Second You Sin

Second You Sin

SCOTT SHERMAN

KENSINGTON BOOKS

www.kensingtonbooks.com

Al copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

Title Page

Dedication

1
-
Wet

2
-
New York State of Mind

3
-
Like a Straw in the Wind
4
-
Isn’t It a Pity?

5
-
Can’t Help Loving That Man
6
-
Love in the Afternoon

7
-
Mother

8
-
Send in the Clowns

9
-
A Sleeping Bee

10
-
Honey, Can I Put on Your Clothes?

11
-
The Main Event

12
-
Putting It Together

13
-
When You Wish Upon a Star
14
-
He Touched Me

15
-
Watch Closely Now

16
-
The Best Thing You’ve Ever Done
17
-
All I Ask of You

18
-
Soon It’s Gonna Rain

19
-
Crying Time

20
-
Hands Off the Man

21
-
I Got Plenty of Nothing
22
-
Remembering

23
-
Just Leave Everything to Me
24
-
All in Love Is Fair

25
-
Being at War with Each Other
26
-
Who Are You Now?

27
-
Ordinary Miracles

28
-
Don’t Rain on My Parade
29
-
New York State of Mind

30
-
Don’t Believe Everything You Read
31
-
What Are You Doing the Rest of Your
Life?

32
-
Some Good Things Never Last
33
-
Gotta Move

34
-
Doing the Reactionary

35
-
Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

36
-
Fight

37
-
I’m the Greatest Star

38
-
Tonight

39
-
Wide-screen

40
-
It Had to Be You

41
-
Guilty

42
-
I Can Do It

43
-
Sleep in Heavenly Peace
44
-
I’m Still Here

45
-
Here We Are at Last

Copyright Page

This book is dedicated to Marc, who helped me
through a

very difficult time in my life with tremendous
support, a

listening ear, and a loving heart. There will always
be

traces of a song, places that belong to you.

Thank you for joining Kevin and me for his second big adventure. We hope you enjoy the ride.

There are several shout-outs in
Second You Sin
to some of our favorite artists. Already heavily featured in Kevin’s origin adventure,
First You Fall,
Barbra Streisand gets some love here, too. So do Ari Gold and Jay Brannan, two singer-songwriters from somewhat opposite sides of the musical spectrum but both of whom are great listens and lust-worthy on multiple levels.

Many thanks to fel ow writers Josh Lanyon and Neil Plakcy for their help, encouragement, advice, inspiration, and wonderful stories.

This book wouldn’t exist but for two great gentlemen who helped me get it into your hands—my literary agent, Matthew Carnicel i, and my editor at Kensington, John Scognamiglio. Thanks, guys, for believing in this story.

Two other fel ows I have to acknowledge are my sons, Sasha and David. I love you boys bigger than the moon. By the time you’re old enough to be reading this, you’l probably both be surly teenagers, but right now you’re more precious than words could ever express. (BTW: I’l stil love you when you’re pain-in-the-ass adolescents, I promise.) PS: There’s a theme in the chapter titles to this book

—can you figure out what it is? Send in your correct answer to the link on the home page at www.firstyoufal .com. On February 1, 2012, I’l pick a winner at random. If you’re right, you’l have your choice between a signed copy of Second You Sin or the chance to have your name in print as a victim in one of Kevin’s next adventures. Or, if you say something nice about the book, maybe both.

1

Wet

Despite my unconventional choice of profession, I tried to have a normal life. I real y did.

So how come weird stuff kept happening to me?

I started my week in church, like the good boy I try to be.

By the time the week was over, I’d find myself covered in whipped cream, attending a party in my underwear, defending my mother against a monster, working for a man I considered a Nazi, losing my semi-boyfriend, and fighting for my life.

But I had to do it al .

As I was soon to find out, someone was murdering the most beautiful male prostitutes in New York.

And it was up to me to find out who.

As a male hustler working in New York City, I’ve done plenty of kinky things. I’ve been tied up, scrubbed down, and hosed out. I’ve played every role my young-looking features lent themselves to.

