Second You Sin (6 page)

I kept the TV on as I got dressed, more for the company than because I was watching any particular show. The LCD was tuned to
The Real Housewives
of Boise
when the volume shot up violently. A commercial. Don’t you hate the way they always play ads louder to get your attention? This one was particularly obnoxious.

The soundtrack was a children’s chorus singing

“God Bless America” over a shot of a Norman Rockwel family seated at dinner. A square-jawed dad, a pretty but medicated-looking wife, and two smiling children passed around a bowl of potatoes and chatted animatedly. Suddenly, the shot froze and the music stopped in a discordant screech. The picture of the perfect nuclear family ripped in two and a deep-voiced narrator began speaking.

“Homosexual activists want to redefine the American family.” The shot of the “perfect family” was replaced by video of S and M revelers at a gay pride parade and bearded drag queens clinking martini glasses. The narrator continued. “But do we real y want our children raised in a society that encourages every kind of behavior? Or do we stil believe in the basic values of decency, morality, and faith?”

Cut to a tal , gray-haired Midwestern-looking gentleman in a blue suit and a red tie. He had the unremarkable good looks and slightly empty expression of a Sears underwear model. Which is to say, he resembled Mitt Romney.

“I believe in an America that tolerates everyone but that maintains its core values. Good people can get along without giving in. One woman, one man, one marriage, one family, one America. I’m Jacob Locke, and I approved this message.”

The narrator came back on to intone, “This message was paid for by Locke for President.” It wasn’t the first time I’d seen a Jacob Locke commercial, but I always felt compel ed to watch.

With his unthreatening attractiveness, flat Plains accent and mild-mannered approach, Locke was the kind of perfectly nice Nazi I was most afraid of. While no one thought this robo-bigot had a chance at obtaining the Republican nomination, his campaign was wel financed by Evangelicals trying, at the least, to force the Republican party to the right.

I was glad Tony wasn’t there to see the commercial. I had enough trouble getting him to commit without the help of craven politicians playing to their constituents’ basest prejudices.

Tony arrived around six. Every time I unlocked the door to find him there, it was like opening the best Christmas present ever. He looked delicious, wearing dark blue jeans, black boots, a black turtleneck, and a black leather coat. Tony had a straight guy’s sense of style (which is to say, bad) but he had an eye for the classics. Son of a bitch probably would look good in anything, though.

“Sorry,” I said as a greeting. “I didn’t order any incredibly handsome men today. Maybe next door?” Tony grinned and kissed me. “How you doing, baby?” I stood at the door just to watch his confident stride as he walked into my apartment. He plopped himself down on my sofa and patted his lap.

“C’mere.”

I settled in like a cat. “You smel good,” he told me.

We kissed a little more and I felt him getting turned on.

“Mmm,” I said, wiggling my butt. “That for me?”

“Maybe later,” Tony said. He looked at me and narrowed his eyes. “What’s going on?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’ve been crying,” he said tenderly. He brushed a strand of hair from my face. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s a long story,” I told him.

“Al your stories are long, Kevvy,” he answered.

“Smart guy. OK, you asked for it.” I told him about my day, from Wil em’s peeing on me to Randy’s accident to my trip to the hospital.

“Poor baby,” Tony said, kissing me on the head.

“Is Randy going to be OK?”

“They don’t know,” I answered. “He almost died.” I wondered if I should share Freddy’s theory but decided against it. I didn’t want Tony to think I screamed “murder” every time someone around me got hurt.

“Why didn’t you cal me?” Tony asked. “Especial y once the police got involved. I could have helped.”
Because I don’t get that much time with you,
I wanted to say,
and I didn’t want to waste what little I
do on this.

“I didn’t want to bother you.”

“It wouldn’t have been a bother,” Tony said. “Next time, cal , OK?”

I nodded.

“So, how do you know this Randy?” Tony asked.

