A Madness Most Discreet

by Laura Lascarso

  I entered him as a plow to a fallow field, overturning fresh, fertile soil and nudging my way inside. Arden pushed backward, and I pressed down on his sickle-shaped spine as his throat made sweet, contented noises. It began with tenderness, as it often did, but graduated to something animalistic as we gave way to our raw passions.

  Distantly, remarks were made about my brutish technique, but I hardly cared. This man was mine, and I’d take him as such, plundering him as a bee to the bloom for that last drop of nectar.

  Arden wasn’t shy about making his pleasure known, but it was no different than when we were alone in our bedroom. I leaned forward to stroke him, and Arden bore my weight. I whispered in his ear how good he felt, how wonderfully snug, a perfect fit. I told him I’d been dreaming of this moment all night. (Christ, my entire life.) And that I adored him.

  “Come for me, Arden,” I said when he was close to peaking. He always came first, if I could help it, though he sometimes resisted. Out of politeness or because of his sex work, I didn’t know. But there was a knot inside him that must first be loosened and then unraveled. “Give it to me, baby. Don’t be shy.”

  For all the noise he made in bed, his orgasms were usually dead silent. Intensely private, in a way. His cock jogged in my hand, his back stiffened, and at last, he spilled into my fist. I listened for the wheezing gasp which told me he’d returned from whatever celestial plane he’d been visiting and was breathing once more.

  With a few more thrusts, the fever I’d been suffering all night, finally broke. I released into him, relishing that swampy, sticky heat, knowing he’d be soaking in it for a few hours at least. I stroked him gently a few more times, always reluctant to part from him entirely, then sat back and inspected my work. His bud was swollen and oozing like a milkweed. I put my thumb there and held it while Arden made soft murmurs of gratification.

  “That was good, baby,” I said. “So good.”

  He drew me to him, and we collapsed in a daze of sated lust. Arden produced a cigarette, and we smoked it at our leisure. Liam fussed about the smell. Franco and Marquis were otherwise engaged. My brain finally sobered up enough to tune into the conversation now taking place between Arden and Liam.

  “But having sex in a professional capacity, how can a partner ever really know if your sentiments are sincere or only an act?”

  “Liam,” I said, still trapped in a fog of pheromones. Shut the fuck up, was what I was about to say, but Arden laid a hand on my chest to silence me.

  “You write poems for a living. Aren’t some of them more impassioned than others?” Arden asked.

  “Yes, but all of them hold some truth.”

  “I’m not deceiving the men I fuck. Some of them are more invested in my pleasure than others. And even when they’re not, that can be satisfying too.”

  Do you like being used?

  “Surely you must feel bad about it, though? Or bad about yourself?”

  “Should a massage therapist feel bad for the services they provide?” Arden countered.

  “That’s altogether different.”

  “Both are arts of a sensual nature. Both tend to induce relaxation and mental well-being. The men I have sex with generally leave in a healthier state of mind. Am I not allowed to take some pride in a job well done?”

  They were having an academic discussion about the one subject that for me, was forbidden.

  “You enjoy fucking other men?” I asked, wanting to make sure I’d heard him correctly.

  “Sometimes,” Arden said with very little inflection.

  “I couldn’t do it,” Franco said, him and Marquis having surfaced from their lovemaking at last. “I’m way too jealous. I can hardly handle watching Marquis with other men at the club.”

  “You get off on it,” Marquis said with a conceited smile. He winked at Arden and me. “He loves to punish me after.”

  “I don’t,” I said hollowly. “Get off on the jealousy, I mean.” It was an admission I’d not made before then, and it seemed too monumental to ignore. Arden gave me a long, searching look, and I avoided his gaze.

  “I mean, in all honesty,” Liam continued. “We couldn’t have chosen worse romantic partners.”

  “How’s that?” Marquis asked, offended.

  “Our relationships are like this party. Ephemeral. Hedonistic. Not meant to last.”

  “So, you keep saying.” This came from Liam’s man. We were all startled by his contribution, as he’d been mostly silent up until that point. He sat on a loveseat with one arm draped casually around Liam. His posture had the air of self-possession, and there was an arrogant languor about him that I attributed to jocks and the very wealthy.