I’ve been the naughty schoolboy sent to the principal’s office for a paddling, the high school footbal hero treated for a pul ed groin muscle by the horny coach, and the newspaper delivery boy who

“accidental y” walks in on his customer in the nude.

I’ve done it in the changing room of a major department store on Broadway, on a Thanksgiving float used in another store’s popular parade, and in the DJ booth of the city’s most popular dance club during an exclusive private party. With the DJ. I’ve been massaged, shaved, tickled, and wrapped in aluminum foil by some of New York’s wealthiest and most powerful men. I’ve been with guys who wore everything from tutus to superhero costumes to scuba suits.

For the most part, I love my job. If you have an open mind, other people’s kinks are fun and kind of sweet. I like that I give my clients a place to act out the desires they’re afraid to show their boyfriends, partners, husbands, and wives. As long as the activity is safe, consensual, and semi-legal, I’m down with it.

I do have my limits, though. Anything involving urine or, God forbid, that other thing, is out of the question. No how, no way, no matter how much he’s wil ing to pay. Not gonna happen.

Which brings me to the question of how I found myself, on this particular Sunday in November, being peed on by one Wil em Patrick O’Reil y I I, the golden stream arcing majestical y to soak the entire front of my two hundred dol ar John Varvatos hoodie.

“Pee!” Wil em shouted happily. “I put my pee on you!”

Yeah, I let Wil em pee on me. It wasn’t so much that he was cute (though he was) or rich (wel , his parents were) but the fact that he was three years old that let him get away with it.

“Sorry, Kevin, I should have warned you he’s a soaker,” Cindy, my co-teacher in the playroom, cal ed out as she watched Wil em hose me down.

“Some boys are like that. The minute you get their pants off, they can’t wait to celebrate.” Cindy was in her mid-sixties. She wore her long gray hair in a ponytail and dressed like a hippie-Wicca from Woodstock. She didn’t seem to have a mean or sarcastic bone in her body.

“It’s OK,” I cal ed back to her as she handed out more Play-Doh to the other kids in the class. “I’l consider it a baptism.”

I looked down at Wil em on the changing table, where he lay with a delighted grin.

“Good aim, kid.”

Wil em laughed. “I pee
all over
you.”

“I’l notify the awards committee,” I told him. “Now we both have to get changed.”

Wil em stuck out his lower lip. “I don’t wanna get changed. I wanna play with Play-Doh!”

“Sorry, buddy,” I said. I cleaned him with a baby wipe and put a fresh diaper on him. “Now that the missile’s back in the silo, you want to get back to the other kids?”

Wil em nodded enthusiastical y.

I lifted him to the floor.

“How about next time,” I said, “you try to make that pee-pee in the potty?”

Wil em grimaced. “Potties are poopie,” he explained.

“But,” I said, “if you use the potty, you don’t have to get changed and you’l have more time to play with the Play-Doh.”

Wil em looked thoughtful. “I scared of potty,” he said quietly.

I knelt down. “Why are you scared of the potty, Wil em?”

“My brudder said I fal in and go to poopie land.”

“Your brother’s just teasing you,” I said, thinking I’d have to mention something to Wil em’s mother when she picked him up. “You can’t fal down the toilet. I promise.”

Wil em took my hand. “If I go potty, you come with me?”

I gave him my most serious look. “I promise.” Wil em kissed me on the cheek. “I wuv you, Kebbin.” He ran back to the Play-Doh.

I love you, too, buddy,
I thought.
I love you, too.

The truth was, I pretty much loved al kids. If I weren’t making such easy money as a hustler, I could see being a teacher. In the meantime, I satisfied my paternal yearnings here at the Sunday school program of The Metropolitan Unitarian Universalist Church of Manhattan.

I started coming to the church a few months ago, after a near-death experience that found me hanging naked from the ceiling of a serial kil er’s torture chamber. As said kil er was choking me, I didn’t see my life flashing before me, but I did, in a very Peggy Lee moment, think,
Is that all there is?