Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (5 page)

“Nope. Looked more like a deer in headlights. Come here.” Wasserman sank back into the receptionist’s chair slowly, as if the effort of standing had winded him. “What did you do to him, anyway? What kind of tantric voodoo bondage did you pull on Mr. Ice Water to turn him into your biggest fan?”

“We just…”Andrew started to say, “talked,” and then stopped. First, why did Wasserman deserve to hear the details, innocent as they might be? Second, revealing anything was breaking confidence with Cormac. And that was one thing Andrew wasn’t willing to do. “…had a nice date. That’s all.” He offered his most enigmatic smile.

Wasserman studied Andrew with slitted eyes. “Discretion,” he said at last, “will get you everywhere in this business. You have good instincts, kid.” Unlocking a desk drawer, he withdrew a metal cash box. Digging into the thickest stack, he counted out five hundred dollar bills. Those beady eyes flicked up at Andrew. Then he counted out five more.

“There.” Shutting the cash box with a bang, he stowed it back in its drawer and locked it away. “Five hundred dollars bonus for not shitting the bed. Another five hundred dollars because I didn’t think you had it in you. Don’t spend it all in one place, because there won’t be any more bonuses. Not unless you earn them client-to-date, in which case it’s prostitution and I don’t want to know about it.”

“Just being on the payroll is good enough for me,” Andrew said, accepting the thousand dollars and restraining himself from kissing every greenback.

“I have another job opening tonight.” As usual, Wasserman spoke with little inflection, facial muscles immobile. “Pool boys and party favors. Standard rate from me. Plenty of client-to-date possibilities, too, if you want them.”

Andrew’s throat tightened. At some point he’d have to stop feeling ill at the mere mention of gay sex. Hadn’t Wasserman assured him dozens of times no escort could legally be forced into intercourse?

“But… the clients won’t get angry if I’m not interested, will they?”

Wasserman sighed. “Not if you’re charming and polite. Tell them you’re a born again virgin. Tell them you have a husband. Just don’t say you’re a straight boy getting paid to act queer or I’ll get a nasty phone call for sure.” That beady stare again. “You
are
straight, aren’t you? Not doing some kind of
Victor/Victoria
thing—a gay man pretending to be a straight man pretending to be gay for pay?”

“I’ve only been with girls,” Andrew said truthfully.

“I knew my idea was too good to be true. Go home.” Digging in his upper shirt pocket, Wasserman withdrew a cigar. “I’ll call you this afternoon with the final details.”

“You said pool boys.” Andrew preferred not to dwell on the second part, “party favors.” “Do I need to buy swim trunks?”

“Depends. You a shower or a grower?” Lighting the cigar, Wasserman puffed smoke in Andrew’s direction.

Andrew was too surprised by the question, particularly issued in that gravelly matter-of-fact tone, to go red right away. “I’m… uh… well. A shower.” He fervently hoped Wasserman wouldn’t ask him to drop his pants and prove it.

“Perfect. In that case, no trunks needed. You’ll be naked.”

* * *

The afternoon passed in a blur. Andrew bought groceries and paid half the back rent he owed. Now eviction was no longer imminent. He even had Frosted Flakes and SpaghettiOs in the pantry again.

Marie was officially having one of her bad days. It was a mantra of the cancer journey—there would be good days and bad days, with neither a guarantee that more of the same would follow. Andrew read to her again from that “mommy porn” paperback, still appalled by the prose but taking it a tad more seriously, given his new career. Suppose he found himself in a situation where he was expected to drop trou for a spanking every time he displeased a client? Could he submit to such a thing?

Maybe the spanking, if it paid enough
, Andrew decided, remembering his relief as he cleared the slate on half his back rent.
But no baby oil massage after.

When Marie fell asleep again, Andrew hurried back to his apartment, hoping to research Cormac before Wasserman called. Andrew’s Google-fu was nothing to brag about, but as usual the search engine did most of the heavy lifting.

Cormac was a state senator from California. Andrew, not in the least political, ignored the party affiliation and platform statements in favor of personal details. He read them as quickly as possible, looking to confirm a suspicion.

Cormac William Donovan. Age thirty-four. Born in Ireland to US citizens traveling abroad. Gave up his dual citizenship when his political career began. Earned a law degree from Pepperdine University but practiced only briefly. One house, no pets, no hobbies listed beyond football and beer.

