Love on Site (6 page)

“You punked out early last night,” Larry said the next morning. “You obviously need a course in remedial recreation. There’s an FU alumni thing on Thursday, and you’re going with us. No excuses.”

“A Thursday? But I have to work Friday.”

“You’re turning into an old fart, Manny. You can prop your eyelids open for an extra hour to hang out with us.”

“Where is this thing?”

“The Biltmore in Coral Gables.”

I did like the Biltmore—a magnificent old Spanish-style hotel surrounded by a golf course. I’d been there a couple of times for events, and marveled at the architectural detail—the coffered ceilings, the hand-painted frescoes, and the travertine marble floors. “All right. I’ll meet you there on my way home from work.”

Tuesday afternoon I was with Camilo down by the entrance to the property, looking at the swampy area that would become a small landscaped pond. The site fronted on a main street that led to the freeway, and there was a surprising amount of foot traffic past us every day: hotel workers in their uniforms, waiting for the bus; tiny abuelas dressed in black, walking from one store to another; young black men with their pants hanging down their asses, showing off colorful boxers, on unspecified errands.

A sad-looking black man in his fifties walked by, dressed like Tina Turner—tottery high heels, fishnet stockings, and short shorts, topped with a frilly blouse and tits so fake even I could tell. He wore a curly blonde wig that cascaded over his shoulders, and lots of lipstick and mascara.

Camilo jumped into a small loader, a D-8, and gunned the engine toward the entrance, yelling curses at the drag queen. The guy clutched his purse and kept walking, though I could see he was scared. I felt like going after Camilo and telling him to lay off. But I couldn’t. I was only in my fourth week on the job, and I was in no position to go criticizing one of my superiors.

That incident added to my feeling that there was something dark and angry floating around the site. The next couple of days I was on edge, worrying about what else could happen, and I was glad when Thursday evening arrived, and the FU alumni cocktail reception for new graduates at the Biltmore.

I agreed to meet Gavin and Larry at the hotel at six, and got there a few minutes early. I stopped at a reception table under a leaded-glass light fixture to pick up my name tag. “I thought this was an event for new graduates,” I said, noticing that many of the tags had graduation years long before mine.

“It’s for the alumni association to welcome new grads,” the girl behind the desk said, handing me my tag and two tickets for beer or wine. “We invite the whole membership so that you can get a sense of how important it is to keep up your FU affiliation.”

I thanked her and plastered my tag on my shirt below the Loredo logo. I walked into the ballroom and exchanged one of my tickets for a bottle of beer. My phone vibrated in my pants with what Gavin called a texticle—the vibration from a text message that tickled your balls when your phone was in your pocket. I checked the screen and saw that he and Larry were stuck in traffic and running late.

I frowned and replaced the phone. I wandered over to examine one of the marble columns that climbed two stories to the vaulted ceiling.

“It’s a beautiful building, isn’t it?”

I turned to see an older guy next to me, holding a wine glass. His name tag read
Roberto Calderon, class of ’85
. He was handsome in a well-put-together way—a perfect haircut, clean shaven with a hint of aftershave, manicured nails, trim figure. His polo shirt was from Brooks Brothers; I recognized the hanging sheep crest. His razor-pressed slacks and gleaming loafers said money too.

He saw me appraising him, and something in his eyes said he liked what he saw as well. “The workmanship is amazing,” I said.

Roberto was a financier and amateur architectural historian, and he knew a lot of details about the building’s construction. We walked around, and he pointed out details, and we began a subtle flirtation—standing a bit too close to each other, making the occasional innuendo. By the time Larry and Gavin showed up, I was ready to grab Roberto and find a secluded part of the hotel where we could make out.

I drained my second beer as they walked up. I introduced them to Roberto, and then the president of the alumni association stepped up to a microphone and began a welcome address. “Would you like something else to drink?” Roberto whispered to me.

“Sure. How long does this thing go on?”

He looked at his watch, a gold Rolex. “He’ll be speaking for at least a half hour.”

I groaned.

“We could go somewhere else,” Roberto suggested. “I know a bar not too far away.”

“I’d like that.” I whispered a good-bye to Larry and Gavin, to their raised eyebrows, and walked out with Roberto.

