Second You Sin (19 page)

“I’m fine, Tony. No big deal. Let’s just go back to bed.”

“OK,” he said, lifting me up and laying me down.

Tony was so strong in so many ways.

“Why don’t you go ahead and let your friends know we’l be there for dinner.”

“Real y?” I said. “This isn’t just a pity yes?”

“Maybe a little. I just don’t want to hurt you.” I rubbed my sore back. For a guy who didn’t want to hurt me, Tony sure had a habit of getting the job done.

How do you know if it’s love or pain?

“They’re real y nice guys,” I promised. “You’l like them.”

Tony took over the rubbing of my back. “No problem,” he said, grinning. “I’m sure it’l be ‘dandy.’”
18

Soon It’s Gonna Rain

At six AM, the alarm clock on Tony’s phone rang. I think we had gotten about three hours sleep. The more time I spent with people who had one, the less appealing a “real job” seemed.

Bad thing for me was that the slightest noise wakes me up, and once I’m awake, I can’t get back to sleep. Not so Tony, who continued to snore quietly. I cal ed his name. I poked him with my elbow.

Shook his shoulder. Nothing.

I thought about biting him, but that would be mean.

Likewise, dousing him with a glass of ice water. I put my mouth close to his ear. “Crap,” I said in a normal tone. “My mother just walked in.”

Tony jumped to his feet, his hand reaching reflexively for his gun. “Where?”

“Where what?” I asked innocently.

“I thought you just said . . .”

I got out of bed and kissed his cheek. “You must have been dreaming. Go grab a shower; I’l put up some coffee.”

“Huh,” Tony said groggily, stretching. Michelangelo would have loved to sculpt him like this. My thoughts ran to the less artistic.

I didn’t drink coffee, but I liked making it for my man.

Tony came into the kitchen wearing only a towel and the smel of Irish Spring on his stil -damp skin.

His freshly shaven face was red and smooth.

“Do you want some eggs,” I asked.

He shook his head.

“Bacon? Pancakes?”

“You don’t have any of those things, Kevvy.” He poured himself a cup of black coffee and took a sip.

A pained look crossed his face. He put the cup in the sink.

“How’s the coffee?” I asked.

“Same as usual. Tastes like shit.”

I held up the can. “I don’t understand. I fol ow the recipe.”

“That’s not a recipe, babe. It’s just instructions.”

“Wel , whatever it is, I fol ow it. It’s not my fault I don’t have a round spoon.”

Tony took the can from me. “It’s a ‘rounded’

spoonful.”

“Isn’t that what I said?”

Tony sighed and kissed my forehead. “I’m going to get dressed now. Try to stay out of the kitchen until I get back. I wouldn’t want you to get hurt.”

“I could make you some toast,” I offered.

“Do you have bread?” Tony asked as he walked back into the bedroom.

“Uh, no.”

“Key ingredient.”

I looked in the refrigerator. Take-out containers from various Asian restaurants within my delivery area, milk, protein powder, two containers of low fat yogurt, a couple of bottles of water, and an unwrapped slice of spinach pizza. At least, I hoped that’s what it was. I took it out and sniffed. OK, that was
so
not spinach. I threw it away before whatever was growing there developed independent motor skil s.

If I was real y going to make a play for Tony, I realized, I might need to ramp up my housekeeping.

He was used to a wife. I was more like a fraternity brother.

I kissed Tony good-bye at the door. “See you tonight?” I asked.

“Uh, not tonight,” Tony said. “Tomorrow maybe?” I waited a minute to see if he’d offer an excuse, but he didn’t. Oh wel , I’d agreed to no strings, right?

Which was good, because if there were any, I’d probably use them to strangle him.

“Give me a cal ,” I said, trying to sound casual and upbeat, like someone scheduling a racquetbal date at the gym.

Tony winked and was gone.

After Tony left I sat at a stool in the kitchen and felt sorry for myself. Very satisfying.

