Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay)

Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay)

T. Baggins

Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay)

T. Baggins

Copyright © T. Baggins 2010

Published by Voodoo Lily Press

All Rights Reserved.

Editor: Theo Fenraven

Cover Artist: Fantasia Frog Designs

Formatted by CyberWitch Press, LLC

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Publisher’s Note: This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

Dedication

For Jenx, someone I cannot do without.

Chapter 1

“‘I grimace with scorn at my image in the looking glass,’” Andrew read aloud. “Aren’t books supposed to be written in, what do you call it, third person? Like this: ‘I
grimaced
at myself in the mirror.’”

“You left out ‘with scorn.’” Marie’s smile looked forced. After a chemo infusion, Andrew’s sister always sank like a stone for a few days.

“I think if this chick is grimacing at herself, we can assume she’s scornful, or something close to it.” Andrew flipped the book over to check the author’s photo, half-expecting to see Tina Fey or some other comedian. “I read the entire first chapter, but I still can’t believe it. Sure this isn’t meant as a joke?”

“If you’re going to make fun of my book, put it down and turn on the TV.”

“Sorry.” Andrew squeezed Marie’s hand. They both spent so much time pretending her cancer wasn’t stage three, and she was responding wonderfully to treatment, he sometimes forgot how frayed her nerves actually were. “If you’ll let me read it aloud for you, I’ll be serious. Promise. Just like I’m trying out for a role.”

“Speaking of roles—have you had any auditions?” That was typical Marie. Thick blond hair gone, eyebrows and eyelashes missing, too weak to go to the bathroom without help and ice cold twenty-four/seven, she still found it inside herself to ask if he’d found work.

“Well….” Andrew grinned.

Marie sat up straighter against her mound of pillows. “Oh my God. Your agent landed you a job, didn’t she? Is it a commercial?”

“Better. I start rehearsing a new play tonight,” Andrew lied.

“That’s great!” Opening her arms, Marie hugged Andrew so feebly his heart turned over. He knew fatigue went with this type of chemotherapy, that it wasn’t necessarily a bad sign, but watching Marie weaken daily while maintaining a brave, cheery front took its toll. For a second—just a second—he was tempted to invoke a younger brother’s privilege and confess it was all a lie. That since coming to New York City to help out during her illness, he’d burned up his savings and maxed his only credit card without scoring a single acting job. The only serious offers he’d received were for the one thing he wouldn’t do: porn.

“I’m so proud of you,” Marie whispered in Andrew’s ear. “When it’s produced, I promise to be there for opening night. Even if they have to wheel me in on a stretcher.”

“Well. Right now I’m just an understudy. But for the lead role.” Andrew had always been good at improvisation, an important skill for any actor. “So if the star gets sick—look out, off-off-Broadway.”

Marie slipped back down. “But you still get paid, don’t you?” she asked as Andrew pulled the knit blanket up to her chin.

“I still get paid. Which is good, because this is almost empty.” Andrew withdrew a Ziploc bag from his jeans pocket, along with a packet of rolling papers. Until recently, Marie had rolled her own, but now her hands trembled too much. So Andrew, never much of a pot smoker, had been forced to learn.

“Here you go. Goodbye, nausea.” Using his Bic lighter, Andrew lit the joint for Marie. The gratitude in her wide blue eyes steeled his resolve. Until that moment he hadn’t actually been sure he’d turn up for his first night at the new job. But it promised to pay in cash after every assignment. And it was acting, of a sort. All he had to do was pretend to be gay.

* * *

“I smile at myself in the mirror,” Andrew told his reflection as he knotted his tie, a silk Christian Dior given to him by Marie for his twenty-fourth birthday. The light blue fabric matched his eyes and completed his suit—a relic from his late teens—perfectly.

“My suit’s more than a little out of date, but at least I can still fit into it,” he said, continuing the phony narration. “One good thing about being a starving actor in the big city: if you can’t afford to eat, you can’t gain weight. I know I look good. The question is—do I look gay?”

Andrew sighed. Then scowled. Then tried to “grimace with scorn” at himself, as if it were a director’s request. He managed to look constipated. That was about it.

His laptop, secondhand and slow as molasses, was in the living room. After the usual seemingly endless wait, he opened the word processing program, created a new document and typed:

I smile at myself in the mirror. My suit is more than a little out of date, but at least I still fit into it. That’s one good thing about being a starving artist in the city that never sleeps. If you can’t afford to buy groceries, you can’t put on weight. False modesty aside, I’m a good-looking guy. Not perfect—I don’t care if ten grand falls from the sky tomorrow, I’m not getting my nose “optimized.” With my luck I’d end up looking like Bruce Jenner for life. I’m tall enough, almost five-ten, with brown hair, blue eyes and good skin. My head shots are all primo, especially in black and white, even without a Ken doll nose. So, yeah, I don’t think my “date,” if you can call him that, will run away screaming when he sees me. But will I look gay? Will he know I’m straight?

Andrew allowed his mind to slip back to the worst time of his life, the summer between eighth and ninth grade. But only for a moment. If he couldn’t afford to restock the cereal or peanut butter, he sure couldn’t afford therapy.

