The Mating of Michael (2 page)

“Go ahead, champ.” Michael removed his hands and let Tommy
turn.

Tommy’s penis was mercifully undamaged, thanks to the way he’d protected his core by curling up into a ball. He was fully erect and red. Michael squeezed some lotion on it and stroked for just a minute before moving on to Tommy’s chest and the front of his arms and legs. He knew what Tommy liked, and Tommy liked to take it slow. He liked to make it last, like a favorite dessert he only got once a week. His moans of pleasure were loud, but there was no one to hear. Only Tommy’s mother was in the house on Monday mornings, and she stayed out of the way, tucked away downstairs in the kitchen.

Michael drew his fingertips lightly over Tommy’s belly, causing him to shiver and groan, before finally taking him in hand. Michael was erect too. He always got that way when working with clients. If Tommy had wanted to see or feel Michael, he would have been happy to oblige. But that had never been what Tommy wanted. Nor was this about relieving Tommy of sperm. His hands were damaged, but he could hold his cards and a pen, type on the computer—he could get himself off. No, what Tommy needed from Michael was human touch, loving touch, to feel that he was not alone, that he could have sexual contact with a cute guy his own age, someone who would not look at him with horror. That was a privilege his twenty-one-year-old peers took for granted, gay or straight.

Michael touched Tommy lightly until he indicated with a panted
“Go”
that he was ready to come. Then Michael stroked him firmly until he climaxed hard.

Michael cleaned Tommy up and pulled his briefs back on. He always wanted to sleep afterward, no talking, no fuss. So Michael leaned over and kissed his cheek, smiling.

“See ya next week, champ. I’ll remember to bring that Stephen King book I’ve been promising. And I swear I’m going to beat you at rummy one of these days, at least two out of three.”

Tommy laughed, opening his eyes only long enough for one last fond look. “In your dreams. Excellent work today, Maestro. Laters.”

“Laters.”

M
RS
. C
HELSEY
was waiting for Michael in the kitchen as usual. But this week, when he popped in his head, she looked up at him anxiously.

“Would you like a cup of tea? I made us a pot.”

She’d set the table in the kitchen with two cups and a china pot, like some sort of fancy B&B. Michael hesitated.

“Unless you have to be somewhere?” Mrs. Chelsey’s worried tone said she shouldn’t have presumed.

Michael glanced at his watch. “No, I’m good. I’d love to try that tea.” He smiled and joined her at the table.

Mrs. Chelsey was an attractive brunette in her late forties, her body slender and her face drawn with perpetual worry. Still, she was always very pleasant to Michael.

“How did he seem to you today?” she asked as she poured the tea. “There’s cream and sugar.”

“Black is good, thanks. I got the impression he was a little down when I first got here. But he creamed me at three rounds of gin, and that cheered him up considerably.”

Mrs. Chelsey seemed relieved. “He’s been depressed lately. His friends are all graduating from college, getting married, moving on with their own lives… I’m worried about him.” She eyed Michael’s face with a searching gaze as if somehow he could provide the understanding she needed. “He’s always better on Mondays, though. I can’t tell you how much your visits mean to him.”

Michael was glad Mrs. Chelsey and Tommy were happy with him, but it was never easy for him to accept compliments. “Just doing my job.”

“You don’t have to play cards with him, though, hang out, and treat him like a friend. That means a lot.”

“Tommy
is
a friend. He’s a client but… I’m happy to call him a friend.”

Mrs. Chelsey smiled sadly. “
My
friends would never understand about you. I don’t even… not even Tommy’s father knows that I hired a sex surrogate.”

Michael wanted to argue with her, to say something like “It’s not a big deal,” or “It’s not that unusual.” Because he truly felt that way. But he knew other people—most people—saw sex surrogacy as a very big deal.

Michael loved being a sex surrogate. It felt entirely natural to him. He’d graduated from nursing school at twenty-one and did an internship with a VA hospital in Seattle. A few of the patients there were young, just recovering from injury or PTSD. One in particular, a sweet boy named Wayne, had lost a leg and was severely depressed. Michael was fairly certain Wayne was gay, and he was so devastated by his injury. Sometimes, Wayne would look at Michael, then look away. There was pure need in that look, a need so deep it ran red with blood. Michael had a strong urge to hold Wayne, to comfort him, to, yes, give him relief in any way that he could. Instinctively, he sensed that Wayne needed physical contact, needed someone to make him feel like a man, to remind him that being alive meant the possibility of great pleasure, not just pain.