Tony’s question wasn’t as straightforward as it seemed. The first time I told him I hustled, he cal ed me a whore and left me. He later grew more accepting, but it was stil a sore topic. I was actual y surprised he was as cool with it as he was.

As an accommodation to Tony, I promised him I wouldn’t have insertive sex with any clients. That meant they couldn’t fuck me and I couldn’t blow them.

Actual y, this didn’t hurt my business as much you might think. Most of the clients who come to me through my booker, Mrs. Cherry, have more . . .

elaborate fantasies.

I knew if I told Tony the truth, that Randy and I had met when we were hired as the raunchy entertainment at a private party, it would remind Tony of what I did for a living, which I always tried to avoid.

On the other hand, I real y don’t like to lie. Plus, with my attention deficit disorder, I always forget what stories I’ve told to whom, which leads to nothing but heartache, trust me.

I decided to try and evade the question.

“I met him at a party,” I said.

“What kind of party?”

“A bachelor party?”

“Who got married?”

“Two guys. You don’t know them.”

“Two guys can’t get married.”

“They can in some states,” I lectured. “And in some countries, too. These guys had a ceremony in Vermont but the bachelor party here.”

“What’s a gay bachelor party like?” he asked.

“Probably like a straight one. A lot of booze and strippers.”

Tony pul ed me closer to his chest. “Did you like that?” Tony asked. “Were the strippers as cute as you?”

Considering that the strippers
were
me and Randy, I had to answer that one careful y. “They weren’t as hot as you,” I answered, truthful y.

Tony ran his hands over my bel y. “Flatterer. Think you’re smooth, huh?” His hands ran under my shirt and brushed my chest. “Mmm, you are smooth.” I moaned and rested my head on his shoulder. He ran his fingers over my nipples. I gasped.

“You like that?” he said, his voice husky. I felt him hard against me.

“Yeah,” I whispered hotly in his ear.

He stood up and effortlessly took me with him, carrying me into the bedroom.

“Then you’re gonna love this,” he promised.

If I had to choose between the sex with Tony and the cuddling afterward, it would be hard to say which was better.

OK, there’s one of those lies I hate to tel . The sex was better. But the cuddling was real y special, too. I never felt as safe and loved as when I lay in Tony’s arms.

In the afterglow, Tony brought up our earlier discussion. “Maybe two guys can get married,” he said, “but what’s the point? It’s not like they can have kids.”

“Of course they can have kids,” I answered.

Tony’s eyes widened comical y. “They can? I thought you told me you were on the pil .” I punched his arm. A Nerf bal hitting hard steel. “I know lots of guys who are raising kids together.”

“OK,” Tony said. “I’m a cop in New York City. I know that. I see al kinds of families. But it’s not real y fair to the kids, is it?”

I looked at him like he was crazy. “Are you kidding? Kids need parents who love them. What difference does it make what gender they are?

Studies show that adoptive parents are often better in a lot of ways than parents who have kids the old-fashioned way. When two guys overcome al the obstacles and stigmas of a hostile society to raise children together, you know it’s because they real y want to. It’s not like they wound up as parents because of a drunken romp in the backseat of their car.”

“Al right, al right.” Tony threw his hands up in surrender. “I didn’t mean to start a debate. I just think a kid needs a mother and a father, that’s al .”

“I want to have kids someday,” I told him.

“Yeah, right.” Tony laughed. “Mr. Party Boy is going to become Mr. Mom.”

In the few months that we had been together, Tony had come a long way in admitting what he wanted from me. Stil , al this talk about children was too soon for him. Maybe it always would be. But it didn’t seem like a smart fight to pick now. For one thing, I needed better ammunition.

“Wel , at least I get my kid fix at Sunday school,” I said, ready to change the topic.

“It’s great that you do that.” Tony kissed the back of my neck. “I’m real proud of you.”

Tony was one of the few guys I’ve ever been with who I couldn’t wrap around my finger, and I had to admit it was part of his appeal. He knew his own mind and he let me know, too. He was always honest with me, even when he knew I wouldn’t like his answers. I loved that about him.

