Full Release (3 page)

“I think you’re underestimating him,” was her response to my gentle criticism.

“Maybe you’re right,” I said, diplomatically. “I’ll keep an eye on him and see how he does with any problems that come his way.”

Actually, I was saying that Sonja should keep an eye on him. Which she totally got, since her jaw locked and she looked down at some papers on her desk. “Of course, I suppose I could go strictly by seniority,” she said in a frosty voice.

I was last hired, and while I out-ranked the rest of my department by title, she could still use seniority as a reason to let me go -- and save more money than she would on any of the other three.

“Whatever you think is best. It is your dec--”

Suddenly, my pocket vibrated. I tried to subtly ease my cell phone out of my pocket and peek at the screen. It was my ex. This was a tough call. I didn’t want to talk to Jeremy any more than I wanted to continue my uncomfortable conversation with Sonja. She made the decision for me.

“Go ahead and take it. This is all rumor, anyway. Maybe it won’t happen.” But from the tone of her voice, she was sure it would.

When I got back to my office, Fred Kohl had disappeared. Smaller than Sonja’s, my office was furnished in the standard black desk and credenza given to all mid-level management. Somewhere in the building there was a two hundred page guide outlining who could have what furnishings and at what level. If I ever got bumped up to Executive Director from Director, I’d be able to pick out another potted plant and choose my own prints for the walls. Sometimes I thought we should re-engineer the design department.

I hit answer on my cell and there was Jeremy. “Hey, how’s it going?” His voice was mellow and overly sincere.

“Great. It’s going great,” I replied, splitting the difference between irony and an outright lie.

“I’m glad to hear that.”

“Do you want something in particular?”

“I can’t just call you?”

“No, you can’t.”

He left a long pause and then said quietly, “Skye has asked me to marry him.”

It was my turn to be silent. Absently, I calculated the amount of time during our breakup Jeremy and I had spent on the telephone not saying anything. After a year of this, I put the total at about fifteen minutes. Finally, I asked, “Are you waiting for me to congratulate you?”

“You know what I’m waiting for. We need to settle things.” We’d been trying to undo our domestic partnership for almost a year. I wasn’t sure why he thought his impending marriage would make that any easier.

“All we really need to do is work out the property agreement. Then we’re set,” I pointed out.

“I really don’t want to end up in court, Matt.” Jeremy was not the type to issue veiled threats. I was sure Skye was behind his saying that.

“No, you don’t,” I replied simply.

“I’m sure we can do this amicably.”

“I’m sure we can, too. Just as soon as you give me forty-seven thousand nine hundred sixty-four dollars and thirty-seven cents.” This was the exact amount of money we had left from the second mortgage we’d taken out to upgrade the kitchen and the bathroom. The exact amount Jeremy had withdrawn and used to rent and furnish an apartment for himself in West Hollywood so he could explore the independence he craved, yet quickly threw aside when he fell in love two months into the adventure. The exact amount that had evaporated in a canceled lease, a new wardrobe, a slightly used BMW, and the apparently lavish courtship of hairdresser and failed reality-TV star, Skye Davis.

“It’s always about money with you, isn’t it?” Jeremy said in a gentle, disapproving tone.

“Be careful. You don’t want me tacking on your half of the mortgage payments you haven’t paid in the last year. That’s another fifteen-thousand dollars, give or take.”

“I’ve decided to sign the house over to you. And we’ll say the forty thousand is my share of the equity.”

I sighed heavily. “Do you live under a rock? The real estate market collapsed. There’s no equity in the house. The market has fallen, and the house isn’t worth what we owe on it. Even with a kitchen.”

“But--”

I knew he was about to start talking about the nearly hundred grand we’d put down, which was three-quarters mine anyway, so I interrupted him. “If you don’t believe me, talk to a real estate agent.”

“Why can’t you just be happy for me?”

After you break up with a person, you begin to be honest about their more annoying habits. For example, when faced with incontrovertible facts Jeremy would revert to pure emotion. It drove me crazy, and in a weird way I felt sorry for Skye, who now had to put up with this on a daily basis. I told Jeremy I had to get back to work and hung up.

I tried to focus on a report detailing the complete un-profitability of one of last year’s releases. As the film was little more than a ninety-six minute search for a condom, I had to wonder why anyone thought it wise to spend almost eighty million dollars producing it. Of course, the whole production process was shrouded in mystery. Why we made the movies we made and spent what we spent on them was often stunningly illogical. But I’m an accountant. Accountants think producing films should be about making money. Clearly something else was at play.