Of course, as a young nurse, such a thing would have been entirely inappropriate. Michael had never acted on it, but it started him thinking. He researched online for types of therapy that involved touch. That’s when he discovered sex surrogacy. He fell in love with the idea literally at first sight. He applied to the IPSA, the International Professional Surrogates Association, and took their 100-hour course via mail part-time while he worked. A year later, he was licensed.

He believed so strongly that love and intimacy were key components of healing and mental health. But he’d learned that very few people were capable of understanding what he did.

So instead of arguing with Mrs. Chelsey, he just said, “Well… you’re a very cool mom. Tommy is lucky.”

Mrs. Chelsey laughed. “A cool mom would give her son a little weed, not sex. I’ve done the weed too, on occasion.”

Michael looked at her in surprise. He’d never smelled it in Tommy’s room.

“A few years ago when there was more pain,” she explained. “We got it prescribed. Thank God for the Medical Cannabis law. But Tommy doesn’t want it much anymore. Says it makes him fuzzy. Anyway, I just… I feel he’s missing so much in life. Anything I can give him, I
will
give him.”

She said this last fiercely. Michael’s heart ached for her. He reached over and stroked her hand. “Hey, Tommy is lucky to have you, to have this beautiful home, and to be so well-cared for. You’re doing a great job.”

She clutched desperately at the hand Michael offered and, with the other, took a casual sip of tea as if she hadn’t a care in the world. It reminded Michael of that saying about one hand not knowing what the other was doing.

“I just wish our lives weren’t about me taking care of Tommy. I wish he was out there being a normal twenty-one-year-old, having fun, even getting into a little bit of trouble.”

Michael wasn’t sure what got into him, but he stage-whispered, “Well, he did just have sex upstairs.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

She barked out a laugh. “You don’t say.”

“I have it on good authority.” Michael tried to release her hand, but she clung on. He let her.

Mrs. Chelsey looked down into her cup, took a couple of deep breaths. “It’s my fault, you see. His father and I were newly divorced, and I… I got a little crazy. That night, Tommy didn’t want to go to Samuel’s house. He wanted to stay home, play his video games, and chat with his pal in Norway. But I insisted he go. I had a date.”

Michael swallowed down a painful wave of empathy and rubbed his thumb over the top of her hand.

“I’ll never forgive myself for that.” She looked up at him, her eyes bright.

Michael got up and went over to Tommy’s mother. He hugged her, leaning down and holding her tight. She took the comfort, placing her arms around his back and tilting her face against his shoulder.

“It’s not your fault. A million other times that same scenario would have gone fine. Tommy would have come home the next morning like always. You couldn’t have known.”

She nodded, but she didn’t say anything. She hugged him back for a long moment, the tension of grief thick in her body, until at last, she relaxed. Michael’s mother had worked as an intensive care nurse for a while, and she always said her job was as much about helping the relatives deal with what was happening as it was about the actual patient care. Michael’s job wasn’t often like that, but now he understood what his mother meant. That fire had devastated Tommy’s mom as much as it had Tommy.

Mrs. Chelsey pulled back. “Thank you.”

“Any time. You know, you have needs too, not just Tommy.”

He said it sincerely, but when Mrs. Chelsey quirked an
oh really
eyebrow, he laughed. “Oh. Um… I didn’t mean those kinds of needs.”

“Good. Because, no offense, Michael, but that would be really weird.”

“Right.” Michael laughed, embarrassed. “Well, on that graceful note, I should probably get going. Thanks for the tea.”

Mrs. Chelsey stood up to show him out. He headed for the kitchen doorway and his gym bag.

“Oh! Just remembered. I saw something in Sunday’s newspaper, and I clipped it for you.” She took a newspaper page off the refrigerator and brought it over. “Tommy said you like science fiction?”

“Love it.”

“Well, maybe you already know about this, but when I saw it, I thought of you.”

