Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (6 page)

“They’re not attractive to me,” Andrew managed at last. “Yet they keep touching me, assuming I want them… “

Paresh’s thumb dug into the towel around his waist. It fell, revealing muscular thighs and an erect penis. Andrew stared, unable to tear his eyes away. Paresh was smaller than he, just a normal man, not intimidating or disgusting. In fact, there was nothing unattractive about him whatsoever. The man was beautiful from thick glossy hair to flat stomach to perfect rounded calves.

“Look at you,” Paresh murmured, reaching out to touch Andrew with warm, gentle fingers. “You’re getting hard. Does this feel good?”

Andrew made a soft sound. He wanted to close his eyes, but he couldn’t stop staring at the other man. And of course his own member, always the first body part to betray him, plumped up the instant Paresh’s fingers made contact.

Paresh began kneading more insistently. “Andrew.” His soft accent gave the common name an exotic lilt. “Tell me. In your whole life, has a man ever touched you this way?”

“No,” Andrew whispered.

“Yet you can’t help but respond, can you? Despite your very nature.” Paresh nodded toward the sunken tub. “Get in.”

“I don’t—I wouldn’t know what to—”

“I won’t hurt you.” Paresh’s fingers continued their work, his thumb maddening Andrew as it stroked him firmly, almost painfully. “I’ll only use my hands. And my mouth. Get in.”

Andrew’s body took charge. Intellect suspended, pulse thudding in his ears, he climbed into the tub. Paresh turned on both taps, hot and cold, adjusting knobs until the water flooding around Andrew was the correct temperature. Pouring some honey-colored gel beneath the flow, Paresh filled the tub with mountains of fragrant suds. Soon Andrew’s modesty was restored, his maleness hidden as the water rose and the bubbles multiplied. Yet he wasn’t relieved. The hot water stroked him, caressed him, worked its way between his cheeks. The arousal he’d endured while Paresh touched him was nothing to what he suffered now, waiting for Paresh to join him in the tub.

Smiling, Paresh lowered himself into the hot sudsy water. “Andrew. Be honest. Have you ever kissed a man?”

Andrew shook his head.

“It frightens you?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think will happen?”

Andrew didn’t dare answer. Even as the truth came to him, he was painfully hard, hoping Paresh would abandon this line of questioning and touch him again.

“Tell me.”

“I’ll throw up.”

Paresh laughed. “I used to be the same way, when my parents introduced me to my wife. I thought if I had to kiss her on the mouth, I’d vomit. Do you know, we’ve been married for six years? We have three beautiful children. She understands how I am. I do my duty, but I never kiss her on the mouth.”

“Isn’t it difficult?” Andrew asked, thinking about his own father and mother’s mysterious relationship, about all the questions he’d never asked. “Going to bed with her, I mean?”

“Some pleasures are universal.” Paresh dipped a washcloth in the water. “Close your eyes. I won’t kiss your mouth.”

Andrew obeyed. The washcloth traveled over his chest, giving extra attention to each nipple. Then it slipped up and down each arm, working along biceps and triceps. Finally the washcloth submerged, finding him at last.

“Oh….” Andrew whispered as Paresh began to tug. The washcloth’s texture, combined with Paresh’s expert motion, rapidly transported Andrew to the edge. He was taut all over, breath hitching, clenched down to his toes.

“Oh, Andrew. I do like the way you pant,” Paresh laughed. “Raise up. Sit on the edge of the tub, just there…”

Andrew did as he was told. His body knew what Paresh would do next. He fought to keep his face blank, but a drop of milky anticipation gave him away.

“Oh, yes. You want this.” Paresh licked his lips. “Spread your legs.”

Andrew’s thighs parted. As he watched, Paresh pushed two fingers between them. The probing made Andrew gasp.

“Don’t come. I’m just confirming your virginity,” Paresh said. “Has a woman ever touched you here?”

Andrew nodded.

“Entered you with a finger?”

“No.”

“What about you? Have you put a finger up there? A toy?”

“Never.”

