Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (19 page)

“What kind?”

“You could kiss me, for a start.” Maneuvering jeans and shorts around his ankles, Andrew stroked the tip of his member until he stiffened uncomfortably. “But maybe it’s good you’re not here. Kissing wouldn’t be enough. I’d need more than your tongue.”

“But I liked sucking you.” Cormac sounded breathless.

“Maybe, but we can’t just keep playing around.” Switching his mobile to speakerphone, Andrew tossed it on the cushion beside him, sticking an index finger in his mouth. Right hand encircling his sex, he pressed the saliva-moistened finger between his buttocks. “Tell me the truth. Do you want to fuck?”

Another incoherent noise.

“Okay. Fine. How will it happen?” It hurt a little, his left index finger’s persistent quest, but Andrew didn’t stop, bearing down until the finger wormed its way inside. He remembered exploring himself with the dildo, Paresh mounting him, Sven’s member stabbing him in the small of the back. Yes, this was good, something deep inside, filling him even as his right hand tugged. “Seriously, Cormac, who drives? You or me?”

“Well. I have this fantasy…” The quickness of Cormac’s breath told Andrew the other man was indulging himself, too. “We get naked. Make out. Suck each other just enough. Then I get on top. You wrap your legs around me. I push inside….”

Driving two fingers inside himself, Andrew gasped at the combination of burning pain and incipient pleasure. “Maybe I don’t want it that way,” he lied, right hand maintaining a deliberate, teasing pace. “Maybe I need to stay in control?”

Cormac made a soft sound. “That’s my other fantasy. You straddle me… tell me what to do… stuff yourself inside me and ride until I explode.”

“You’d like that?” Andrew pushed a third finger inside.

“Sure. Is that weird?”

“Not to me.” Three fingers, coupled with the rhythm of his right hand, felt amazing. “But I had the idea we needed to choose. You know. Top or bottom.”

“I don’t want to choose.” Cormac panted, taking a moment for himself. “I want both. I want to hold you down and make you beg for mercy. But Andrew, when you climbed on my lap and kissed me, when you took me to bed, it felt so good to surrender. To forget who I am in real life and just let go. Be yours.”

Andrew didn’t answer at once, too caught up in the pull, pull, pull, in the pain/pleasure of those questing fingers. When he spoke, he barely recognized his own voice. “I want you, too, Cormac. Not just because you’re gorgeous. I know other sexy men. Beautiful women, too. But you’re special. I want you.”

The sound was stifled, almost inaudible, but Andrew heard it all the same. Almost two thousand, five hundred miles away, Cormac was coming. The realization sent Andrew over the edge. Even as he shot, the reflexive clutch around his fingers was a revelation.

If I ever squeeze Cormac that way, he’ll die a happy man.

After that, they talked a little more, soft-voiced and gentle, the make-up vibe in full effect. While washing his hands, Andrew continued to utilize his mobile’s speakerphone feature, telling Cormac amusing stories about Connie’s slow acclimation to New York City. But Cormac seemed preoccupied by something else.

“About the gay marriage thing. And the gay agenda thing,” he said at last. “You’re right. It’s wrong of me to support something publicly while doing the opposite privately. I just haven’t figured out how to go against the party and not end up drummed out of politics forever. I know that sounds weak, but it’s true.”

“I understand.” Andrew’s eyes were heavy-lidded; after an orgasm of that magnitude, all he wanted was sleep. “As long as you know it’s not cool. That you’re working on changing things when you can.”

“I am.” Cormac sounded equally sleepy. “By the way, I think I can swing a visit to New York this weekend. Should I book it through Mr. Wasserman?”

“No way. This is personal. It’s not about money between us. You know that.”

“But you’re earning enough, right? To keep things afloat for you and your family?”

“Sure.” Andrew bit his lower lip. “I didn’t even have to kill anyone execution-style.”

“That’s a relief. I’ll, um. Well. I’ll see you Saturday. Bye, Andrew.”

“Bye.” Andrew disconnected. His semen-stained jeans needed to go in the wash, but that could wait until tomorrow. On impulse, he finally broke open the Chinese restaurant’s fortune cookie.

Confucius say, he who saves one life saves the world entire.

