Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (25 page)

Andrew needed no extrasensory perception to understand what Cormac meant.
Do you like him more than me?
Yet Andrew didn’t feel like he was in high school, treading on eggshells so his senior year girl, Bettie McGavock, wouldn’t cry. Instead, Andrew was touched that Cormac would ask so gently, without overt jealousy, without even a hint of censure.

I could tell him yes
, Andrew realized, going warm all over.
I could say I loved Paresh more than life itself and Cormac would tell me to go for it. Even if it killed him, he would say it.

“Cormac,” Andrew said the other man’s name slowly, caressing both syllables with his tongue. “You’re the only guy I like. When I want to see a man’s face, it’s yours. When I want to hear a man’s voice, you’re the only man who comes to mind. This other thing was—well, just a
thing
, an assignment. He wanted to spank me, but I didn’t like it. It stirred up all kinds of memories. So I spanked him, and then I…” Andrew paused. “You know. It was my first time, doing that. And yeah, it was good. Really good. But he was nothing to me, not while I was in him. A department store mannequin couldn’t have meant less to me.”

Cormac was silent for what felt like a long time. Then he asked, “Is it twisted that this turns me on?”

“No.” Andrew put the mobile back on speakerphone. Placing it beside him on the mattress, he stretched out on his back, wriggling out of his shorts before taking himself in hand. “I thought of you. Just as I came. You.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I wanted to share it with you. I want to share everything with you.” Andrew stroked himself from root to tip, pushing hard enough with his thumb to verge on pain. “Can you accept it? That I’m doing things for money, at least for now? That I’ve been with girls and loved it? That we’re so, I don’t know. Different?”

“Andrew.” Cormac’s voice was husky. “If I were there with you now, you know what my answer would be? I’d be on my knees. I’d tell you how I felt, but only when you were inside me. All the way inside me.”

Andrew made a pleased sound. Why did he keep underestimating Cormac? Overlong virginity not withstanding, the man had already proven himself to be a quick study.

“You want me to lube up?” Andrew caressed himself again.

“No. Force it in.”

“All right. Your ass is mine.” Andrew began to tug. And from the sounds transmitted across the continental U.S., he wasn’t the only one enjoying himself.

Chapter 15

“Mom seems calmer today,” Andrew said to Marie the next afternoon, after Connie excused herself to run to Starbucks and the Korean market. “I take it you smoothed everything over?”

Curled up on her sofa beneath a chenille throw, Marie looked entirely too pleased with herself. “You’d better believe it. Mom’s okay, you won’t be interrogated, and all is right with the world.”

“You convinced her my understudy job is for real?”

“Hell, no. That dog won’t hunt.” Marie waved a hand dismissively. “I told her you confessed the truth to me. That you’re ashamed and scared, but determined to go on until something better comes along. Mom promised not to mention it, or let on that she knows.”

“Knows what?”

“You’re doing voices and narration for
Salvation Fruit Salad.
” Marie referred to a fundamentalist Protestant cartoon series featuring the godly life lessons and Scripture-inspired adventures of Josiah the Star Fruit, Bill the Banana, and Karly the Kiwi. “You also do a weekend radio show where you read Bible passages in Bill’s voice and rake in donations for a Bible theme park.”

Andrew choked. The nicest thing he could call himself was “not traditionally religious.” Of all the jobs he couldn’t stomach, of all the things he’d never do for money….

“Don’t freak out,” Marie warned.

“You should have told Mom the truth,” Andrew burst out.

Marie’s lashless eyes narrowed. “Hang on, Banana Bill. I know you think doing voices on
Salvation Fruit Salad
is the ninth ring of actor hell. But as far as Mom’s concerned, you’re taking the bullet for the family and she’s proud of you. If she knew what you’re really doing, she’d be scared to death. Herpes, HIV, violence, arrest, hard drugs… she’d never sleep again, not until she talked you into quitting.”

His sister had a point. Still, it was galling for Andrew, knowing Connie had swallowed such an impossibility hook, line, and sinker. “Kids believe whatever cartoons tell them. I would never be part of that, indoctrinating children with rules I don’t personally believe in.”