Paresh’s fingers pushed harder, sending a jolt of pain instead of pleasure. At the same time, Paresh’s mouth enveloped Andrew. The shock of both together—white-hot pain between his cheeks and wet bliss around his member—made Andrew cry out. Before he quite knew what he was doing, he caught Paresh by the hair, forcing the other man’s head down even as he spread his legs wider. A finger slipped past the ring of muscle, entering Andrew up to the first knuckle. At the same time, Paresh took every inch of Andrew down the back of his throat. Gasping, Andrew emptied himself in a hot white torrent. Paresh sucked the root, not releasing Andrew until he’d swallowed every drop.

“Oh, God,” Andrew whispered. Not since his teens had he climaxed so quickly, or with such terrifying abandon.

“So. You enjoyed it?” Paresh asked, lifting his face and smiling. His finger was still inside Andrew up to that first knuckle.

“Oh, yeah.”

“Good.” Paresh forced his finger the rest of the way up. Too shocked to scream, Andrew choked, as pained as if impaled with a stiletto. For half a minute he could do nothing but ride out the agony, amazed that something as small as a man’s finger could hurt so much. Just as the throbbing burn began to lessen, Paresh licked Andrew’s soft member with long, wet strokes. “It’s not so bad, is it?”

“I’m… not sure….”

“Squeeze around my finger.”

Andrew squeezed, shocked by the combination of discomfort and rising pleasure.

Paresh grinned. In one motion he withdrew his finger, clearly amused by Andrew’s
whuff
of surprise.

“Be honest. The way I sucked you wouldn’t have been as good without the finger.”

“No. Not as good.” Lying was impossible. Andrew had come so hard, he doubted a single sperm remained in either testicle.

“Right. Go, get dressed, consider the evening finished,” Paresh said. “But come to my next party and I’ll teach you something new. Something to write in your gay for pay playbook.”

Chapter 4

“Andrew. Are you sure you’re okay?” Marie sounded worried.

He jumped, responding more to the tone of her voice than what she said. “Hmh? What is it? What’s wrong?”

“That’s what I’m asking you.” Marie placed a hand atop his. She was still cold to the touch, but there was color in her cheeks and she felt strong enough to eat lunch and watch a little TV. For Marie, that equaled a good day. “Is something wrong? Does it have to do with the play?”

Andrew, who’d been simultaneously thinking about his encounter with Paresh Choudhari and trying not to think about it, blinked at his sister. He nearly asked, “What play?” before he remembered his cover story.

“Oh, no, everything’s great. The director loves my interpretation of the character. There’s a chance I might not be an understudy much longer. That I’ll take a more active role.”

Especially if I’m brave enough to attend Paresh’s next party
, he added mentally.

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Marie said. “It’s not like you to sulk over an opportunity.”

“I wasn’t sulking.” Andrew sat up straighter, stealing a cold french fry off Marie’s plate. Even when she was willing to eat, she kept down less than half of what he considered normal. “Did I really look like I was sulking?”

“Yup. Just like the bad old days. When the kids used to chase you into the library every afternoon.” Marie’s smile was gentle. She’d been the one to defend Andrew with her fists; she was the one who’d convinced their mother to pay for Andrew’s martial arts lessons, ending his stint as an afterschool punching bag. “I thought maybe Dad said something.”

Andrew blinked. “I never talk to Dad. Except during the holidays.”

“I’ve asked him and Hugh to visit. They’ll be here the week after next.”

“Why?”

Marie stared at Andrew. Back when she’d had eyebrows, she’d occasionally lifted them in an intimidating manner. Now she had to widen her eyes and purse her lips to manage a similar effect.

Andrew sighed. “I mean, yeah, you’re sick, but I thought the plan was for you to fly home for a visit in a month or two.”

“Andrew. I’m not getting well as fast as we thought I would. Dad’s getting antsy. Hugh’s worried, too. They want to come and I want to see them. I just don’t want….” Marie stopped.

“Me to make a scene,” he finished, more than a little offended.

“I know you won’t do that. You’re always polite to Dad and Hugh. Cold, but polite.” Marie gave Andrew’s hand a final squeeze before releasing it. “This time, I hoped you might branch out a little. Actually give them a chance. Dad hopes so, too.”

“I don’t know what he thinks has changed,” Andrew muttered, irrationally afraid his father might have found out. Did some sort of father-son gaydar exist, rocketing from one end of the country to the other, ringing alarm bells in the key of fabulous?