I worried if I should tell Tiffany about the re-engineering. It might not be real, but then again, if it was, she could certainly use this time to look for another job. I should probably give her a couple of contacts. Her cubicle sat just outside my office. If I moved my chair to the right, I could see her through my door. I slid my chair over and waved. She waved back and returned to her work. I should have given up; I was about to do something stupid and knew it. I cleared my throat to get her attention. She looked up, and I waved her into my office. Tiffany got up and looked both ways before she scooted into my office. If anyone saw her do that, they’d know for sure something was up.

Tiffany was a stark contrast to our stunningly vain co-worker, Charles. She carried a few extra pounds around her hips and was always failing at some new exercise program. She’d chosen not to bother with the strands of gray that were popping up in her thick crop of brunette hair. She looked like a real woman in a city of mannequins.

“Sit down,” I said, handing her the report on
No Glove, No Love
. “Pretend we’re going over this.”

“Oh God, this can’t be good,” she said, and she was right. Quickly and quietly, I told her what had happened in Sonja’s office.

“This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Cameron got into a little downloading trouble. My ex and I are splitting the fine, but it’s not cheap.”

“I thought you took Cameron’s computer away from him?”

“We did. He bought a new one, piece by piece. Put it together himself.” There was a little pride in her voice. “He claimed he was buying books. I mean, how can you not give a kid money when he says he’s gonna buy books?”

My cell vibrated again. My first thought was that Jeremy had decided to call me back and torture me some more. Or worse, have Skye do it. That thought made me shiver. I glanced at the number; I didn’t recognize it.

“Let me take this,” I said to Tiffany. “I’ll call around and see if there’s anything open at other studios. And don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

I had no idea if everything would be fine, of course. It’s just what you said in this situation. She popped out of my office, and I looked at the screen on my cell. Eddie was calling me. I answered, thinking that maybe he’d left something at my house, though in the two weeks since our encounter, I hadn’t noticed anything.

“Hey, Matt. It’s Eddie. I’ve been thinking about you.”

“Uh-huh.” I had a sense of where this was going, so I told him, “I’m sorry, but I can’t afford to see you again.”

There was an uncomfortable pause. Which was beginning to seem like the theme of the day. “My feelings are hurt,” Eddie said. “I thought we had something.”

“It was great,” I said truthfully. “It’s just...money’s a little tight.”

“We don’t have to worry about that, okay?”

Was he offering me credit or… “Are you asking me out on a date?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“Oh, wow.” I was taken completely by surprise. I toyed with the idea for a second, but there was no way I could date someone who had sex for money. “I’m really flattered. I am, I just don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“Why not?” he asked, a tinge of hurt in his voice.

“Well…” Unable to think of a reason I was willing to tell him, I said, “It just really isn’t a good idea.”

“You didn’t like me?”

“No, I did. It was good. Really good.” Then the perfect excuse popped into my head. “I’ve been through a bad breakup, and I’m not really dating.”

“All right.” His tone was sour. “If you change your mind, you have my phone number.”

I hung up and set the cell down on my desk. I stared at it like it had just bitten me. That was weird, very weird. It was about lunchtime, so I went downstairs to the cafeteria in the lobby and got a Cobb salad. The whole time I floated on air. I mean, it was flattering, incredibly flattering actually, a masseur, a sex worker, well, a prostitute when it came right down to it, wanted to date me. That meant I had to be really good in the sack, right?

I flashed on the moment during the massage when Eddie lay down on me and whispered “This is nice, isn’t it?” into my ear. I thought it was a little odd at the time, but that must have been when he started to fall for me. Wow, the guy kind of fell for me.

My sexual self-esteem went right through the roof, which was just the ego boost I needed after finding out my ex was already getting re-married, re-partnered, whatever he was doing only a year after our breakup. Back in my office, I took two bites of my salad and pulled out my cell. I picked Peter out of my contact list and called him.

“You’re not going to believe this,” I said when he picked up. “You remember Eddie, the masseur?”

“You mean Eddie the masseur about whom you cruelly refused to give me any details? Yes, I vaguely recall.”

“He called me and asked me for a date.”

“Hold on a second,” he said, and I could hear him getting up to close the door to his office. “All right, now we can talk. My assistant listens to every conversation I have. I’d fire her, but I think she’s already got too much dirt on me. So, where were we?”

“Eddie called and asked for a date.”

“A free date? Not just another two hundred dollar happy end?” Peter said skeptically.

“A hundred and forty. Plus tip. And yes, he said free.”

“When? Is it an actual date or just sex?”

“I’m not going out with him. I didn’t say yes.”

He gasped. “Are you crazy? Free sex from a hustler -- and you’re turning it down?”