“Huh,” Andrew said aloud, startled into talking to himself. “I figured he was married with six kids.” Andrew’s heart pounded wildly, though he didn’t know why. Despite Andrew’s family history, a gay man could have reasons for being closeted other than a wife and kids.

His phone chimed. He knew it was Wasserman. He was about to receive instructions on when and where he’d spend the evening nude in the company of gay men. For exactly that reason, Andrew hadn’t eaten dinner and had bummed one of Marie’s anti-nausea pills. He was going to get through this pool boy assignment without puking, so help him God.

* * *

None of twenty young men hired for the party, including Andrew, were required to strip naked right away. Instead they were given black swim trunks and flip-flops to wear as they roamed the house, serving champagne and sparkling water. All the guests were male, of course, between thirty-five and seventy. In the beginning, the guests were dressed in business casual at the very least—coats, ties, and pressed trousers. Then dinner was served, during which Andrew and the others were encouraged to try the house’s vast heated swimming pool. The party coordinator, a flamboyant type who called himself Mr. Manuel—despite the lack of any accent or visible drop of Latin blood—seemed to want all the “party favors,” as he insisted on calling them, as wet as possible. Andrew was the last one in the pool. He’d hardly swum a lap when Mr. Manuel called him out again.

“This lovely young man will be the example,” Mr. Manuel announced. He gave the other hired pool boys a toothy smile before turning it on Andrew. “Your trunks. Off.”

Andrew blinked. They were, after all, outdoors. It was after dark, true, but the pool area was brilliantly lit. “Can’t I… um… go inside?”

Mr. Manuel snickered. “Girl, look down. You’re practically nude already.”

It was true. The swim trunks, made of a very light fabric, had molded to Andrew more perfectly than a Speedo. Half the hired pool boys were grinning, eyes fixed on his crotch.

And the other half look like they skipped dinner and bummed an anti-nausea pill
, Andrew realized.
I’m not the only dude in this for money. Might as well earn it.

Ignoring the rising heat in his face, Andrew wriggled out of his tight wet trunks. Two of the hired pool boys applauded. Another wolf-whistled amid a chorus of nervous giggles.

“Very nice,” Mr. Manuel said. “Now gentleman, our example is the perfect eye candy. If you’re about his size or larger, please disrobe. If not… there’s no shame in a little mystery. Besides, we all know how big Pinocchio grew after a couple of pretty lies.” He grinned, toothier than ever, at the general laughter. “The guests know they aren’t supposed to touch. Not without your permission,” Mr. Manuel emphasized, patting Andrew’s face and pinching one flaming cheek. “If someone won’t take no for an answer, call my name. Otherwise, mix, mingle, make friends, and help yourself to champagne!”

Andrew yanked his face away from Mr. Manuel. “That hurt!”

“Then let me pinch you somewhere else. I’ll make it worth your while,” Mr. Manuel said, eyes sliding along Andrew’s rear.

“I can’t. I’m a born again virgin,” Andrew blurted.

“Oh. Really. Aren’t you all?” Mr. Manuel made a shooing motion. “Go. Back into the house. Tease some other poor bastard.”

Back in the living room, Andrew barely recognized the guests, despite the fact he’d personally served drinks to at least a third of them. Now that dinner was past, the dress code had shifted from business casual to clothing optional. A few men had removed their shirts, exposing furry beer bellies and sagging man-boobs to anyone who wanted a look. The rest had gone whole hog, either down to G-strings or nothing at all. Andrew had never seen so many skinny legs, white buttocks, and dangling male bits in his life.

His empty stomach and anti-nausea medicine proved no match for the response he garnered as a nude party favor. The grins, nods and dirty jokes were one thing. The “accidental” brushes against his chest, rear, and even his package were something else. Everywhere around him, guests were pairing up with hired pool boys. Most couples slipped away to bedrooms or darkened alcoves, but one elderly fat man settled on the sofa, a beautiful Asian man wedged between his massive thighs, head bobbing up and down as if they were quite alone in the world.

Andrew gagged. It was too much like what he’d spied through a window at age fourteen—his father servicing Mr. Branson that way, then shifting onto his hands and knees to receive his own pleasure. Heart pounding crazily, acid burning the back of his throat, Andrew pushed through a leering trio of older men, all nude. Taking the first available corridor, he followed it to the end, arbitrarily turning right, then right again. A soft light glowed nearby. He followed it, hoping to heaven it was an exit, despite the fact he was naked.

