Second You Sin (8 page)

“I said,” Mrs. Dreckeri shouted, “we knew what was what.”

“I knew a young woman who had Pilates once,” Mrs. Goldmeister chimed in. “Such a terrible thing.

She had to have a kidney removed.” Believe it or not, Mrs. Goldmeister was just about the sharpest tool in this shed.

The ladies always talked like this. It took them twice as long to assemble the lunches as it should have. They were like the Golden Girls, but on crack.

“A shame.” Mrs. Epstein shook her head. “How young was she?”

“I think in her sixties, early seventies. Just getting started.”

Mrs. Dreckeri and Mrs. Epstein simultaneously said, “Oy.”

Mrs. Epstein turned to me again. “So,” she said,

“have you found the right girl yet?”

Mrs. Goldmeister elbowed her. “Trudy! Enough with the ‘right girl!’ Don’t you remember? He’s
gay.
”

“What was that?” Mrs. Fishmeyer said. “I didn’t get that.”

“A homosexual!” Mrs. Goldmeister shouted.

Mrs. Fishmeyer stil looked puzzled.

“Like those boys on that show you watch,
Project
Runaway
or some such,” Mrs. Dreckeri helpful y offered.

“Oh, he’s a
faygela!
” Mrs. Fishmeyer exclaimed.

Mrs. Epstein gave me a sympathetic smile. “Wel , why didn’t you just say so, dear?”

“Sorry,” I told her, refil ing their supplies of sandwiches and bagged carrots.

“He tel s us every week,” Mrs. Goldmeister chided Mrs. Epstein.

“Tel s us what?” Mrs. Epstein asked.

“I think,” Mrs. Fishmeyer said excitedly, “he tel s us he’s on that show.
Project Runaround.
”

“A star!” Mrs. Epstein beamed. “Girls, we’re making lunch with a star!”

“Oy,” said Mrs. Goldmeister.

The women had this conversation, or one very much like it, every week. I thought they were adorable.

I finished up with the ladies and helped the guys on the delivery crew load the large trays of bagged lunches into the delivery van. Then, I took a cab to the Upper West Side, where my client, Chase Landerpool, lived.

I hadn’t bothered to change for our appointment, as it didn’t matter what I was wearing. With Chase, I wouldn’t be in it for long.

Chase lived in an exclusive co-op two blocks away from the brownstone in which he grew up. The Landerpool family was an institution in New York, renowned for their vast wealth and generous philanthropy. The city’s third-largest cancer-specialty hospital was named after a Landerpool, as was a private school, a permanent exhibit at the Museum of Modern Art, and, I’ve read, a particularly pink and rare flower known as the Landerpool Lily.

The only thing that bears the honorific of anyone in my family is my mother’s beauty parlor. And she had to buy that herself.

At the rate I’m going, the only thing I can imagine being named in
my
honor would be a venereal disease.

Not much of a legacy.

As you might expect, Chase grew up with every imaginable opportunity and indulgence. Top-notch schools, travel to the world’s greatest cities, the coolest toys, and the most fashionable clothing—

Chase had it al . Stil does.

Chase also has a predilection for an unusual kind of sex. The kind of act that you’re not likely to find on the “likes” list of even the most progressive dating agency.

In fact, Chase’s kink is so particular, so unusual, and so, wel , dirty, that, despite his youth (he’s twenty-eight, according to the society pages of the
New York Times
), aristocratic good looks, and vast fortune, he stil has to hire a sex worker to get his needs met.

Which, at one thousand five hundred dol ars a pop, works out pretty wel for me.

Chase’s doorman let me into the building and walked me to the elevator that only went to Chase’s floor. He used his key to open the door, and then pressed the button to take me to the penthouse. The doorman, with whom Chase had arranged it al beforehand, did al of this efficiently and wordlessly.

I’m sure he was wel tipped for his discretion.

The elevator opened into a foyer that led to Chase’s living room. The apartment was a study in modernism and good taste. Floor-to-ceiling windows along one wal gave a magnificent view of Central Park. I took a moment to admire the Andy Warhol silkscreen that hung over a white Eames chair before proceeding to the large bedroom at the end of the hal .