“I know.” Marie started to cough. “But it was all I could think of. And Mom’s happy. Hand me those tissues, will you? I’m hacking like Typhoid Mary.”

“Yeah, you are. Did some jerkwad drop by to see you?” In their building, certain well-meaning neighbors simply could not get it through their heads that visiting Marie while fighting a head cold or stomach bug was dangerous. Although chemotherapy was suspended for now, Marie’s immune system was still artificially depressed. The sort of virus that caused twenty-four hours of misery in healthy people could land Marie in the hospital, even kill her.

Marie coughed into the Kleenex, then shook her head. “If I picked this up anywhere, it was in the doctor’s office. Dr. Czarnecki’s receptionist looked like death warmed over. But never mind that. Tell me all about you and Cormac.”

* * *

Opening up to Marie was even more liberating than Andrew had imagined. After putting that first time with Cormac into words for his sister, Andrew found himself able to resume work on his gay-for-pay manuscript. The eroticism of the spanking he’d given Paresh no longer scared him; the strange mix of fear, pain, and arousal was just another experience, something he found easier to describe if he didn’t impose a filter, didn’t try to declare the act moral or immoral. He wasn’t writing the manuscript as a cautionary tale or, for that matter, a how-to manual. It was just a chronicle of his continuing journey, points on a highly personal map.

For the next week, Huey Wasserman kept Andrew busy. First came two dates: one with a greasy, overweight man who pinched Andrew’s butt and kept trying to fondle his package, and one with a distinguished former violinist, aged seventy-nine, who wanted nothing but a candlelit dinner and a chance to talk about his deceased partner. The first date was excruciating. Fortunately, Mr. Hands had a penchant for tequila shots, which allowed Andrew to bundle the sloppy drunk into a cab and say sayonara. By contrast, the second date was sad and sweet. After an exquisite pasta dinner, Andrew and the violinist drank cappuccinos in the trattoria’s dimmest corner, talking until almost two a.m.

“I confess. I’d give anything to be you,” the elderly man told Andrew gently. “Not because you’re young and handsome. Because of the openness you’ll enjoy in your lifetime. The opportunities men of my generation never had.”

After those dates, Wasserman rounded out Andrew’s week with a nude waiter job—more pinching and groping—and another “erotic housecleaning” assignment. But this time, the client followed Andrew from room to room, making embarrassing attempts at conversation. Andrew was irritated until he opened a closet, saw the naked male Real Doll stashed within, and shrieked loud enough to shoo the birds in New Jersey. After the client apologized profusely, Andrew regained his composure, managing to finish the assignment with better grace. The client, obviously out of practice at chatting with men who talked back, was making a valiant effort. The least Andrew could do was play along, finishing out the assignment with a smile on his face.

“You sound frazzled,” Cormac said later that evening. They’d fallen into the habit of talking by phone most nights, relying on texts only when Andrew had a date or Cormac had a formal engagement.

“Remember how I screamed in the haunted house?” Stretched out on his couch, Andrew described his unexpected face-to-face confrontation with the Real Doll. “Oh, sure, laugh it up. I thought it was a dead body. That I was cleaning Jeffrey Dahmer’s apartment and about to end up in his freezer. I already told Wasserman not to call me tomorrow or Sunday. I’m taking the weekend to recover.”

“Oh.” Cormac sounded disappointed.

“I mean.” Andrew sat up. “Unless it’s you, booking a date with me.”

“Well…”

“Now you’re just stalling.” Andrew laughed. “Spit it out. Will you be in New York this weekend or not?”

“Yes, but this isn’t a business opportunity. It’s more like a social obligation. We talked about it once, a long time ago, but I won’t hold you to it. Not if you need time to yourself, or….”

“Just say it!”

“Remember my friend with the Rangers skybox? Tommy Laguire? He and his wife Peggy wanted us both to visit them in Long Island. They’ve invited us to come for the weekend.”

“Long Island? Really?”

