Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (16 page)

Andrew had never heard the expression spun that way, but it struck him as accurate. “Seriously. This guy’s blackballing me for being unavailable
one time
and I’m supposed to apologize? I’m supposed to kiss ass and pretend I was wrong?”

“Only if you want to keep working for me. Got another call coming in. See you around, kid.”

Andrew thought about Wasserman’s suggestion all afternoon, occasionally taking out his mobile but never quite bringing himself to look up Paresh’s number. Instead, he kept an eye on his messages. Since their last meeting, Cormac had gotten in the habit of texting Andrew once or twice a day. Sometimes he sent a funny picture, like himself visiting the California Prune Board, grinning beside a man dressed as a purple wrinkly fruit.

The stuff I do for votes. I’m supposed to only call them dried plums now. PR thing.

Other times, Cormac sent more personal texts, asking about Marie or referencing a football or hockey game. Andrew, who now looked forward to the daily interactions, figured it was his turn to initiate a conversation. Frustrated with the Paresh situation and still unwilling to cough up a phony apology, Andrew texted to Cormac:

Need a better way 2 earn $$$. If I wrote 15 shades of gay for pay would U read it?

Three minutes later, Cormac’s reply arrived.

Sure. Have a heart. Make me a democrat from the bible belt OK?

Andrew smiled. Then he sent,
how about short + ugly w/ a little prick?

He was awaiting Cormac’s answer when the mobile rang. It was Connie Reynolds.

“Hey, Mom. What’s up?” Andrew didn’t mean to sound wary, but Connie usually called on Saturdays. Part of living in Cancer World was constant suspicion; any change in routine might signal another disaster.

“I spoke to your father. He’s worried to death about Marie. I think it’s time I came to New York.”

“But you were just here,” Andrew said, meaning her last visit, just before he’d signed on with Wasserman’s escort service. “Marie knows you can’t afford to fly up more than once a month.”

“This time, I mean to stay until Marie turns the corner.”

Andrew sighed. Connie’s boyfriend, Brent, a social worker, was fifty years old and still living hand to mouth. He couldn’t spare a cent to help out. Connie made enough as an executive secretary to live comfortably, but only just. Her workplace had already confirmed she was entitled to twelve weeks of unpaid leave, thanks to a federal law called the Family Medical Leave Act. But FMLA just meant Connie couldn’t be fired if she came to New York for three months. It wouldn’t pay her house or car note during that time, much less her living expenses while visiting Marie.

“Mom. If you do that, you’ll lose the house.”

“Not necessarily.” Connie’s breezy tone was a sure sign she’d already made up her mind. “Jake says he’ll sell his boat. Make a mortgage payment for me if he can.”

Andrew bit back a groan. His father’s sixteen-foot bass boat, purchased secondhand more than twenty years ago, lacked a functioning outboard motor. Its gas tank leaked and both seats had dry-rotted from a decade’s neglect. Yet Jake believed his boat could be sold at a premium, providing a tidy windfall whenever he got around to advertising it on Craigslist.

“Assuming that works,” Andrew didn’t conceal his skepticism, “you might get enough for one mortgage payment. And what about your car?”

“The bank can have it. I hope they enjoy the way it stalls on cold mornings as much as I do.”

“Mom….”

“Andy. You know with Jake, I always have to read between the lines. When he beat down my door at six am ranting that his little girl’s a fighter and she’ll never give up, I realized she’d taken a turn for the worse. I asked Marie, and she claimed it’s just a setback. Then I looked up stage four cancer on the internet and almost had a panic attack. So I’m counting on you to tell me the absolute truth.” Connie took a deep breath. “Should I be more worried about my house and car than my daughter’s life?”

Put like that, Andrew could only answer one way. “No.”

“Fine.” From Connie, an emphatic “fine” meant the wheels were already in motion, and heaven help the fool who jumped in her way. “I’ll be there sometime next week. Do me a favor. Make up some story for Marie about why I can suddenly afford it. I don’t want her fretting over my problems.”

“Well, jeez, Mom, that’s easier said than done.” Andrew fought to keep an even tone. “Neither of us want to see you lose everything.”

“Maybe not, but it’s my choice. You know me, Andy. When push comes to shove, I’ll do what I have to do.”

Andrew thought about Connie’s last implacable statement for a long time. He’d always known Marie was a bit like their father. Now, for the first time, he saw a parallel between himself and Connie. There was an excellent chance he could earn enough money to make those house and car payments for her—if he, too, was willing to do what had to be done.