“He’s not a hustler. He’s a masseur.”

“Potato, patahto. Listen, darling, you’re over-thinking this. It’s just sex. Go for it.” When I didn’t respond, he took an exasperated breath and continued, “Let me explain this in away you’ll understand. What do you do for a living?”

I sighed. Sometimes Peter could be exasperating. “You know what I do for a living.”

“You’re an accountant. An accountant who doesn’t happen to be very good with money.”

“It’s not my fault the real estate--”

“This is the deal of the century, and you’re about to turn it down!” he practically shouted in my ear.

“He didn’t say we’d have…” I started then stopped. It was assumed we’d have sex. He wouldn’t suddenly become all shy on me. Would he?

“You’re really going to turn him down?”

“Yes, Peter, I am. I’m not gonna marry some hooker and live happily ever after.”

“Have you learned nothing from me? There are other things to do with a man besides marry him.” He sighed heavily. “Sometimes I think deep down inside you’re a lesbian.”

I said a hasty goodbye. About thirty seconds later, I called Eddie and invited him to my house for dinner that night.

Chapter Three

After work, I ran to Ralph’s and picked up a few things for dinner. Cooking without a kitchen is a challenge, but I’d been dealing with it for more than a year, so I’d come up with a few decent dishes. That night I would make microwaveable brown rice, pre-cooked chicken strips, and semi-steamed veggies. The stainless steel refrigerator that sat in what would someday be the dining area would hold the salad and a nice bottle of white wine.

When I got home, I changed quickly and had just enough time to work up a good case of nerves before Eddie arrived. I did a mental inventory on the necessities. I had at least six condoms and an economy-sized bottle of lube. I wore the same pair of designer underwear I’d worn before, figuring this time they might actually get seen.

Suddenly, I had an uncomfortable feeling. This was a date. A date like any other date and was now subject to all the same confusions and insecurities I’d been experiencing all year. Had I ruined things by saying yes? Would it be an incredible disaster? I decided to jump onto the Internet and read some dating dos and don’ts. If nothing else, that would give me ideas in case things got uncomfortable. Some of them seemed actually helpful.
Maintain eye contact.
That was probably good. Though sociopaths seem to know that instinctively, and I didn’t want to look like a nut job. I’d maintain some eye contact. Reasonable eye contact.
Don’t talk about your ex.
I’d screwed that one up in the past, so I already knew better. Well, most of the time I knew better.
No sex on the first date.
Clearly, that ship had sailed. Of course, most advice columnists would tell you not to date sex workers, so--

The doorbell rang. When I answered, Eddie walked in with his portable massage table, his duffle and small overnight bag. The overnight bag was a little presumptuous. I mean, I was pretty sure that we’d be having sex, and I’m sure he was, too. But staying over. Well, that was a little intimate, wasn’t it?

And the table was odd. A date implied something different than a rub and tug, didn’t it? I wondered if it was a fetish thing with him to always be using the table, but then Peter’s voice popped into my head reminding me that the evening was free. I shouldn’t complain. The worst that would happen to me was that I’d get for free what I’d paid a hundred and forty bucks plus tip for a couple weeks before.

Eddie gave me his crooked smile, except this time it was different. It was shy, almost nervous. Like he was afraid I wouldn’t even let him in. He looked pretty much the same. Maybe a little tired. He wore a tight pair of Levi’s and a thin, brown turtle neck sweater. He hadn’t shaved, and the dark stubble made him sexier.

“You gonna invite me in?” he asked.

“Oh, sorry,” I said, quickly stepping out of his way. “Come on in, please.”

He set the table and his bag near the front door, then grabbed my collar and pulled me down for a quick, friendly kiss. His tongue slipped into my mouth and explored. I allowed myself to enjoy this for a moment, then pushed him away. A date should have some kind of other activity before the sex starts. As I led him into the house, he hooked a finger into my belt loop. I glanced back at him and laughed.

“You’re nervous,” he said. “So am I.”

He didn’t seem nervous. In fact, he seemed completely in control. But why would he feel like he was in control? This wasn’t--wait, I was over-thinking this, just like Peter said. I needed to relax and go with it.

“How about some wine?” I asked.

“Yum.”