I followed his Mercedes out to Coral Way and down a few blocks. I’d never been to the place before, but I recognized a gay bar when I saw one. “This is all right?” he asked when we’d both gotten out of our cars in the parking lot.

“Perfect. Even better if they’ve got a dark room at the back of the bar.”

“You are a little devil,” he said, smiling broadly. “I can see we will get along.”

The bar did have a dark back room, and after Roberto had gotten himself a large glass of wine, and a beer for me, we walked back there and snuggled up in a booth. He put his arm around my shoulders, and I leaned over and kissed his smooth cheek. I caressed his thigh with my hand, and he shivered. “You must not move too quickly,” he said. “The seduction is just as important as the climax.”

“I’ve got a couple of climaxes stored up,” I said.

“Ah, but when you get to my age, you must guard them carefully, and make each one worthwhile.”

Roberto gently moved my hand from his thigh and kissed the edge of my chin. “Let me show you the way,” he said.

We talked, and flirted, and shared intimate gestures—the caress of a cheek, legs pressed close, his hand on my arm. He ordered a platter of nachos for us to share—an uncharacteristic dish for such a suave man, but we gulped it down like it was our last supper. He kissed me and let me fondle him briefly. Then he stood. “I must visit the restroom,” he said.

“I’ll come with you.”

He shook his head. “I am not interested in a sordid encounter in a men’s room, my beautiful Manuel. When I take you, it will be as you deserve.”

I wanted to tell him that what I deserved was the chance to suck his dick or have him fuck my ass, but I could tell he was serious. When he returned from the men’s room, he said, “Sadly, I must leave you now. But I hope you will allow me to take you to dinner one evening so we can continue to get to know each other.”

“I’d like you to take me to dinner,” I said. “But more than that, I’d like you to take me to bed.”

“All in good time, my boy.” We walked out to the parking lot together. I was hoping for at least a kiss in the dark, but he said, “I’ll call you,” and got into his car.

I drove home with a serious case of blue balls. I didn’t think I’d been so sexually frustrated since high school, when I lusted hopelessly for my gym teacher, Mr. Napolitano, who poured his hunky body into tight shorts and T-shirts and liked to blow his whistle at us boys. I remembered hurrying home to jerk off to thoughts of Mr. Nap asking me to stay after school for extra practice, then ravaging me in the shower. I almost had to pull off the highway and pound one out, but I held back until I was home.

I rushed into the bathroom as soon as I walked in. I peed copiously, then started to pull on my dick, which stiffened. I closed my eyes and remembered being next to Roberto, smelling him, feeling his leg against mine, leaning over and kissing him. The problem was when I tried to remember his face, the only one I could see was Walter Loredo’s.

It didn’t matter; I jerked myself off to a magnificent orgasm and collapsed into bed without saying anything to Larry or Gavin.

Site Work

By that Monday morning, after I’d been working at Loredo for a month, I started to feel like I belonged out at the construction site. I watched the walls being placed to sheathe the steel exoskeleton of warehouse one and the completion of the steel for warehouse two. I knew my way around the site, knew all the names of the foremen and which trades they belonged to.

My biggest problem was Camilo. He had taken a dislike to me, starting that first day when he criticized my clothes, and it was difficult to deal with him when I had to make changes to the sitework schedule. I could count on Adrian to make suggestions when something slipped that was under his control, but Camilo was combative every time I asked about a problem.

Camilo never had the information I needed at hand—he was always promising to get it to me later. When I made suggestions, he sneered, even if he ended up accepting them. Behind my back I heard him make derogatory comments about me—I had tiny
huevos
or balls; I sat down to take a piss; I had a
pinga
, or dick, like a needle; I liked to take it up the ass.

The only one of those that was true was that I did like a stiff dick up my ass —but I wouldn’t admit that to Camilo. His most common greeting was “Fuck you,” to which, I learned, the correct response was “You’ll never go back to dogs.”

I wasn’t accustomed to that kind of casual sexual profanity, and I admit that it made my dick stand up and salute. It was a struggle sometimes to mumble out my question, then, with a shaking hand, scribble down his response. I’d hurry back to my office, desperate to jerk off in the john. But the trailer was rickety and the walls paper thin, and if you spent too long on the toilet, somebody was always banging on the door, accusing you of beating your meat.

