Franco a second chance but probably not a third.”

  “That’s the limit then?”

  Arden turned so he could look at me. “A man can only take so much.”

  We danced some more, my cock growing stiff against his backside, hard to avoid with Arden grinding on it. I noticed a man over Arden’s shoulder, watching us. I gave him a look that I hoped conveyed we weren’t interested. And then he caught Arden’s eye and nodded. Arden stilled for a moment and turned toward me.

  “I’m thirsty,” he said and dragged me to the upstairs bar where I ordered him a bottle of water.

  “Did you know him?” I asked.

  “Yes.”

  Which begged the question of how and why, but Arden offered nothing more. Franco came over to us then, a triumphant smile on his face.

  “Well?” Arden asked.

  “He took my money,” Franco said, delighted, it would seem, to be throwing his cash at the young man again.

  “Did you write a sweet nothing on it?” Arden asked.

  “Yes.”

  “And tomorrow, you’re going to ask him to dinner?”

  “And I’ll give him a gift. A gold necklace. Or a bracelet? Something with a diamond?”

  “Don’t go overboard,” Arden warned. “You don’t want to look desperate.”

  “But I am,” Franco said. “Aye dios mio, did you see the way he moved?”

  Arden clapped him on the back, then pulled his phone out of his pocket. A worried look darkened his features, and he put his phone away.

  “I need to return a call,” he said to me.

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “I’ll be fine alone,” he said but I followed him anyway.

  Outside the club, Arden told me to stay put and walked a few more paces away before he dialed. I couldn’t hear his side of the conversation, partly due to being half-deaf from the club’s sound system, but it looked like an argument. Arden paced and gestured and had the general look of being upset. I suspected it was Matteo on the line. When he finally returned, Arden looked depleted of energy.

  “You want to go home?” I asked. Implied was that we’d talk about what had him so rattled.

  “No, I came here to dance.”

  On our way back inside, we passed by Liam, arguing with someone at the bar. The man was grinning, which told me it likely wasn’t going to turn violent. The man we’d seen earlier on the dance floor had disappeared, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that we were being watched and that Arden was still disturbed by their encounter. The uneasy feeling remained with me until much later that night.

  “I need to introduce you to Matteo,” Arden said once we were alone together in my apartment.

  I nodded. I had a few words for the man myself.

  “You’ll need to be respectful,” he cautioned as if reading my mind.

  “Okay,” I said woodenly.

  “Maybe I don’t need to say this,” Arden ventured, “but I only have one rule between us.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You may not jeopardize my livelihood.”

  I supposed I should be relieved to hear him talk about it so coldly, but I was not.

  “Arden, if someone is hurting you—”

  “No one is hurting me. This is a decision I make every day. I told you before you could walk away at any time, and I’d understand.”

  My anger flared at his indifference. “Could you walk away so easily?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then why would you think that I could?”

  Arden swallowed and his face went slack. He hated confrontation. “I need you to be patient, Michael, and trust me to know what’s best.”

  My anger was soothed only a little. But whatever he did with his clients, he wasn’t sneaking around or deceiving me. He’d made me aware of the situation every step of the way. And, he’d warned me.

  “I’ll behave,” I assured him. Within reason.

  Arden sighed and visibly relaxed. We showered together and climbed into bed. I’d been revved up from the club, but now, all I wanted was to hold him close, have him right there in my arms as a lover and a partner.

  I wished I could be more certain that he felt the same way.

  12

  the benefactor

  I’d researched Matteo Giacomo long before our meeting. Thanks to a few profile pieces and a more-than-adequate Wikipedia entry, I’d learned that his family had immigrated from Italy to New York in the early 1900’s. His grandmother had been a seamstress and his grandfather had worked in textiles. They’d owned several prosperous clothing shops around the city, but their real fortune had been built on their numerous patents, some of which were still being utilized in modern-day sewing machines.

  Nowadays, the Giacomo name was known for their elegant formal attire—bridal gowns, cocktail dresses, and men’s suits—but the company had been branching out into more casual wear, including the fitted chinos Arden favored. I’d gathered that Matteo was the brand’s creator and innovator, while other family members managed the business, marketing, and distribution elements.

  An artist, like myself, but certainly not a starving one.

  We’d been invited to drinks at Matteo’s private residence. He lived in a quiet, (extremely) affluent neighborhood in the Upper East Side where mid-sized apartments sold for millions. A search through the property appraiser’s website told me that Matteo owned his entire building, worth a cool $50 million, at least. I’d known Matteo was wealthy but being confronted with its magnitude was an altogether different experience.

  Arden and I shared a cigarette on the street to settle our nerves, passed between us like thieves. After, Arden rinsed his mouth with travel-sized mouthwash and spat into a bush. When I asked why he bothered, he said, “Matteo doesn’t like it when I smoke.”

  I tried very hard to keep my expression neutral. “What about your hair and clothes?”

  “That could have been you.”

  Did Arden lie to Matteo? Had he lied to me as well?

  “Michael, yo
u have that look.”

  “What look?”

  “Like you want to throat-punch someone.”

  I took a moment to unclench my jaw and inhale deeply. Arden forced himself into my arms and kissed me as reassurance. The lingering taste of smoke reminded me we were co-conspirators in this.

  “I’ve never felt like I had to steal something from another man,” I confessed.

  “You’re not stealing anything. I’m yours already. Matteo knows that.”

  “How should I treat him, then?” I needed clarity, and Arden had given me very little to go on.

  “Treat him like he’s my employer.”

  “Is he going to…” I couldn’t articulate my fear. Or bear the thought of having to watch this man—a stranger—put his hands on my lover.

  “No. It’s just drinks, Michael. Relax.” He rubbed my tense shoulders for a moment, then kissed my neck, just beneath the collar. He dragged me by hand to the front door, black wood surrounded by stone masonry. Stately and imposing. After a buzz to the butler and a message announcing our arrival, the door unlocked, and we let ourselves inside.

  “This is where he meets with clients,” Arden said, waving in an offhand way to the large, open gallery with marble floors and tidy racks of clothing throughout. There were several sitting areas with plush, comfortable furniture, as well as fitting rooms and a few raised platforms surrounded by mirrors where I presumed clients were dressed. There were also a few drafting tables and swaths of fabric on racks.

  “The second floor is where the models are fitted and photographed, and the third floor is top secret. It’s where his designers and seamsters work.”

  I’d read somewhere that Matteo’s demand for privacy bordered on paranoia, though I understood an artist’s need to guard themselves from interlopers.

  “Have you seen it?” I asked.

  “Yes, I’m free to go wherever I wish.”

  Arden bypassed the elevator and led me to a marble staircase. The iron railing was gilded in gold and curved elegantly to the upper floors. Each landing was met with a closed door, including the fourth floor where we stopped. Arden turned the door gently, and we were greeted by a middle-aged man wearing dress slacks and a starched shirt. The man greeted Arden warmly and offered to take his jacket and mine as well. I declined while Arden inquired about the man’s health.