“Huh.” Too relaxed to think about it, Andrew dropped the fortune on his coffee table and shambled off to bed.

Chapter 11

That Saturday dawned gray and rainy, cold enough to suggest an early winter. Cormac’s flight wasn’t due until five o’clock. Andrew had offered to take the subway to LaGuardia and meet him at the pre-security NYSB (New York Sports Bar), but Cormac nixed the idea.

“I spend way too much time waiting around airports, drinking overpriced beer. Besides, I’ll want to shower and change clothes. How about we meet up at the Sea Witch again? High time you gave Guinness another try.”

Andrew snorted. “If I can’t have a Bud Light, I swear, I’ll order a Cosmo. Try maintaining your real effing man cred with me sitting across from you, sipping a pink drink.”

“You wouldn’t.”

“I’ll ask for extra orange peel. What comes after dinner? More dancing?”

“We could. But it’s almost Halloween. If you want, we could do something a little scary.”

“Like what? Holding hands in public?”

“Very funny. Over near Delancy Street there’s a haunted house,” Cormac said. “Kind of highbrow. This year, the theme is real life killers. Jack the Ripper, the Zodiac killer, guys like that.”

Andrew made a noncommittal sound. For years he’d avoided haunted houses on the grounds that as an actor, he couldn’t suspend his disbelief enough to enjoy the spooky tableaus. In truth, his vivid imagination and tendency to immerse himself in the moment had led to embarrassment. The last time he’d visited a haunted house, Wichita’s Murder Mansion, he’d screamed so loudly in the Boneyard, one of the werewolves had broken character to point at him and laugh. Andrew’s girlfriend had joined in, derailing the tour for everyone.

“Unless fake blood and fog machines scare you,” Cormac continued. It sounded like a schoolyard taunt.

“Please. I’m an actor. I know the difference between reality and fantasy.” Andrew squared his shoulders. Surely he had nothing to worry about. The Murder Mansion incident had been an aberration from his soft, boyish pre-NYC days. Before he’d experienced a host of truly frightening situations—cattle call auditions, stage four cancer, and Paresh’s wooden paddle.

“Perfect,” Cormac said. “Seven o’clock, then? The Sea Witch?”

“I’ll be there.” After he disconnected, Andrew opened his closet and stared into it for a long time, like a would-be snacker gazing into the fridge. Overthinking what he would wear was ridiculous. Old blue jeans, a button-down shirt, and a jacket would be fine. His shoes were scuffed and Cormac had already seen Andrew’s best shirt and jacket, but what did it matter? Andrew wasn’t some nervous teenager, obsessing over his hair—a little shaggy on the sides—and his wristwatch, a counterfeit Marc Jacobs with a cracked face. He was a grown man, meeting another grown man for a date and probably sex. For their last encounter, a hospital restroom had been good enough. No way was Andrew turning into Coco Chanel, not at this late date.

* * *

Three hours on 59th Street was all it took. In Bloomingdale’s, Andrew bought three shirts, a jacket, a new watch, Ferragamo boots that made him an inch taller, and True Religion jeans that fit like a second skin. Less than a block away, a stylist at MISO trimmed Andrew’s hair and reshaped his sideburns, making them thinner with slight points.

“So what’s the occasion?” The stylist, Jacques, wore a leather bracelet embossed with TWINK, but Andrew didn’t need a hint to deduce Jacques was gay. He was precisely the sort of gay man Andrew had spent years avoiding—heavy eyeliner, over-processed blond hair, painted fingernails, and a breathless, conspiratorial way of speaking. Ashamed of his behavior, Andrew had told himself he was as bad as any racist, but now he realized he might have been worse. He hadn’t just nurtured a blanket dislike of such men. He’d feared contamination, refusing to even talk to someone like Jacques, much less allow that kind of man to wash, cut, and style his hair. Andrew would have blamed nausea, insisting he might vomit at Jacques’s touch, but his real fear had been an erection.

“I’ve got a hot date,” Andrew answered.

“Ooh. What’s her name?”

“Cormac.”

Jacques covered his hand with his mouth, pretending to be shocked. “So. Tell me. Is tonight the night?”

“Maybe.”

“That explains the shopping bags. Your hair’s perfect now. How about a facial?”