I pulled together the bottle of wine, a corkscrew and a couple glasses. Eddie was inches away as I did. I led him into the living room. Aside from the disruption of the construction, the room looked pretty much as it had since Jeremy and I moved in. Early on we’d spent an entire day on furniture row in West L.A. in order to find the least expensive, most comfortable black leather sofa the city had to offer. I complemented the sofa with a couple of wooden, vaguely Chinese chairs I’d found at an import shop for a very low price. Beneath the chairs and the sofa was an area rug with a geometric pattern. A glass coffee table and two Jackson Pollock prints on the walls finished off the room. Trespassing slightly into the room was a Danish modern dining table found at a garage sale. Jeremy and I had spent an entire weekend recovering the chairs (with a fair amount of fighting) in a pattern similar to the living room’s area rug.

“What happened to your kitchen?” Eddie asked, as I opened the wine.

Nervously, I dumped out the story of my thieving ex. I knew better than to talk about Jeremy, and not just because I’d just read it on the Internet, I’d watched as previous dates had mentally stamped BAGGAGE across my forehead in big, red letters. Strangely, Eddie didn’t seem to care.

When I finished my story of woe, he said, “Wow, that sucks.” Then he licked his lips.

I focused enough to say, “Yeah, it does.”

There was an awkward silence. I remembered to maintain eye contact. His eyes were a pretty blue. A pretty blue distracting enough that I couldn’t think of a single question to ask him. Finally, he said, “You’re staring.”

“Oh sorry,” I said, looking away.

“You want to kiss me, don’t you?”

I did. But not yet. I changed the subject by asking the first question that popped into my head. “So, why did you call me? Honestly.”

“Necessity,” he said. “Sometimes I need to see someone who’s not going to pay me. It keeps me honest.” Then he smiled. “Don’t worry. I won’t go all Glenn Close on you.”

I laughed at his joke, something the Internet had recommended. My laugh was a little strangled, though. I hadn’t been worried about him getting stalker-ish until he’d said that. Should I worry? Oh, God, I should worry. To cover my discomfort, I went into what remained of the kitchen and sent our dinners for their final spin round the microwave. Eddie followed me like I had him on a tether.

“Sixty more seconds,” I said as I hit start on the microwave.

“What can we do for sixty seconds?” he asked. “Oh, I know.”

He pulled me into a kiss. It was a sweet kiss, made sexy by the stubble roughing up my face. I was hard by the time the microwave beeped. We took our plates over to the table and sat down. He sat next to me and rested his left hand on my thigh.

As we ate, we chatted about the food, which wasn’t great, but Eddie pretended it was. I tried to find out more about him, but he wouldn’t say much. Grew up in the valley. Left home early, possibly under less than ideal circumstances. When I tried to get specifics, he turned the conversation back to me and my life.

Over the course of the evening, he found out a lot about me.

“What made you become a masseur?” I asked, after I took the dishes into the kitchen and set them on the standing butcher’s block that was my only counter. I’d leave them there until I got around to washing them in the bathroom sink.

He answered with a question. “What made you become an accountant?”

“I like numbers.”

Eddie flashed his pretty eyes at me and said, “I like men.” He’d been making that obvious since I answered the door.

“I’ll bet there’s more to it than that.”

“There is,” he said simply, but didn’t elaborate. He changed the subject slightly by saying, “I see all sorts of men. Important men. Successful men. Rich men. But when they climb on my table they’re all the same. Naked. Vulnerable. Needing the...relief I have to offer.”

“So you’re a humanitarian?” I suggested.

“Something like that,” he said.

“You must have your share of bad experiences.”

He didn’t answer. Instead, he smiled and kissed me again. “Let’s go play.”

I followed Eddie into Jeremy’s office and watched him set up the table. I assumed we were going to do pretty much what we’d done before. It had been fun, but since I was basically a vanilla kind of guy, I would have been happy with everyday sex in my bed.

When he finished setting up, he walked over to the door and stood there for a moment. With a playful look, he said, “Hi, my name is Eddie. I’m a little nervous.” He bit his lip to make the point.

“Hi,” I said awkwardly. I had no idea what was up. “I’m M--”

He shook his head, then whispered, “Make up a name.”

I almost giggled, but decided to play along. “Hi Eddie. My name’s Dirk.”

He smiled, seeming to like my choice in names. “Hi, Dirk. This is my first time getting an erotic massage. I don’t know what to do.” He looked away shyly.

Okay, now I got it. “Take your clothes off and get on the table face down,” I told him.

Without looking at me, he pulled his turtleneck over his head. He kept his head down and turned away, almost as though hiding. Part of his sudden, shy persona, I figured. Tossing the sweater onto the floor, he kicked off his shoes. Then he eased down the zipper on his jeans. Tucking his thumbs into the belt loops of his jeans, he pushed them down over his thighs. He wore a pair of tight, white, store brand briefs -- somehow they looked a whole lot hotter than any of the designer pairs I owned. He let his jeans fall to the floor and stepped out of them. Looking up at me, he gave me an anxious look, as though he was reluctant to pull down his briefs. “Everything?” he asked.