  “How is any of this sustainable?” Liam demanded, working himself into a tizzy. “Can you really see yourselves together a year from now? Or even at the end of this summer?”

  “Yes,” I said forcefully. I couldn’t see myself without him.

  “You’re the most delusional of us all, Michael,” Liam insisted. “You have neither the resources nor the constitution to maintain your relationship.”

  “I’m not with Michael for his money,” Arden said, his tone no longer light.

  “Obviously,” Liam said. “He can’t afford you. So, why are you with him?”

  “Because I…” Arden halted as if struck by some realization. I desperately wanted to know the conclusion, but Liam didn’t give him the opportunity.

  “I’ll tell you why. Michael’s a curiosity for you. A lark. Someone clever to try out your thwarted Ivy League education, to dip your toes in what might have been had you pursued an honest living. And once you’ve tired of him, you’ll move on, and Michael will be just another notch on your bedpost. You can brag to your rich lovers that you once fucked a bestselling author as if it’s some great achievement on your part. I doubt you even—”

  “That’s enough,” I said sharply and stood in front of Liam as though I could block Arden physically from his vitriol.

  Liam swallowed his next words and only a moment later, was swept up by his strongman who lifted Liam easily into his arms and removed him from our presence, shutting the door behind him like a gallant knight. None of us made a move to go after them. I stood there with my back to Arden through a long, dreadful silence—even Franco was at a loss for words—until Arden said, quietly, “Is that what you think of me, Michael?”

  I swallowed, eyes stinging, and wondered if Liam had been able to divine my fears through his intuition alone. Or if there was something about Arden that I’d blinded myself to all along. Was I as delusional as Liam had claimed? Instead of addressing Liam’s accusations directly, I took the coward’s way out.

  “I’m drunk, Arden, and it’s late. Can we save it for tomorrow?”

  “Why not?” he said, always so eager to oblige. But there was something in his tone—pain or defeat. He stood, still naked, and strolled out to the balcony, taking our cigarettes with him.

  “You should go to him,” Marquis said. Franco nodded.

  I took a few deep breaths and joined Arden where he leaned with his forearms on the stone balustrade, gazing at the sleeping city below. The sky was a smoggy lavender hue, and the streets were relatively quiet in the hours just before dawn. I was sobering rapidly, a mixed bag. Arden offered me his lit cigarette, and I took it.

  “I’m sorry for Liam’s behavior,” I said. “Again. And I’m sorry that I let it get that far. It all escalated so quickly.” I should have silenced Liam’s abuse at the outset.

  “I understand how I might appear to your friends, like some heartless gold digger, but I hope you don’t think of me that way.”

  “I don’t. Not at all. What I feel for you is very real and very scary.”

  “I have those feelings too.”

  “And the idea of losing you terrifies me,” I said.

  Arden dragged one hand through his glossy waves, his fingers getting tangled in the mess. “I’m in a tough spot, Michael. I have been for a while. And even then…” />
  “I could help you, Arden. You only need to ask.”

  “If you did, then it would prove everything Liam said about me. This is the only way to keep our relationship honest.”

  “I don’t like you fucking other men.”

  There, I’d said it. What a relief.

  “I know.”

  “I also don’t like that you enjoy it.”

  “It’s work, Michael, like you’re writing. You have to enjoy some aspect of it, or readers would know that you hated absolutely every minute, and you wouldn’t be a writer for very long.”

  That was probably true, but I only admitted that to myself.

  “I hate thinking that you’re doing something against your will, that men are taking advantage of you, hurting you…” I couldn’t continue. If I did, I might break down completely.

  “I wouldn’t like it either.” He turned to me with those earnest, lovely eyes and said, “I’ll be the one to end it. When it becomes too much.”

  “I don’t want that.” That was, in fact, the opposite of what I wanted. “Can’t you think of something else?”

  Arden frowned. “It’s better than having you hate me.”

  I almost said I never could, but I wasn’t so confident anymore.