It was an ad for “Science Fiction week” at Elliott Bay Book Company. “Excellent,” Michael said politely. His eyes scanned down the list of events and his heart stopped. “Oh, my God. No way!”

“What is it?”

“J.C. Guise? Seriously?”

Mrs. Chelsey shrugged, obviously not getting it.

“I don’t believe it! J.C. Guise is doing a book signing at Elliott Bay on Friday night. He’s like… my favorite author
in the world
, and he never does book signings. He’s a legendary recluse. He doesn’t go to conventions, he doesn’t do Twitter or Facebook, he’s a ghost. He has a one-page website that lists his books, and that’s it. I can’t believe this!”

“That does sound exciting.” Mrs. Chelsey looked pleased that her small offering had been so well received.

“Exciting?” Michael laughed. “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. Chelsey, but right now? I freaking
love you
.”

“I
CAN
’
T
believe I let you talk me into this. Forget everything I’ve ever said about you being my fucking fairy godmother. At this moment? I freaking hate you.”

James rolled out of his bedroom, uncomfortable as hell in too-new jeans, an Oxford shirt, and a rust-colored cable sweater he’d express ordered from J.Crew. He’d tried for an hour in his bedroom mirror to get the casually hip look that had appealed to him in the online image—the sleeves of the sweater bunched up and the blue Oxford cuffs folded back just so. He’d failed, and now the cuffs were a limp mess.

Damn it. He’d hoped the new clothes would give him confidence, but he felt like a hedgehog in a tuxedo.

“Oh, James.” Amanda adjusted her skirt casually, not taking him seriously for a moment. “Grouse all you want. You look great, you’re going to
do
great today, and maybe afterward you’ll even decide I can have my tiara back.”

“Oh, you can have it back after. The question is where you should stick it.”

James was teasing, mostly. He knew he was being a pill, but if he had to do this, then Amanda damn well had to put up with him bitching about it. Arguing with her kept his mind off the incipient terror that lurked in his bowels like some slavering, ugly beast in a cave.

God, he had to use that. His fingers itched for his notebook.

“The store did lots of advertising, and it was in the publisher’s newsletter. People
want
to meet you, James. I promise you won’t be sitting there twiddling your thumbs at the signing table.”

James wasn’t sure what terrified him more—the idea that no one would show up for his book signing or that dozens of people would. No, that was wrong. It might spell the end of his career, but right now, he’d give anything for a completely empty store—like swine flu epidemic empty.

“Not really helping,” James muttered. He drove his chair over to the desk, picked up his old briefcase, and put it on his lap. He’d packed it earlier with pens and markers, aspirin, tissues, hand lotion, sanitary wipes, and breath mints. He even had a single Valium in there in a little baggie, in case he decided he really couldn’t deal. The prescription was so old he wasn’t sure it would work even if he did take it. But it felt good to have a mental escape route on his lap, like his own personal poison gas tooth.

He steered his chair to the front door and waited, but Amanda made no move to leave. She just studied him.

Amanda Barnsworth had been James’s literary agent for ten years, ever since he was an eighteen-year-old with a one-pound manuscript and big, big dreams. His books had gotten a lot shorter since then and his dreams smaller, too. But Amanda hadn’t changed. Except that now, all her pushing about his public persona had gone from modest suggestions to life or death lines in the sand.

“James….” She seemed to consider her words.

“I get it,” James said, hoping to head off the lecture. “If I don’t start doing self-promotion, Egret will dump me. I understand. I do. I just… hate it. You know how I feel. A writer should be known for his words, not for how well he can dance a dog-and-pony show.”

Amanda sat down on the couch, indicating that she was gearing up for a serious talk. She looked very concerned. Now James wished he could take the words back. It was an old argument between them, and he wasn’t really in the mood right now to pummel that dead horse.

The publishing world had changed so much in the past ten years, it was crazy. It used to be you didn’t get published without an agent. It used to be the big publishing houses controlled the market and you had to be really, really good to get started as a new author. You got started because your agent believed in you and they took some editor from one of the big five to lunch and chatted you up, got them to actually look at your manuscript. When James had sold his first novel to Egret, the future seemed so bright.