Stupid question. Gay doesn’t look a certain way. Unless you’re RuPaul. Or on
Glee.
If I smile and act interested, it should be enough.

He was still staring at the screen, unsure if he was trying to write a letter, a journal entry, or the beginning of a confessional letter to Marie. Someday he’d tell her everything—his trouble breaking into the NYC theatre scene, his determination not to leave her side, and this unexpected foray into the gay escort biz. Someday, when she was well enough, and he figured out how to make it read like a fun can-you-believe-this-shit slice of life, not a whiny guilt trip.

I am not scared
, Andrew typed, firming his mouth and taking a deep breath.
Wasserman promised me this isn’t like gay porn. I won’t have to do anything, except maybe hug and kiss. I’ve kissed dudes in acting class. Doesn’t mean a thing.

Andrew sighed. Even assuming this new document grew into a full-fledged journal, how honest was he obligated to be? After another moment’s contemplation, he changed the period at the end of the last paragraph to a comma.

Doesn’t mean a thing, at least not to most actors, and even though I didn’t want to join in, I got through it. I wouldn’t turn down an acting job if they asked me to play a gay man. Why should this assignment be any different?

His forefinger was still hovering over the “delete” key when his phone rang. It was Wasserman.

“Hiya, pimp.”

“I told you, don’t call me that.” Huey Wasserman had a voice so low and gravelly, he sounded like a boulder that had learned to speak. He also had no discernible sense of humor, which was why Andrew felt compelled to tease the other man every chance he got. One day he would get his perpetually crabby neighbor, now his new boss, to laugh. Well… maybe.

“Sorry. You prefer ‘matchmaker?’ Are you calling with bad news? Don’t tell me my hot date fell through.” As he said it, Andrew’s stomach started an impromptu tango. Without the money, he faced eviction. But he still wanted to dodge this bullet, even if it meant once again canvassing supermarkets in hopes someone needed a bag boy.

“Your meeting as a paid professional escort,” Wasserman growled, “is scheduled to commence in exactly two hours. Do not be late. Do not arrive looking less than your best. Do not be anything less than charming and an ideal representative of my service, or you will need the entire FDNY and the jaws of life to pull my foot out of your ass. You got me?”

“Oh yeah.” Andrew pulled the phone away from his ear, flipped it off, and then continued. “Is that the only reason you called? To threaten me?”

“To motivate you. This client is one of my best. Due to circumstances beyond my control, meaning the dumbass crap twenty-year-old dickheads like you pull on a regular basis, I can’t send a trusted employee. All I’ve got is you. If you fuck this up and lose me this client, bear this in mind: I know where you live.”

“Making eviction sound more and more attractive. So who is this dude? TV exec? Stock broker?”

“Politician.”

Andrew winced. “Anyone I’ve heard of?”

“I doubt it.”

“Is he rich?”

“Maybe. Andrew. Promise me you won’t fuck this up. No matter what he asks.”

Andrew’s throat tightened. “Um… yeah. You said—you promised—”

“Oh, for Chrissakes. Listen up.” Wasserman’s low, gravelly voice got even lower and gravellier. “You needed a break. I gave you one. You read the state law on escorts. You know the drill on what’s legal and what ain’t. And yeah, most of these guys just want a pretty boy to serve drinks or brighten up a party. But
this
client always wants a date. A real date. You play ball with him, keep him happy, and there’s a five hundred dollar cash bonus in it, from me to you, tomorrow morning. You offend him at all, if I hear anything less than a glowing report, it’s foot up the ass time. You got me?”

“I got you.” Too unsettled to bother flipping off the phone a second time, Andrew hit disconnect.

* * *

Andrew arrived at the rendezvous point, a public library on Amsterdam Avenue, a full ten minutes ahead of schedule. For September, it was unseasonably hot, especially for eight o’clock at night. Despite extra antiperspirant, he was sweating inside his suit. He hoped he wouldn’t have damp patches beneath each armpit when his date appeared.

Client
, Andrew corrected himself as the word “date” threatened to resurrect his earlier panic.
Just a client. And I’m just a professional. And this is just another acting job…

The library had a neat gray-white façade, oval windows and a red flag proclaiming LIBRARY suspended from the second floor. A toy shop and an art gallery stood nearby, both heavily-frequented from what Andrew could see. It was a nice neighborhood. Given that Wasserman’s office was situated across from a graffiti-scarred crack house, Andrew had half-expected to arrive someplace his martial arts skills, acquired in his late teens, would be necessary. What a relief to find himself in front of a perfectly respectable library in Upper Manhattan.

As a boy Andrew had loved libraries. Of course, in his hometown—Fort Scott, Kansas—there had only been two, the public library and his school library. But he’d prized them both, practically living in them from fifth grade on, when the bullying shifted from verbal to physical. For a time he’d assumed when he grew up, he’d pen books of his own, adding to the stacks he’d relied on to provide entertainment, comfort, and escape. But then his voice changed, the drama teacher took an interest in his narration abilities, and the acting bug bit. Since age fourteen he’d considered himself an actor, lacking nothing except the correct opportunity to prove his chops to the world.