  I awoke later that morning to find Arden still asleep on the bed. Franco was snoring on the chaise. Someone—I assumed Marquis—was in the shower. I went in search of another bathroom. The mansion was like a mausoleum. Surely, we weren’t the only guests to sleepover? I did my business down the hall and washed my hands. En route back to our room, I was confronted by Liam’s handler. Trevor? No, Travis.

  “Liam’s got something to say.” He turned as though he expected me to follow. Well, okay.

  Travis led me to another bedroom where Liam sat in the middle of a large bed, an unmoored boat at sea. He was shirtless and barefoot with his raven hair sticking up like feathers and his big, blue eyes red-rimmed and remorseful. He looked as though the fight had been beaten—or perhaps fucked—out of him.

  “I’m so sorry, Michael. I was inexcusably rude. I don’t know what came over me. Well, I do actually. I suppose I was trying to protect you, but I went about it in the absolute worst way. I’d like to blame my drinking, but I don’t think that was all of it.”

  I sat down on the edge of the bed, feeling guilty because everything Liam had said last night was something I’d considered at one time or another. Even Arden spoke as though we weren’t meant to last.

  “You hurt Arden’s feelings and mine too. You’re a guest in this house, Liam, and you attacked him for no reason.”

  “I know. And I’m terribly ashamed of myself.” He dropped his head, and his pale, slender shoulders caved inward.

  Travis sat in a wing-backed chair and observed our exchange with a stoic expression. His meaty limbs were arranged in a man-spread that would rival a king at court. True to Liam’s assessment, he was a man of few words.

  “If you feel the need to get involved in my love life, leave Arden out of it,” I said at last. “This is the second time I’ve had to talk to you about being unkind to him, and there won’t be a third.”

  “I’ll apologize to him at my first opportunity. I think…” He paused. “I think I’m too jaded to be objective anymore. Everywhere I look, I see disaster.”

  “Tell him the other thing,” Travis said in an unhurried Southern drawl.

  “Your relationship is not my business, and I promise to be supportive in the future.”

  He stared at me intently, and I nodded. Liam wasn’t the affectionate type, so I simply stood and made my way to the door.

  When I returned to the bedroom, Arden was just waking, eyelids droopy and hair mussed. I climbed back in the bed and drew him to me. He fit so perfectly in my arms, in my bed, in my life.

  “You can be the one to end it,” I said. “Hopefully a long time from now, but I’d like you to make me a promise.”

  “What is it?” he asked, peering up at me intently.

  “You’ll let me come after you when the timing is right.”

  He gave a sad, crooked smile. “I promise.”

  Part VI.

  The boy grew into his powers. It was a strange sort of self-awareness that came on slowly and then, all at once. Angelique was the first of the islanders to pay him such attention, but he wasn’t the last. Even while his heart belonged to that sweet boy in Georgetown who’d first initiated him into the pleasures of sex, the captain and his first mate sailed onto more islands, where there were others willing to give and receive such gifts.

  There were boys his own age with funny accents from far-flung places. They were, much like himself, strangers in a strange land, looking for a connection or a sweaty, hurried release.

  There were lazy island villages and crowded ports, both with sleek, keen-eyed boys—men too—whose gazes lingered on him a little too long. A swipe of the tongue against lips, a nod of the head, and sometimes only an inquiring tilt. The boy learned the language of attraction as he’d studied Shakespeare and knot-tying. He was free to follow them or not. More often, he did.

  Excepting his own vices, the captain lived austerely, but the boy liked these small indulgences—desserts and candy, a bit of marijuana, a shirt with a rock band on the front of it, a used book. He didn’t ask for such things. They were given to him freely, like the many pet names his lovers bestowed on him—Silky, Blondie, Baby, Bey—and when he showed them his gratitude, he could be assured of something even better, even nicer, the next time around.