“Yes. Everything.”

He was good. I might have even bought it if I hadn’t paid him to jerk me off. With a demure smile, he slipped out of his underwear. His cock was half-hard, bouncing in front of him. Obviously, he liked play-acting, or he liked me. But I wasn’t doing much of anything, so it had to be the play-acting.

Eddie climbed onto the table and lay face down. I hadn’t seen much of him at this angle the first time we hooked up, so I took a moment to study him. His body was square and solid from this angle. His ass round, and covered halfway up with a light coating of soft black hair. My prick sprang to life.

“Is this right?” he asked.

“You’re doing just fine.”

I took my clothes off quickly, then walked around the table to the jar of cream he’d left on the floor. I unscrewed the top and scooped out two fingers’ worth. I rubbed my hands together to get the cream warm, as he’d done for me.

Beginning with the middle of his back, I pressed my fingers into him. Even through the cream, his skin felt incredibly smooth. I worked my way up his back, squeezing his muscles in what I hoped was a professional way. When I got to his shoulders, I worked his trapezius muscles as hard as I dared. Whether I earned it or not, Eddie rewarded me with a groan.

I began to work his neck. He jumped a bit, and I looked down to see a row of small, quarter-sized bruises on his neck. “Hey, what happened here?” I asked.

“I tripped,” he said dryly. There wasn’t any way he could have gotten those bruises by tripping. I could have questioned him more closely, I suppose. But it didn’t seem the time or place.

Since neither of us was paying, I wasn’t exactly sure which of us this was for. I was happy to be in charge, but wasn’t sure if I was supposed to be doing this all for his benefit or if it was okay for me to have fun with it. I decided to split the difference and rubbed my way down his back until I got to his round buttocks. I kneaded them deeply, enjoying their firmness and the thick hair that extended down his legs.

With one finger I traced the crack of his ass down passed his asshole to his ball sac. I reached under him the way he had with me, and pumped his dick. He raised his ass up and moaned. When he did that, his cheeks spread, and I got a glimpse of his pink pucker hole. I put more cream on my hand, rubbing my fingers together to warm it.

As I slid a finger into him, he arched his back and pushed his ass up toward me. I found his prostate and gently rubbed it with a circular motion. Eddie moaned deep in his throat. I slipped another finger in. I was rewarded with a quick gasp.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he said.

I pumped my fingers in and out of him, slowly, then eventually more quickly. Hips in the air, Eddie reached under himself and began to masturbate. Then, he stopped.

“Let me turn over.” Taking my fingers out of him, I stood back while he flipped his body over. Then he said, “Go back to what you were doing.” I did.

I could feel his prostate grow hard under my touch. He was jerking himself, but I pushed his hand away and did it for him. His muscles were tense, as though he wanted to jump off the table. I eased a second finger into him, and he groaned. Picking up my speed, I slipped my fingers into him again and again, each time hitting his swollen prostate. He bucked underneath me, encouraging me to go faster. He whimpered, and then he was coming: his ass gripping my fingers, come spraying over his belly. Getting his breath under control, he sighed heavily.

A moment later, he sat up on the table and looked me right in the eye. Not taking his eyes off me, he reached down and grabbed my hard dick in his hand. He slid off the table onto his knees. Popping my dick into his mouth, he took it all the way down to the base. My knees got weak, and I had to hold onto the table for support. He bobbed up and down on my dick aggressively. He wanted me to come and come fast. To help him along, I shut my eyes and thought about what I’d just seen, his jizz spitting out of his dick, my fingers deep inside of him.

With an intense muscle contraction, I came in his mouth. I tried to pull away before I came, in case he didn’t want to swallow, but he grabbed me by the hips and kept my cock deep in his throat. When I was done coming, he stood up and gave me a satisfied look. “Gee, Dirk, that was really terrific.”

“Sorry it wasn’t more of a massage,” I said.

“It was the kind of massage I wanted. Thank you.”

I wondered for a moment, if he was going to hand me a wad of cash just to keep the role-playing going. But he dropped the play-acting and said, “Show me your bedroom.”

My bedroom is very simple. A dresser with a small, flat-screen TV/DVD combo on top, a queen-sized bed with a frame that was similar to the dresser but didn’t actually match, glass tables next to the bed with mod lamps Jeremy had found in a thrift store. Everything in the room was purchased cheaply -- except the heavy, brown velvet drape that covered the sliding glass door. That, and the Egyptian cotton sheets, we’d paid full price for.