As always, the room had been emptied of its furniture before my arrival. Rubber mats covered the floor. The blinds were drawn. Two rol ing carts—one by the door, one by the window—held the supplies Chase needed to get off.

The outfit Chase wanted me to wear hung from a hook attached to the back of the door. I stripped naked and pul ed on the supplied tight pants, baggy shirt, and shoes.

I opened the closet. Inside, Chase had tucked a smal vanity. I sat on the tiny stool and applied the makeup as Chase had taught me. First the foundation, then the rouge, and lastly the lipstick.

Bright red, ridiculously garish, but I knew that was what Chase wanted.

Then the wig.

I looked in the mirror. I was almost unrecognizable.

Even though I knew what was coming, and that Chase would not want his blows to hurt me, I stil felt a little nervous.

I was studying myself in the mirror when—wham!

—Chase hit me in the back of the head. I hadn’t even heard him come in. I saw my own eyes widen in surprise.

I reached around to feel how much damage Chase had done. While most of the white cream was caught in my wig, I felt some drip down the back of my neck and trickle down my shirt, giving me the shivers. I wiped it away and brought my hand to my mouth.

Delicious.

“Hey,” I shouted, “no fair!”

In one swift move, I leapt from the stool and turned to face my attacker. Years of gymnastics training had made me limber and quick on my feet. I crouched to defend myself.

“No one is safe from Socko the Magnificent!” Chase thundered. He stood at the doorway, tal and imposing. Wel , as imposing as you can be in shoes that stuck out two feet, green pants, a rainbow-striped T-shirt, blue suspenders, white makeup, and a huge green Afro.

Not to mention the red bulb attached to his nose.

My outfit was similar.

The clown fight was
on.

Chase—wel , I suppose I should cal him Socko when he’s dressed like this—squeezed the bicycle horn hooked to his waist. “Come on, kids,” he said in a tril ing falsetto, “it’s time to
get dirty!
” He turned around to grab another of what must have been fifty pies off the cart by the door. I quickly headed over to the other cart and seized my own weapon. Just as Chase brought his arm back to pelt me with a plate of pecan-topped goodness, I caught him ful in the face with the spray of an old-fashioned seltzer bottle.

“Take that.” I laughed as he blinked and sputtered.

He launched the pie at me, but, momentarily blinded, missed by a mile. I turned to grab a pie of my own, but as I reached to get it, Socko came up behind me and plopped one right on my head.
How does he
move so fast in those stupid shoes?
I wondered.

I retaliated by dropping to my knees and hitting him with a plateful of Boston cream pie right in his crotch, using the bulging tube within as my target.

Socko growled.

We were in constant movement, dodging and weaving. Both of us were laughing and panting as we ran around and fought to keep our balance on the increasingly slick floor. We cal ed out sil y taunts. We winged each other, hitting arms, legs, shoulders.

It was Socko who got in the next good shot, hitting me squarely in the face. My features were covered in whipped cream. A classic
Three Stooges
moment. I used my hands to wipe the sweet topping away from my eyes and licked my lips to clear my mouth.

Socko stood in front of me, breathing heavily. He stared glassy-eyed at my dessert-frosted face.

“God, you’re beautiful,” he moaned.

He pul ed me toward him and kissed me hard. His tongue darted into my mouth. We both tasted Cool Whip. His strong arms pul ed me closer. Then he ripped off my shirt.

For the next twenty minutes, we continued to pelt each other with pies and seltzer, but also tried to rip off each other’s clothing, which, conveniently, was already strategical y cut and loosely seamed. I don’t know where Chase got tear-away clown clothing, or if he had it custom made (I’d love to hear how he explained
that
to his tailor), but even with our greasy hands, it wasn’t long before we were down to our underwear and floppy shoes.