“Yeah.” Cormac’s artificial cool suggested he was fighting a bad case of nerves. “I’d rent a car. We’d drive to Lattingtown and stay at Tommy and Peg’s. There’s plenty of room. Two other couples will be there, nice people, you’ll like them. No kids, just grownups. We’ll grill out, play football, light a bonfire, and stay up late. Sunday we’ll have a fancy sit-down brunch, then hang out for the rest of the day.”

Andrew’s temptation to hem, haw, and otherwise torture Cormac was defused by rising affection. The same closeted man who'd once pushed Andrew away, afraid to be kissed in a hospital cafeteria, now wanted to share a cozy couples’ weekend. Maybe Tommy and Peg Laguire were sworn to secrecy, but when it came to the other pairs, who could be sure? Cormac was taking a risk, and Andrew didn’t think it was for the promise of a bonfire and a fancy sit-down brunch. Maybe always being alone with Andrew wasn’t enough for Cormac anymore.

“What if someone takes pictures of us together? What if one of the other couples rats you out to the press?”

“It won’t happen.” Cormac sounded utterly certain. “So. Will you come?”

“I don’t know.” Andrew let out a long sigh. “I can’t help feeling like your intentions are impure.”

“Oh, they’re impure,” Cormac agreed, voice dropping to that ultra-masculine growl. “I’ve told you what I want. Keep me waiting much longer and I’ll be the one climbing on a Real Doll.”

Grinning, Andrew headed toward the small closet where he kept his winter coat, galoshes, and second-hand luggage. “Much as I’d love to see you do a reverse-cowboy on a piece of silicone, I suppose we can put it off for now.”

“You mean you’ll spend the weekend with me?” Cormac sounded so happy, Andrew suffered another burst of deep, concentrated affection. Before his mind could rationalize it, could claim he was overdue for a vacation and probably desperate for two days of pure fun, Andrew’s practical side guessed what was happening.

If this goes much further, I’ll fall in love with Cormac. If I haven’t already….

“I’ll spend the weekend with you.” There was a new warmth in Andrew’s voice, a tenderness he had no desire to fight. “Can’t wait.”

* * *

The drive to Lattingtown was fun. Andrew, who hadn’t driven since leaving Wichita, insisted on taking the rental car’s wheel. Cormac used his time in the passenger seat to finish writing an impassioned op-ed piece, due to run in the
San Francisco Chronicle
, against the corporate logging practices threatening his state’s famous redwood forests. The companies had tried to present themselves as “green” and responsible, vowing not to cut down the mammoth redwoods. But as Cormac explained to Andrew, clearcutting every other tree around those ancient giants would devastate the ecosystem, ultimately threatening not only the redwood forest but all the birds, fish, and animals that lived within. After Cormac finished the article and emailed it to his assistant, he settled back for the ride, saying little but occasionally reaching over to touch Andrew’s hand. It wasn’t lost on Andrew that the two of them could spend long stretches in companionable silence. And it was nice, being in the company of someone who didn’t find quiet moments awkward.

They reached the Laguire home around two p.m. Andrew, who’d pictured a white colonial with an enormous lawn, was half right. The yard, dotted with big elms and evergreens, was straight out of a Realtor’s ad. The house, a true mansion at over twelve thousand square feet, had been built in 1982. Everything about its exterior screamed the eighties, including the solar panels, huge satellite dish, and sliding doors overlooking a concrete patio. Inside, Andrew found soaring ceilings, indifferent art, a first-generation home theater, and a heated swimming pool. But this last, as well as their guest bedroom’s Jacuzzi tub, made a believer out of Andrew. When the uniformed housekeeper asked if they would require extra towels, Andrew said yes, returning to the bathroom with an armful of the softest, whitest towels he’d ever seen.

“I take it we’ll be christening either the pool or the Jacuzzi tonight?” Cormac asked. His overnight bag already unpacked, he was back on his laptop, scrolling through dozens of new emails.

“Both, if I have anything to say about it.” Going to the window, Andrew pushed apart the drapes and stared down at the Laguire’s palatial back yard. Down at the stone fire pit, a gardener was already setting up for the evening’s barbecue. “You know, I’ve always heard that coming up in the world—sudden wealth, sudden luxury—is a huge strain. Almost as big an adjustment as being forced to downsize.”