It didn’t help matters that by the middle of June, most of the workmen on-site were shirtless, many of them wearing shorts so tight they were molded to sculpted asses. There was more testosterone and muscle mass on the site than you’d find in any city gym, and the guys were always teasing each other about pieces of ass, about dick size and stamina.

Taco22, the graffiti artist, had shown up over the weekend. But in addition to the usual crap, he had sprayed
Manuelito es un lavahuevos
on a steel beam on the ground, waiting to be lifted into place. There was no mistaking that I was the Manuelito he meant. He was accusing me of being a ball-licker—usually translated as a brown-noser. But I had a feeling the literal meaning was the one it was meant to convey.

Walter found me outside, staring at the beam. “Don’t take it personally, Manny,” he said, clapping me on the back. “Consider it a rite of passage. You’re one of the guys.”

I was so upset I didn’t even register his touch. “Yeah, great.” He walked off to talk to Adrian, and I continued my walk around the property. When I got out to where the pump was working on draining the swamp, I saw that Taco22 had been out there too—and he’d sprayed
Manny es un chupapollas
on the side of the concrete catch basin, where the pump drained. Manny is a cocksucker.

Everybody driving past the site could see it when the gate was open, and we’d have to drain the basin and let the concrete dry before we could paint over it.

For the first time, I considered that our graffiti artist was someone connected with the site. How would anyone outside know my name or have any suspicions about me? I thought about it that evening, and the next morning I waited until the meeting had broken up to rap lightly on the door frame to Walter’s office. “Got a minute?” I asked.

“Sure, come on in.” He motioned me to the chair across from his desk. “What’s up?”

“I think maybe our graffiti artist is somebody who works here.”

“What makes you say that?”

“The thing yesterday. About me. How would Taco22 know who I am?”

Walter waved his hand. “You’re not the only Manny in the world. Don’t sweat it.”

“Yeah, but there’s another one,” I said. “Calling me a
chupapollas
.”

I could tell that Walter knew what the slur meant. “Maybe you’re right. I’ll bring it up at lunch.”

“I don’t want to call attention to it. You know how it is—when you make a big deal out of something, it gets a life of its own.”

He nodded. “You’re probably right. But make sure both of those get covered up today. Talk to Camilo—he’ll handle it for you.”

Yeah, not gonna happen, I thought. “I don’t need to bother him. I’ll talk to Jorge myself.” Jorge was the painting superintendent, and I had to see if he needed more of the graffiti-resistant paint anyway.

“That works,” Walter said.

I spoke to Jorge about covering up the graffiti. “Walter wants it done today,” I said. “You have enough paint?”

He didn’t meet my eyes. “Yeah, got enough,” he said. “For now.”

That wasn’t good, I thought as I walked back to the trailer. Did Jorge know who was behind the graffiti? Or did he believe that it would go on as long as I continued to work there?

That afternoon I was out on-site with Walter, the two of us looking like twins in our matching polo shirts and khakis. “What do you think of this form work?” he asked, pointing to the way a workman had laid out the wooden forms for the grade beams—short walls of poured concrete—for warehouse three.

“Doesn’t look strong enough to me,” I said. “Seems like the concrete might blow the forms out unless they’re real careful.”

Walter nodded. “You’re learning,” he said. He crossed his hairy forearms over his chest and smiled. “Go over and tell Camilo.”

Fuck me, I thought. I didn’t want to get into an argument with Camilo in front of Walter. But I had to man up and do what I was told. The last thing I wanted was for Walter to think I was a wimp.

“Hey, Camilo,” I said as I approached him. He was looking at an order form on his clipboard, and the way he was concentrating on the numbers made him look like one of those cartoon characters with a thought bubble coming out of his head.

“I’m busy,” he said in Spanish. He was the only one of the supers who forced me to speak Spanish.

“The forms on the northwest corner of warehouse three…”

He didn’t even let me finish. “
No jodas conmigo
,” he said, which, loosely translated, meant “Don’t fuck with me.”