Second You Sin (11 page)

On the way down, Freddy said, “Listen, about what happened up there. It was just . . .”

“I know,” I said.

“Because, we probably shouldn’t . . .”

“It would be . . .”

“Just kind of . . .”

“Too . . .”

“Yeah.”

“Right.”

“Wel ,” Freddy said, “I’m glad we can talk about it.”

“Absolutely,” I agreed. “Talking is good. Talking is our friend. It’s one of the best ways to, you know, talk and . . .”

Freddy arched an eyebrow. “You’re not about to start that babbling thing you do, are you?”

“No,” I said. “Shutting up now.”

Which was probably just as wel . Otherwise, I might have told him that what I had been about to say when he was holding me upstairs was, “Maybe we should close the door.”

11

The Main Event

The street in front of Ansel Darling’s house was so crowded that we had the cab drop us off on the corner. A bus stop there had a large poster of Jacob Locke on its side. Someone had used a black marker to draw a Perez Hilton–style penis pointing at the conservative candidate’s mouth.

“I hate that guy,” Freddy muttered.

I was impressed. Freddy wasn’t much for fol owing politics. Porn and gossip were his major interests.

“Me, too.”

“His show is stupid, too.”

“What show?”

“Isn’t he the guy from that game show?
Wheel of
Jeopardy
or something?” Freddy asked.

I was about to answer him when a smal , attractive blond woman teetered past us on what looked like five-inch heels.

“Oh. My. God.” Freddy was breathless. “That’s Kel y Ripa!”

She he knew. Oy.

If I hadn’t known better, I would have sworn that the door that led into Ansel Darling’s three-story SoHo loft was a time machine transporting us back to a nightclub in 1978. Or to what I imagined a club in 1978 would have been like had I been born yet.

The space was dark and crowded. Everywhere I looked were strobe lights, smoke machines, and tambourines. Most of the furniture had been pushed to the sides, al owing for open dance floors, where an enthusiastic crowd gyrated wildly. A ful bar with shirtless bartenders lined the back wal . Incredibly huge speakers played a mix of disco-era dance hits.

There were even silver platforms on which beautiful boys and girls swayed with closed eyes and blank expressions.

“Jesus, Joseph, and Bianca Jagger,” Freddy whispered to me as we walked in. “Did we just die and wake up in Studio 54?”

“If I real y do die,” I asked him, “could you please make sure I’m wearing something else?” The burly doorman had insisted I check my coat at the door, so I was pretty much naked. And golden.

Freddy and I inched our way through the crowd.

People stared at me.

Did I mention yet that I was golden?

A tal , skinny white girl with a silver tray and a huge black Afro rol er-skated over to us. “Cute,” she said to me. “And you’re hot,” she said to Freddy, putting her hand on his chest. “Straight?”

“Cher?” Freddy asked her.

“I guess that answers my question.” She shrugged.

“Can I get you something to drink?”

We told her maybe later and continued to work our way toward the bar. Most of the crowd was wearing contemporary outfits, but occasional y we’d see an attractive young guy or gal dressed in reworked retro like ours. We’d nod at each other and move on, trying to ignore that most of the other attendees were watching us, like we were part of the evening’s entertainment. Since we were, in effect, modeling Ansel ’s new line, I guess we were.

It’s tough when you don’t know if it’s you or your clothing getting cruised.

We were halfway across the dance floor when I felt someone grab me from behind.

“Kevito!” Rueben shouted, lifting me effortlessly.

He put me down and I turned to yel at him for sending me this ridiculous outfit. Instead, I just gaped. Rueben looked too ridiculously sexy to scold in his lime green pimp suit the likes of which have not been seen since Donna Summer’s triumphant movie debut in
Thank God It’s Friday.

But instead of polyester, Rueben’s suit was made of soft suede. The bel -bottom pants flared wide at the calf but fit snugly around his strong thighs. The wide-lapel ed jacket draped like a second skin, revealing every sensuous curve of his sinewy shoulders and thick biceps. He didn’t wear a shirt, but four gold chains around his neck drew your attention to his sculpted chest and tawny skin, which looked like caramel and probably tasted twice as sweet.

“You look
hawwwwwt,
baby,” Rueben drawled, reaching out to tweak my left nipple. “And you, Frederico.” He turned to my best friend. “How come I never see construction workers like you outside my apartment,
mi hermano?
” He kissed Freddy on the check.

Rueben looked back and forth at us. “Ah,
mi
amigos caliente. Me gusta, muchachos.
” He cupped his crotch and licked his lips.

I took him by the arm and started pul ing him off

the dance floor. “Cut the Latin lover shit,

‘muchacho,’
” I hissed. “We both know you grew up on the Upper West Side and went to Wharton.”

“I’m just pimping, my brother.” Rueben grinned.

“Don’t be hating on my mack-daddy style, now.”

“Whateva,” I said, rol ing my eyes. “Let’s just go somewhere we can talk. Come on, Freddy,” I cal ed, but Freddy was nowhere to be seen.

“There he is.” Rueben pointed. Freddy was in the middle of the dance floor, dancing in perfect synchronization with a stunning slim Asian boy. They turned, dipped, and shimmied as one. A smal crowd encircled them and applauded.

“What,” I asked, “is that?”

“It’s the Hustle.” Rueben grinned again. “
Caliente,
no?”

“Where did he learn the Hustle?” I wondered.

“I don’t know about him,” Rueben answered, “but I learned it at Wharton.”