“Mr. Choudhari?” Andrew said when the other man picked up. “It’s Andrew Reynolds. I’m calling to apologize….”

* * *

This time Andrew arrived at Paresh’s house precisely on time, ten o’clock sharp. Paresh met him at the door, white silk shirt open at the throat and trousers perfectly pressed. For a self-described family man, Andrew realized he never saw any signs of family life in the house. The few framed photographs were of just Paresh, posed with NYC businessmen or local celebrities. No toys were ever in sight, and Paresh himself didn’t look like a man who’d spent the evening bathing small children and putting them to bed.

“Your wife and kids don’t live here, do they?” As soon as Andrew asked, he remembered such a query no doubt fell under the heading of an ‘impertinent question,’ but Paresh’s laugh sounded tolerant.

“Of course not. They reside uptown, as do I, when I’m not entertaining. I purchased this house as a getaway. Would you like a drink?”

“No, thank you.”

“Oh, that’s right. Careful Andrew, ever-vigilant, lest he be drugged. Or do you always avoid alcohol?”

“I’m not a big drinker.”

“Because you fear the loss of control,” Paresh said. “That’s the real reason you refused to come to my party, isn’t it? Because you couldn’t face me, not after I penetrated you.”

Andrew’s first impulse was to set Paresh straight. During his excruciating phone apology, he’d refused to bring up Marie or her diagnosis, preferring not to share anything so personal. Instead, he’d blamed his failure to appear on Jake, claiming his father had turned up for a surprise visit, obligating Andrew to play host. Now Paresh’s smug expression, the way he clearly cherished the notion that intercourse had somehow traumatized Andrew, was infuriating. But as he opened his mouth to argue, Andrew remembered what Wasserman had said. Hell hath no fury like a rich man scorned.

Or told the sun doesn’t shine out of his dick, apparently.

“I, um. Well.” Andrew shuffled his feet. “I don’t know what to say.”

“There’s nothing to be said. I just wanted to prove I understand your sort much better than you think. Now follow me. The room’s ready.”

When they reached the carved door, Paresh pointed at the handle shaped like a hideous brass tongue. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Hating to touch the latch, Andrew forced himself, plowing forward like he couldn’t wait to get started. It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the comparative dimness. The room was lit only by thick white pillar candles, scattered artfully here and there. This time the bed was made up with white cotton sheets. Otherwise, it was bare.

“No pillows?” Andrew looked at Paresh. “Afraid I might sleep on the job?”

“Not at all. Go to the bureau and count your fee, if you please. I’ll never have your full attention until you’re satisfied on that score.”

Andrew counted the money. He’d expected less than their last encounter—to have his pay docked, so to speak, as further punishment for missing that party—but it was the same amount, plus another five hundred. “Very generous,” he muttered, since Paresh seemed to expect a comment. “So. What are we doing this time?”

“Clearing the air.”

“What do you mean?”

“Andrew, that invitation I issued was very special,” Paresh said. “Four of my closest friends took time out of their busy schedules to meet you, to see this gay-for-pay jewel I’d raved about. And what did I have to offer them? Mr. Wasserman’s usual crew. You embarrassed me, and for us to continue, there must be atonement.”

“I apologized. At length,” Andrew said, hoping this was just Paresh’s strange idea of verbal foreplay. “What else can I do?”

Opening a bureau drawer, Paresh withdrew a paddle. Over a foot long and six inches wide, it was made of solid wood at least half an inch thick. Smiling, Paresh slapped the paddle’s business end against his open palm.

“What else can you do? Well, Andrew, you can drop your pants, bend over, and take your punishment like a man. Or you can go away empty-handed and never work as an escort in this city again.”

Andrew stared at Paresh. The other man wasn’t joking. Eyes snapping with excitement, he bounced lightly on the balls of his feet as he awaited Andrew’s reply.

“Um….” Andrew fought to clamp down on his instinctive revulsion. “Can we, um, talk about this first?”

“There’s nothing to talk about. Really, Andrew, it’s very simple. Five strokes if you let me spank you with your hands cuffed behind your back. Ten strokes if you refuse to be confined. Yes, I know.” Paresh’s grin widened to unpleasant proportions. “You’re turning pink at the very idea of handcuffs. It’s terribly difficult for you to relinquish control, isn’t it? But Andrew, please believe me. Utter surrender can be… cathartic.”