“Andrew!”

“What?”

Marie was trembling with indignation. “You don’t know what’s changed?
You don’t know
?”

“Oh. Crap. I’m sorry.” Andrew wanted to throw his arms around his sister, swear he never meant to be so insensitive, but she looked dangerously close to tears. A hug at the wrong moment could result in a crying jag.

“Andrew. What if I don’t get better? What if I’m never well enough to fly home? What if—” Marie broke off, shaking her head and covering her face with her hands.

“Don’t think like that. You’re doing great. You’re getting stronger every day.” Climbing into the bed, Andrew pulled Marie into his embrace. What he’d said wasn’t true—at best she was holding her own—but he was certain if he kept repeating the phrase, eventually the fantasy would become reality.

“I’m not ready.” Marie’s voice cracked. “Andy. I don’t want to die.”

“You’re not dying,” Andrew said, believing it to his marrow. “You’re getting better. And Dad
should
come visit. Hugh, too. Come and visit and cheer you on. I’ll be nice to them. Swear to God. I’ll be so nice they’ll wonder who the heck I am.”

“I know you will.” Reaching for the tissues, Marie grabbed a handful and blew her nose. “And I know Dad can be a jerk. He just hates admitting he’s ever wrong. He thinks apologizing to us for cheating on Mom is the same as apologizing for being gay.”

“It’s not just that he cheated. It’s that he created a whole other life with Mr. Bran—” Andrew stopped. He still had the juvenile habit of referring to his former English teacher, now his father’s partner of over ten years, as “Mr. Branson,” as though they might meet up to conjugate irregular verbs someday. “The point is, Dad lied to you, me, and Mom for more than a year before he came clean. He never gave us chance to, well…”

“To win him back? Before he was totally committed to Hugh? I know,” Marie said. “It felt underhanded. But it was years ago, and Mom’s moved on. I’ll bet she marries Brent before long. Besides, it’s not like Mom and Dad were all that happy, even before Hugh turned up.”

Andrew looked away. He’d never told anyone, even Marie, about the day he left school early to follow his father, tailing him from the office all the way to Hugh Branson’s split-level ranch. How he’d slipped behind the house, climbed onto the air compressor unit and peeked through the bedroom window, determined to know what his father and his favorite teacher did between five o’clock and dinner. Nor had he told Marie how he’d cornered their father soon after, insisting something had to give. At fourteen, Andrew had assumed his father would relinquish his lover and return to his family. His father walking out on his mother—moving in with Hugh Branson and coming out to all of Fort Scott, Kansas, in the process—was the one conclusion Andrew had never imagined.

“I’ll be nice to Dad,” Andrew repeated, putting on his most convincing smile. “And Mr. Branson, too. It’ll be a perfect visit, I promise.”

“Oh, Andy, I love you,” Marie whispered, holding him until he, too, teared up. “I’m going to beat this. I promise.”

“I know you will.” When they finally broke apart, Andrew stretched out, arranging himself as if he intended to remain in his sister’s bed indefinitely. “You don’t think Dad and Hugh will mind when we reveal we’re sleeping together?”

“Gross!” Laughing, Marie pitched her used tissues at Andrew, following them with a barrage of pillows until he got out of bed at last.

* * *

Andrew found himself remembering Paresh’s blowjob at the oddest times: while riding the subway, Googling movie show times or peeling a banana. Well—maybe that last wasn’t so odd. He told himself his orgasm had been inevitable, a hardwired response of the human nervous system. Surely any man was bound to climax if a warm, skilled mouth went down on him.

It’s not like I could have kissed Paresh
, Andrew thought.
Maybe my dick went rogue that one time, but I’d still puke if any dude stuck his tongue in my mouth. Besides, I can’t be gay, or I wouldn’t be so horny for Monica.

Three nights after the blowjob, Andrew had phoned Monica around nine o’clock, asking her over to his place for a drink. That was their standard arrangement—dinner felt too much like a date, while meeting in the daylight for coffee was needlessly formal. When it came to sex, Monica, a struggling model, was as practical as Andrew. Why go through the motions of courtship when they both just needed to get laid?