Rueben took me upstairs to a locked room. He pul ed a key from his back pocket and let us into a huge bedroom. The space was industrial chic. At the far end of the room was a huge bed half-hidden behind a folding silver screen. A flat-panel screen hung from the twenty-foot ceiling, al of its cables hidden in the steel tube that suspended it in midair.

By the door where we entered was a sitting area with a black leather couch and two red leather chairs. A Warhol
Marilyn
hung over the sofa.

He’s got a whole friggin’ living room in his
bedroom,
I marveled, and for a moment, I thought it might be nice to be Ansel Darling.

“What’s the dil y-o?” Rueben complained as he settled onto the sofa. “Why you trying to kil my chil , homes?”

I gave him my best Joan Crawford don’t-fuck-with-me-fel as stare. “Would you cut that out?”

“Al right, al right,” Rueben said in his perfectly unaccented prep school speaking voice. “I was just trying to get into character.”

Rueben had been born to wealthy parents who owned about half of Puerto Rico’s commercial real estate market. They did their best to Americanize him, but Rueben always yearned for a more authentical y urban experience.

Which he got when, in his second year of col ege, he told his parents he was gay. They gave him an ultimatum—either repent and marry a girl of their choosing, or they’d cut him off for good.

I don’t understand how parents can let the luck of the draw lead them to reject their own children. If being straight were the only requirement of good parenting, I’d hear a lot fewer stories like Rueben’s.

Given a choice between being cut off from his parents or being true to his heart, Rueben chose freedom. Unfortunately, his subsequent decisions weren’t as sound. He dropped out of school, started hustling, and dul ed his pain with almost everything a person could inject, snort, or smoke.

The next two years for Rueben were fil ed with enough drama and outrageous occurrences for five or six reality series on Bravo TV. I wasn’t sure about the exact chronology, partial y because the story changed a little every time Rueben and I talked.

Maybe not al of it was true, but Rueben certainly had a tumultuous life.

Over the years, I’ve seen Rueben go up and down.

When he was doing wel and staying relatively clean, Rueben was gorgeous, sexy, and smart. A fun and funny guy who lit up the room.

Other times, he looked haggard and worn. Drugs and hard living took their tol . Some of the old Rueben would shine through, but it was dul ed by addiction and depression.

The last time Freddy and I saw Rueben, he looked like shit. Beautiful shit, yes, but stil shit.

Tonight, I was glad to see, he looked fantastic. Fit and healthy. Happy. I told him so.

“Thanks.” He blushed. “It’s Ansel . He’s been real y good to me. Took me in, dried me out. He’s been incredible.”

“Real y?” I remembered how scared he sounded on the phone. “I thought, I don’t know, I thought you two were having trouble or something.”

“What? No. He’s the greatest. It started with him as business, you know? He was a client. But one night, we got to talking, and we real y connected.

Then, I dropped out of the scene for a while.” He looked away. “I went to Florida with a videographer for FratPackBoysOnline. You know it?”

I nodded. FratPackBoysOnline was an online

“amateur” video site that featured “col ege boys.” Supposedly, customers got twenty-four-hour access to a fraternity house’s hidden cameras, where the

“students,” many of whom appeared to be in their thirties and semi-retarded, were frequently observed showering and having sex but, mysteriously, never doing anything that real students do, like attending classes, watching online porn themselves, or playing video games.

“At that point, I was doing meth pretty much twenty-fourseven,” Rueben continued. “This video guy, he tel s me he’l hook me up steady if I move into the FratPack, right? I was partying and doing group scenes al the time anyway, so I figured what the hel ?

“What’s the worst that could happen? Maybe someone would find my videos online and send them to my dad, and the old fuck would die of shock, right?” He smiled with one side of his mouth while the other half trembled as if he was about to cry.

“Maybe I’d send them to him.” The half smile was gone now and his doe-like green eyes watered up.

I took his hand.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know.”

“Please.” Rueben blinked back the tears. “Please.

I’m a big boy. I knew what I was doing. Stupid.” He shook his head. “
Anyway
. . . some porn, I wouldn’t mind doing, you know what I mean? If Johnny Hazzard wants to do a scene with me, baby, I’m there. I was a goddamn prostitute, Kevin. It’s not like sex work scares me.”

I noticed his use of the word “was.”

This despite his mention of Johnny Hazzard, who I had to agree I’d do onscreen or off, too.

Rueben may have been a big drug addict, but he had good taste.

I was fondly recal ing Johnny’s, literal y, seminal work in the genius productions of Miss Chi Chi LaRue when I realized I had stopped listening to Rueben.

Focus, Kevin, focus.

“ . . . not too bad,” Rueben was saying when I tuned back in. “But FratPack was a meat grinder.

Boys coming and going, some ODing, some getting sick. Everyone treated like shit and encouraged to do as many drugs as possible so we wouldn’t ask why we weren’t getting paid. Pathetic.

“So, one night I go out in Miami with some of the other ‘models’ and there’s Ansel . With his usual entourage of the rich and beautiful, right? Meanwhile, I’m looking like a truck rol ed over me and probably smel ing worse.”

I knew Rueben run over by a truck would stil look better than half the boys working the runway, but I didn’t say anything.

“I’m thinking I better get out of there, because I didn’t want Ansel to see me like this, right? But there’s this other part of me thinking I
did
want him to see me, because maybe I could hit him up for some cash, you know? Maybe I could score some better-quality shit.”

Rueben shook his head again. A tear rol ed down his cheek. I squeezed his hand.

“While I’m making up my mind, one of Ansel ’s assistants sees me. He knows Ansel ’s type, so he points me out to him. Ansel comes over and soon we’re talking like always, right? He says, ‘Hey, let’s get out of here, you can show me a good time.’