Tony flipped me onto my stomach. He straddled me, but sat high on his thighs, afraid to rest his ful weight on me. “How about I get you nice and relaxed again?” Tony took the bottle of peppermint massage oil I strategical y keep on the nightstand and rubbed some oil into his palms. The scent of candy canes fil ed the air.

Tony’s hands are strong and talented. I melted like butter beneath his touch. Which is why the next thing that happened sucked so much.

7

Mother

Tony’s cel phone chirped three short beeps. I silently vowed to kil whoever was interrupting our moment with a text message. Tony stretched a muscled arm across me to retrieve the offending device. He flipped it open and read the message.

Tony scrunched one almond eye to show his displeasure. “Bad news, sport.”

“You have to go?” I whined piteously.

Tony leaned over, gave me a quick kiss on the top of my head, and jumped out of bed. “I have to go.

They just picked up someone I need to question.”

“Can’t he wait?”

“Maybe. But his lawyer can’t.”

I scowled. “I hate his lawyer.”

Tony laughed. “Me, too. It’s gonna be a long night.

I’l give you a cal when we can get back together. I know tomorrow’s no good.” Tony was just about to step into the bathroom for a quick shower.

“I have a date tomorrow, anyway,” I told him. I loved tel ing Tony I had dates. He hated hearing about them. But, hey, he was the one who didn’t want to commit. So, hah.

“Oh,” Tony said, stopping for a moment in the doorway to the bathroom. The tips of his ears turned red, always a sure sign he was angry. He opened his mouth as if he was going to say something, then reconsidered, shook his head, and the next thing I heard was the creak of the shower door opening and the rush of water as Tony washed away the evidence of our love.

“So,” Tony said, in an exaggeratedly cheery tone, as he dressed in one of the three business-appropriate suits he kept in my closet, “how about Tuesday night? Wanna get together?”

I got out of bed, stil naked and a little sticky.

Tony was usual y content to cal whenever he was free and we could get together. I knew it was my mention of a date that had him booking a reservation.

“Sure,” I said, happy to have rattled him. “That’d be great. How about I order in and we watch
Lost
?” Tony had never seen the show in its original run and I was watching it on DVD with him. Although he found it tedious at first (“I get enough senseless mysteries at work, thank you.”), now he was total y into it and we were halfway through season four.

I loved watching the show with him, despite his frequent exclamations that “Kate’s hot!” I’d always respond, “Yeah, and check out Sawyer’s ass.” That shut him up.

“Sounds like a plan,” Tony answered. He was ful y dressed now, just strapping on his holster.

I’d have hugged him good-bye if I weren’t so greasy. Instead, I just waved and hopped in the shower when he left.

I was just drying off when the phone rang. Cal er ID

announced it was my mother.

I loved my mother, but to say she was a handful would be like cal ing King Kong a cute little monkey.

I once asked my father how he put up with a woman who, not once to my knowledge, ever went a day without nagging him about something or reminding him of the six other marriage proposals she turned down in favor of his.

“Three little words,” my father answered.

“‘I love you’?” I asked.

“ ‘Yes, dear.’ No matter what your mother says, I just say ‘yes, dear.’ ”

“That’s only two words.”

“Wel ”—my father winked—“the third word I say to myself.”

My father came from a reserved German family of some nobility. Every one of his relatives was blond, gorgeous, and looked like they stepped out of the pages

of
Aryan People.
Family get-togethers resembled a casting cal for
The Sound of Music.
If any of them ever had a pimple or a bad hair day, it wasn’t around me.

How he came to marry Sophie Gerstein, a top-heavy Jewess from Flatbush, NY, who was voted

“Most Likely Never to Shut Up” in her high school yearbook, was not only a mystery to everyone they met but, I think, to him, too.

In any case, as I had only too recently learned, ignoring my mother’s cal s was more perilous than dating Chris Brown.