  He liked the attention. And their affection. He was a tactile person. He loved the slip of fingers interlocking, the heat of skin, the rush of blood pumping through a warm cock. He held their life force in his hands as he coaxed them toward climax. He liked how even the most irascible man could be softened by his charms. How he could smooth away their sharp edges and encourage their true, vulnerable selves to emerge. They were naked in their wanting, and his power, in those moments, was limitless. With his young, supple body laid out on damp sheets or luxuriating in the warm sand with the shallow water tickling his feet and legs, they touched him like he was a marvel, something exotic from the sea brought to land. He was a selkie with his fur stolen, bound to the men who pleasured and excited him.

  The captain looked on with apprehension, though he indulged himself plenty. Man and boy routinely visited the more populated watering holes and appointed a date and time when they would reconvene after having their lusts sated. If he’d been bedding women, would the captain have encouraged his carousing, since the sign of a man’s virility was tied to how widely he could spread his seed? How many women had the captain impregnated over the years? How many other bastards had he fathered?

  The boy fantasized about his dark-skinned brothers, handsomer, more mysterious versions of himself. In his fantasies, they reunited like long-lost family, then explored each other’s bodies like lovers.

  The captain told the boy to use protection, and even with his cheapskate nature, made sure there were always condoms on hand, but the boy seldom followed through. He was wild with a thirst for danger, his youth making him more reckless than even the captain. Without his mother to act as his moral compass, the boy was left to pursue his every carnal desire.

  Then one day the outboard motor on the dinghy wouldn’t catch. The boy tinkered with it for hours, trying to figure out the problem with the ignition. He suspected a faulty coil but had neither the parts nor the know-how to replace it. The captain said they didn’t have the money to fix it, that they’d have to row to shore or to harbor, which was hard work and severely limited the boy’s mobility.

  “I’ll take it into town and see if I can get it fixed,” the boy said. They were anchored off one of their favorite islands, just 5 km east of Paradise Island and the bustling port of Nassau. The boy didn’t care for Nassau, where the water smelled like sewage and the tourists made navigating cumbersome, but he knew a few machine shops where he could have the outboard motor looked at, and one
in particular where the mechanic had shown interest in him before.

  It was a long, arduous journey to row into port from where they were anchored in the harbor, even more of a feat to carry the outboard motor on foot to the machine shop. The same man as before was working and, if he was not the owner, seemed to at least have some price-setting authority.

  The boy let the man look it over. And him as well. He knew, by this age, how to present. It didn’t take the mechanic long to diagnose the problem. It was the same as what the boy had suspected.

  “A coil’s gone bad. The whole kit needs replacing.”

  “How much is that going to cost?”

  “A buck fifty with labor.”

  The boy had twenty dollars in ones he’d been saving. The captain had given him thirty more.

  “I only have fifty,” the boy said. He’d never been any good at haggling.

  “Fifty’s not enough.” The man’s eyes slid over his body like an oil slick, making his intent known.

  The boy hesitated. This man wasn’t like the others. He hadn’t been lured like a curious fish to a baited hook. This man was bigger, harder, and mean. A barracuda.

  “I could work it off.” The boy glanced around the shop. “Clean up or organize your things. I’m good at alphabetizing.” Everything on the boat was alphabetized, from their spices to their medicines to his precious paperback collection.

  “The only way you could work it off is by bending over,” the man said harshly and squared his shoulders. The boy broke out in a sweat or perhaps he was already damp with it, but he wasn’t all that alarmed. He’d come to this man because of an instinct, and he’d been right.

  “How long will it take the part to come in?” the boy asked, stalling.

  “I got it in stock already.”

  “All right,” the boy said, fighting for control of his nerves. “Should I come back later when it’s ready?”

  “No. Stay put. Get yourself a pop.”

  The man jerked his thumb toward a small refrigerator, and the boy selected a Coca-Cola, then settled onto a raggedy, upholstered couch with stuffing and springs poking out to watch the man work. There was a baseball game playing on the radio, and the boy wondered if the man was a fan of one of the teams. He didn’t ask, didn’t make any conversation at all, because he didn’t want to know this man’s secrets, however innocuous. Despite his fear or perhaps because of it, the boy found himself dozing in the warm afternoon heat to the sounds of the radio and the man’s steady tinkering. He was tired from the trek to the shop and the long row before it.