Heart pounding and face flaming, Andrew found it difficult to weigh Paresh’s ultimatum rationally. It had been ages since anyone had struck him in earnest, as opposed to sparring in martial arts class. Paresh’s wooden paddle looked substantial enough to inflict real pain, but pain wasn’t Andrew’s only objection.

As if reading his mind, Paresh said, “You needn’t worry about how you’ll maintain your dignity. Crying out is expected. Tears, too. Give in to both and your own arousal may surprise you.”

Andrew didn’t answer at once. Instead he thought of his mother losing her car and her home, the house he’d grown up in. Of Connie Reynolds returning to Kansas to start over from scratch, perhaps without even a job, if her leave of absence stretched beyond the FMLA-protected twelve weeks.

“All right. I’ll play along,” he said at last, forcing the words from between his teeth. “Just this once.” Unbuttoning his jeans and letting them fall, Andrew started to step out of them, but Paresh shook his head.

“No striptease. Just let them drop around your ankles. This is punishment, after all.”

Face still radiating heat like a red-hot coal, Andrew obeyed. After a moment’s further struggle, he dropped his boxers, too.

“Don’t just stand there. Bend over,” Paresh said.

Placing his hands on the mattress, Andrew positioned himself. He hadn’t been spanked like this, a paddle against bare buttocks, since age eight, when he’d set the kitchen curtains on fire and nearly burned down the house. And that spanking had been pure parental hysteria, his frazzled mom’s eruption over such a close call, not only for their home, but for her son’s life. Even so, the long-repressed memory—smoke, melted plastic curtain hooks, his mother sobbing and cursing—returned to Andrew with shocking clarity. He knew he could bear the pain, endure ten strokes with gritted teeth if need be. But would he be able to look at himself in the mirror the next day?

“All right.” Paresh rested a hand on the small of Andrew’s back. “You understand why I’m doing this. Your lack of consideration. Your lack of gratitude. You’ve disappointed me, and you need correction.”

Awaiting the first smack of the paddle, Andrew kept his shoulders loose. He wouldn’t give Paresh the satisfaction of seeing him tensed.

“Andrew, you need correction. Say it.” Paresh ran the paddle’s edge between Andrew’s cheeks. It tickled, deceptively gentle.

“I need correction.” He spoke in a monotone.

Thwack
. The paddle struck flesh. Andrew sucked in his breath, startled by how loud it was and how little it hurt.

“You should be more grateful,” Paresh continued.

Thwack
. The paddle struck the same spot, as hard if not harder. Andrew’s rear started to throb, stinging heat spreading along the top of his thighs. Again he smelled smoke, scorched dish towels and singed human hair—his own—from his attempts to douse the fire. Again he heard Connie Reynolds, who never cried and rarely swore, sobbing, “Goddamn it, I told you never to play with my lighter,” over and over as she beat his ass with a metal ladle, the first implement she’d gotten her hands on. Eight-year-old Andrew had nearly wet himself, more from shame than pain.

“You should offer yourself freely when I extend an invitation,” Paresh said.

Thwack
. Again, the paddle hit the exact same spot, connecting with Andrew’s flesh so powerfully, involuntary tears sprang to his eyes. How had it come to this? How had he let himself sink so low for money?

“Stop,” Andrew said.

Thwack
. The hardest blow yet. Hobbled by the jeans and shorts gathered around his ankles, Andrew turned as best he could. Catching Paresh’s right wrist, he squeezed until the other man dropped the paddle.

“I said, stop!”

Unable to break Andrew’s grip, Paresh brought his knee up. It was only a glancing blow, more against Andrew’s inner thigh than his balls, but the pain was still sharp enough to bypass Andrew’s rational mind altogether, releasing the rage below. He hated cancer, hospitals, doctors, and diagnoses. He hated endless bills, long pharmacy lines, and insurance caps. He hated Marie for not responding to treatment and himself for not landing work as an actor. He hated the necessity that had driven him to Wasserman’s service and more than anything, right at that moment, he hated Paresh Choudhari. Catching the other man by his collar, Andrew spun Paresh around, flinging him onto the bed. As Paresh lay on his back, panting, Andrew finally freed himself from his jeans and boxers. His balls ached, his butt throbbed and he trembled all over, shaking so violently, not even his voice was steady.