One of the most helpful things for people like me with attention deficit disorder is to make lists. I wrote one in my head as I wal owed:

Things Tony Wasn’t Wil ing to Give Up to Be with Me:

• His identity as a straight guy

• The approval of his family, friends, the church, and God

• The chance to have and raise children

• His job as a police officer (not that he couldn’t be a gay cop; he didn’t
think
he could be a gay cop)

• Sex with women

It seemed like a long list.

My pity-party was interrupted when my iPhone buzzed to alert me to a text message.

Freddy: “You up?”

I hit the “cal back” button.

“Darling,” he answered. “I just wanted to . . . hold on.” There was a smacking sound. “Sorry, I just wanted to make sure you—” He sucked on something and said, “Damn, one second,” and I endured some more wet slurps.

“What are you doing there?” I asked. “Or should I ask ‘who are you doing?’ ”

“You should have asked me that last night, darling.

Now, I’m trying to get rid of these damn pubic hairs I have caught in my teeth. I swear, that boy was part monkey. But a sexy monkey with long hair. Like Hugh Jackman.”

“Could you spare me the details of your sordid sex life?”

“Darling, it’s nature’s dental floss. Al natural. It’s certainly a lot more green than those ridiculous queens at the local market who act like they’re saving the planet because they’re slowing down the line with their reusable grocery bags. The other day, the cashier asked me if I wanted paper or plastic, and I said plastic, and this skinny boy in line behind me with long hair and wearing some kind of sandals asked, ‘Do you know how many dolphins get strangled every year in those bags when they wash out to sea?’ and I told him, ‘No, but I know a dizzy twink who’s about to get strangled right here right now if he doesn’t mind his own goddamn business.’ I mean, I’m trying to buy some eggs and lube here, I’m not looking to save the whales or anything.”

“Is there a point to this cal ?”

“Like you never ramble.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just a little cranky about things with Tony.”

“Things not going wel in Pleasantvil e?”

“It’s complicated.”

“I have time.”

“I’l tel you later. I’m just trying to figure out if what I want is any good for me.”

“Men are like snack foods. The ones you want are
never
good for you.”

“OK, that’s too deep for this early in the morning.

Can we pick it up again later?”

“Fine. I just wanted to make sure you didn’t forget about tonight.”

“Forget what?”

“Dinner with Rueben. Remember? The third Angel? The sassy Latina spitfire along the lines of a young Jennifer Lopez.”

I real y needed to remember to write things down.

“Of course I didn’t forget,” I lied reflexively. “I’l see you there.”

“Perfect. Just remember your place on the team, darling. Wear something plain and unassuming.

Nothing says big brains like a dowdy pantsuit in a bad synthetic. Something that the mother on
Beverly
Hills, 90210
would wear, but from the original series, darling, not that horrible remake.”

“Any other advice?”

“Sensible shoes, darling. You might want to check out Payless.”

“You,” I reminded him, “are a cruel bitch.”

“I’m a delicious chocolate treat with a creamy white fil ing,” Freddy said. “Of course I’m no good for you.”

After I hung up with Freddy I opened the calendar program on my iPhone and put in the meeting with Rueben. I also saw that I had a one o’clock with a steady client who had a few kinks that his wife wasn’t equipped to handle.

But first, it was time for some career development.

I grabbed a shower and headed for the gym. My body is my business and keeping in shape is a job requirement. I suffered through a grueling ninety-minute workout with my personal trainer, whose most recent employment, I suspected, was a stint at Guantanamo Bay.

I went home, showered again, and slugged back a protein drink and an Adderal .

I was al set to go when I remembered I had a phone cal to make. Tony had agreed to go meet some of my friends for dinner and I had a specific couple in mind. I cal ed them up and told them what I needed and why. They were only too happy to help out. We made a date for tomorrow night.

I texted Tony and he said he was free. I put dinner in my calendar, too.

I got dressed and was off to visit The Dentist.

I hailed a cab outside my building and inched forward through traffic to SoHo. I think I could have walked faster. Why was there so much traffic in the middle of a weekday? There were definitely too many people living and working in New York City.

My iPhone buzzed with a text message from Mrs.