It wasn’t an exit. It was a bathroom. Well, the sort of bathroom Andrew had seen only in cable shows featuring lifestyles of the rich and famous.

Rose-colored marble covered the floor and walls. A double vanity was decorated with white chrysanthemums in crystal bowls. Cake soap, still in the wax-sealed paper wrapping, sat beside each tap. Fluffy white towels hung from a free-standing brass rack. Touching them impulsively, Andrew was startled to discover they were warm.

It’s a towel warmer
. He’d heard of such things from other actors, those who’d known brief success before plummeting back to the bottom again. The sunken tub before him seemed equally dreamlike, decorated by dozens of creamy pillar candles, some tall and some short, all awaiting the flame.

The toilet cover was down. Andrew sat on it, conscious of his nudity but not planning to linger for more than a moment or two. He had to pull himself together, then return to the party. What had any of those guests done to him, worse than the most fleeting of caresses? Once in a seedy club a girl had caught him from behind, cupping his butt with both hands while her friend knelt to kiss him through his trousers. Andrew hadn’t asked for the attention, hadn’t found either woman attractive or their caresses the least bit erotic. But he hadn’t gone to pieces because two drunken women had taken liberties. He’d simply disentangled himself and located a woman more to his taste.

That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? My tastes.

Andrew thought back to the last time he’d been with his occasional bed buddy, Monica. Emotionally, they weren’t compatible. Monica was moody, strident, and more than a little mean. But physically, their connection was as potent as matter and anti-matter. He adored her body, her curves, taking every chance to bury his face between her legs. He was brilliant at that sort of thing, every woman he’d ever been with had said as much. An artist with his tongue, savoring the smell, taste, sight….

I love going down on them. I’ve never faked it, not with even one girl
, Andrew thought, knowing it to be true.
So why am I so scared of turning out to be a closet case?

“Stage fright?” a resonant male voice asked.

Andrew looked up. A man stood in the doorway. Somewhere between thirty and forty, the man had glossy black hair, deep brown skin and black eyes. His chin was firm, his lips red and sensuous.

“Um… yeah.” Andrew resisted the impulse to cover himself with his hands. At least the man had a white towel tucked around his hips. “Is this your party?”

The man smiled. “How could you tell?”

“I’m an actor. When I’m not a party favor,” Andrew corrected, forcing a chuckle. “Anyway. You have the aura of a leading man. To me that says you own this house.”

“I do. Paresh Choudhari,” the man said, offering Andrew his hand. “I throw these parties once a month. Tremendous networking. Men do things here they can’t quite recall later. Creates a bond between us, strange as that may sound.”

“Andrew Reynolds.” Standing, Andrew accepted the other man’s hand, ridiculous as he felt while utterly on display. “Sorry I don’t have pants on.”

“Don’t be. Call me Paresh. May I call you Andrew?”

Andrew nodded.

“I may as well confess. I’ve been watching you, Andrew,” Paresh said, wide eyes and fine white teeth mitigating what might otherwise have been a sinister admission. “I told Mr. Manuel to choose you for the example. You lived up to my suspicions. Then you fled the party.” He smiled again. “This is all new to you, isn’t it?”

Andrew nodded again, wondering if he were insane to admit as much. At least when he’d spilled his guts to Cormac, he’d been drunk. Now he was taking his future into his own hands while stone cold sober.

“There’s a phrase that may apply. Gay for pay.” Paresh stared hard into Andrew’s eyes. “Is that you? A straight boy at my party, stripping for money, trying to fool die-hard queers like me?”

Andrew sighed. “Yeah.”

Instead of looking angry, Paresh seemed all the more pleased. “Ah. I must admit. I have a delicious fantasy about a gay for pay boy like you.”

It was on Andrew’s lips to ask what fantasy, but he didn’t dare.

“Tell me. What is it about those men that disgusts you so much? That made you flee all the way back here?”

Andrew looked at the floor. The patterns on the rose marble seemed to ooze together, twisting beneath his bare feet.

“I won’t put in a complaint to your employer,” Paresh continued. “I just want to know. What is it?”