“Never had one.”

“You have a great skin. But a facial will make it perfect,” Jacques said.

“Why not?” Andrew closed his eyes, relaxing with his back to the mirror while Jacques mixed that herbal masque. It had taken eight days for the biggest bruise on his ass to fade. He’d earned the money, so he might as well spend a chunk on himself.

* * *

“You look great,” Cormac said in Andrew’s ear. Andrew, seated at the Sea Witch’s battle-scarred bar, had turned away from the door as it opened. Now he smiled, lifting his glass as if toasting the other man.

“Thanks. I had an herbal facial.” Andrew slurped at the pink liquid in his martini glass. A few barstools down, an old man chuckled while the men drinking pints beside the humidor burst into raucous laughter.

“Ian.” Cormac stared at the bartender. “Are you serving girly drinks now?”

Ian looked affronted. “Sure, and we get a few ladies in here from time to time, including me own wife. Keep the cranberry juice and Cointreau special for her.” He turned to Andrew. “Sorry about the lack of orange peel.”

“It’s perfect.” Andrew took another slurp. Outwardly, Cormac was frozen, but Andrew recognized the panic in the other man’s eyes. Leaning close, he whispered, “Dude. All the regulars guessed about you a long time ago. Probably because you always brought a date. None of them give a shit, so sit down and order a Guinness.”

Cormac obeyed. As Ian pulled the pint, Cormac stared straight ahead, clearly working himself up to something. Just as his Guinness arrived, he seized Andrew’s Cosmo and knocked back a mouthful.

“Jeez.” Cormac grimaced at Andrew. “People
drink
stuff like this? Deliberately?”

Andrew chuckled. “There’s your real effing man vibe again. It’s not an act, is it? I’ll bet you like fly fishing and deer hunting and off-roading….”

“I don’t hunt deer. Been duck hunting a few times, though.”

“Fly fishing?”

“Yeah, but you know what’s even more fun? Ice fishing. Maybe I’ll take you sometime.” Cormac took a sip of beer.

“I think I’d like ice fishing as much as I like politics.”

“Yeah, well, for someone who supposedly doesn’t care about politics, you debated my party’s platform like an attack dog. I haven’t felt so beat up since I did Bill Maher’s show.”

“You were on
Real Time
?” Andrew grinned. “Can I watch it on YouTube?”

“I wish you wouldn’t. I didn’t come off very well. Bill can curse and make jokes and say what he really thinks. I always have to keep voters in mind. One swear word can turn into a scandal.” Cormac studied Andrew. “Not many people who dislike politics even know what
Real Time
is.”

“I didn’t say I was brain dead. I care about stuff,” Andrew said, finishing his Cosmo. “I just hate politics. The way everything gets dumbed down to a sound bite or a question of patriotism. Life is messy. Trying to make rules for adults is messy, especially when some are rich, some are poor, some are reliable, and some are deadbeats. Politics takes something as complex as calculus and tries to pass it off as arithmetic.”

“Huh.” Cormac took another sip of Guinness. “That was well said.” Biting his lower lip, he reached across the bar, covering Andrew’s hand with his own. “Should we order dinner?”

Andrew smiled. “I’d like that.”

* * *

“If tickets to the haunted house are too expensive, we can go dancing. I don’t mind.” Andrew did his best to sound helpful rather than apprehensive.

“If I didn’t know better,” Cormac said, passing his gold American Express to the woman at the box office, “I’d think you were scared. This is educational. A tour of the major serial killers of the last two hundred years. With some joke blood and dry ice to frighten the kiddies.”

Andrew made an impatient noise. “I told you. I’m an actor. All the production tricks will be obvious to me.
Painfully
obvious.”

“Well, good. We had a nice dinner.” Cormac touched Andrew’s forearm gently, that can-I-count-on-your-vote action. “Now we’ll have a good laugh.”

The tour started in absolute darkness. An actor dressed as an apparition—white wig, face makeup, and flowing robes—counted twenty patrons, allowing them into an anteroom. Andrew, always a little claustrophobic, noted the low ceiling and brick walls just before the lights went out. This “cultural center,” as it called itself, was housed in a building that had been old when Jack the Ripper made his first appearance in Whitechapel.