Cherry. “Don’t forget your one o’clock, lamb chop!” Mrs. Cherry knew how scatterbrained I could be, and reminding me of my appointments was just good business. I typed back a message assuring her I was on my way.

By 1:10 I was sitting in The Dentist’s chair listening to the Muzak version of “Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It).”

“So, Kevin, how have you been?”

“My toof kine of hurrz,” I said, as The Dentist ran his latex gloved hands inside my mouth. “I fink I haff a caffity.”

“Oh dear,” The Dentist said, “you have a very big cavity indeed, dear boy.” His facemask hid his expression but his eyebrows arched suggestively.

The Dentist is a fifty-something man with salt-and-pepper hair and a trim little body. Definitely a DILF.

Not that I’d have the opportunity to.

The Dentist brought the inhaler to my face. “Now, this is just a little nitrous oxide, son. It wil make you feel drowsy, and a little light-headed, and you won’t remember anything when I’m al done. Is that OK?”

“No pobbem,” I answered, as the inhaler settled over my mouth and nose.

“Now, breathe deeply son.”

I did as instructed, catching what I’d guess was a hint of chamomile from the fine piece of china The Dentist held over my face.

Yeah, the inhaler was a teacup, and the dental office was real y his living room, and The Dentist was a married Broadway actor who’s appeared on some soap operas and commercials.

When I first met The Dentist, he explained the origins of his fantasy to me. When he was a young teen, struggling with his sexuality, he had a big crush on
his
dentist, Dr. Delaware. He’d always get turned on when the dentist would put him under with laughing gas. His fantasy was that the dentist would seduce him while he was drugged.

“In my mind,” he told me, in his deep actor’s voice,

“it was the perfect opportunity for me to have sex with another man without having to take responsibility for it. I was, after al , under the influence of a narcotic. Who could blame me?” Somehow, the scenario got turned around, and The Dentist liked to role-play that I was the innocent teen at his groping hands. Like a lot of guys with kinks, The Dentist had a part of his libido stuck like a needle in a record. He kept repeating the same song.

If society didn’t teach young people to be ashamed of their sexuality, there wouldn’t be so many traumatized adults running around with the compulsion to act out their repressed adolescent fantasies.

So, in a strange way, it’s the people who are most interested in repressing sexuality who create the conditions that lead to the freakiest kinks.

Which is good for
my
business, so I say, go Team Shame!

Speaking of business, my monthly visits with The Dentist were definitely one of my easier gigs. I just had to lie there pretending to be in a stupor while The Dentist felt me up and masturbated himself to orgasm.

Over time, I learned that he most enjoyed himself if I pretended to retain some consciousness. At first, I would just issue the occasional moan, noticing how it made his breath race. Then I started saying things, like “oh yeah,” or “more,” which real y got him going.

After a few visits, I added more elaborate non sequiturs in my best stoner voice, like, “Oh yeah, Mary Sue, touch me there,” or, “Dude, I’m not kidding, you better stop tickling me or I’m gonna wet myself.”

Today, I threw al kinds of shit out there, but since whatever I said only increased his passion, it was al good.

“Hey, get back in your sleeping bag, man . . . Do these jeans fit me right? They feel so tight . . . Not here, Laura, not in science class.” The Dentist reached his climax as he ran his hands over my nipples and I said, “Oh my God, Principal Jones, you’re making me feel al funny in my private places!” Excited enough to forget his usual impeccable aim, The Dentist ejaculated al over my two hundred fifty dol ar For Al Mankind jeans.
That’s gonna cost
you extra,
I wanted to say, but that would be mean.

Like a lot of guys with a kink, The Dentist’s anticipation and execution of his fantasy were so exciting that the logical part of his mind shut down while enacting his fetish. But the second he came, rationality returned, and he felt a little sad and ridiculous.

A hooker in my easy chair while I wear a paper
mask and wave around a fake drill,
The Dentist was probably thinking.
Really? Has it come to this?

Some guys I’ve known who work in the quote-unquote sex industry think their clients’ kinks are pathetic. When the session is over, they act insulted, patronizing, or appal ed. Where’s the fun in that?