While I can’t say that wet and messy clown sex is particularly my thing, Socko did look hot. His long and lean gym-toned muscles glistened from the various syrups and creams that covered him. He panted sexily from a combination of arousal and exertion. His shorts strained to contain what looked like a second bicycle horn, but I was wil ing to bet otherwise.

Final y, Socko grabbed me and held tight as he emptied a can of whipped cream right into my boxer briefs. My trying to get away (wel , not real y, but I squirmed enough to make it believable) only turned him on more, and soon I was down to just the floppy shoes while Socko diligently applied his tongue to the tough business of cleaning up the mess he’d made.

A short time later, after some extremely slippery frottage, Socko added his own special frosting to the mess already drying on my bel y.

“God, I needed that.” Socko, now Chase again, sighed as he rol ed off me. His head landed in a pile of cherry fil ing.

“Always glad to help,” I answered.

Chase pul ed me toward him so that my head rested on his chest. “You’re such a sweet kid.” He stroked my hair, then, absently, started picking the larger pieces of piecrust from it. “So wil ing to play along with me. I hope you don’t think I’m, I don’t know, too weird or something.”

Of course you’re weird,
I wanted to answer.
You
get off on having pie fights while dressed as a
clown. What isn’t weird about that?

But, who cares? If it turns you on, and doesn’t hurt
anyone, what’s wrong with being a little weird? Most
people never do anything that’s particularly
interesting. That’s why they’re unhappy and dull.

Celebrate your messy, clowny weirdness, Socko!

Let your freak flag fly!

I knew that wasn’t what he wanted to hear, though.

“I always have fun with you,” I answered honestly.

“And I think you’re hot.” I licked his nipple. Maple syrup, yum.

“I never know when I’m dating someone, when to tel them about”—he waved his hand around the now-wrecked room—“al this.”

Right after you’ve told them you’re worth a
hundred million dollars,
I thought.

“You’re a great guy,” I said. “But it’s not the kind of thing you’d want to bring up on a first date. Do you also get into . . .” I wasn’t sure how to put it. Normal y, I’d have said “vanil a sex,” but with Chase that had a double meaning.

“Regular lovemaking?” Chase asked. I nodded against his chest. “Oh sure,” he continued. “But this for me is so much better, you know. So much more intense. It’s not something I’d want to do every day but, but when I do, it’s like . . .” This time, he couldn’t find the words.

“The icing on the cake?” I offered.

Chase laughed and pul ed me closer. “Yeah, that’s it, little buddy.
The icing on the cake.
” He kissed the top of my head. “And you’re the cherry.”

“My advice? Wait til the fifth time you’ve slept with him. When it’s clear you’re both interested and you’ve already proved you can rock his world sans props. Then tel him, ‘You know what I think would be fun to try?’ And make it sound like a fantastic adventure, not a make-or-break demand.

“If he goes for it, great. If not, ask him again three months later. If he’s interested in you, he’l get the message that it’s something you real y want to do. In the meantime, I’m always available for your sweet, sweet lovemaking.”

Chase chuckled. “You know, that’s not bad. Maybe I’l give it a try. Do you charge extra for the counseling?”

“I may take a pie with me,” I answered. “That peach cobbler is delish.”

After a quick shower in Chase’s fabulous high-tech bathroom (which, BTW, was bigger than my entire one-bedroom apartment in Chelsea), I gave him a peck on the cheek on my way out the door.

“Here, take this,” he said, pressing a wad of bil s into my hand. I knew he paid the one thousand five hundred dol ars for today’s date online with Mrs.

Cherry. This was a tip.

“Thanks,” I said.

“And thanks for the advice.” He grinned. “I promise not to wear these until at least the fifth date.” He looked down at the oversized clown shoes stil on his feet.

“Wel , I don’t know,” I answered as the doors to his private elevator whooshed open. “They could work for you. You know, some guys think shoe size is directly related to . . .” I arched an eyebrow and entered the waiting lift.

Chase was stil chuckling as the doors slid shut.

Always leave ’em laughing.

Especial y the clowns.

I opened my palm and found five hundred-dol ar bil s curled together like contented lovers.

Sometimes I loved my job.