Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (7 page)

Andrew started with a longer than usual make-out session, proving to himself how much he enjoyed kissing girls. Monica was a wonderful kisser, clever with her tongue, unafraid to take control. When they were both breathless, they went at it, first on the couch, then in the shower. The next night’s repeat engagement was even hotter. Exhausted, Andrew fell asleep in Monica’s bed. Generally, neither one of them was comfortable with a sleepover—after sex, Monica preferred her personal space, and Andrew did, too. But after such a heroic performance, she didn’t send him packing. And Andrew, who should have been too sated to dream about anything, much less sex, dropped into a sleeping reverie about Paresh.

They were in the bath tub again, which was empty. Both of them were fully dressed. Paresh sat on the tub’s floor; Andrew sat on his lap. Hands resting on Paresh’s shoulders, Andrew stared into the other man’s eyes.

“I don’t want to kiss you,” Andrew said.

“Not even for a five hundred dollar bonus?” Paresh asked. But somehow he’d become Cormac Donovan: granite-jawed, handsome, smiling.

“Do you taste like Guinness?” Andrew didn’t like the idea.

“One way to find out.” Cormac’s arms slid around Andrew’s waist. Gently, he pressed their lips together in the softest of kisses. Andrew’s stomach fluttered, but not with nausea. When he awakened, his hand was on his cock. Fortunately, he wasn’t aroused, just limp and sore. And after a moment’s confusion over the dream’s meaning, he fell asleep again.

* * *

Andrew’s next two jobs were more in line with what he’d imagined when Huey Wasserman first mentioned the gay escort business. On Friday, he earned his fee merely by wearing a tuxedo and making conversation at a midtown party. The host, a fledgling fashion designer, had landed a big contract and was determined to raise her nonexistent gay street cred by surrounding herself with gorgeous, theoretically homosexual young men. Andrew, too short to be a model but pretty enough to be mistaken for one, spent the evening passing on off-Broadway gossip. Fashion and theater intersected in several areas; it was the easiest cash he’d earned since leaving Kansas.

A few days later, Wasserman had a cancellation and needed someone, stat, for an “erotic house cleaning service.” The entire premise sounded so absurd, Andrew put Wasserman on hold to Google it—no way was he agreeing to some kind of gay snark hunt—before coming back on the line to say, sure, why not? That evening, Andrew and another young man cleaned a smallish Brooklyn apartment while clad in nothing but boxers. Beyond the near-nudity it was an easy assignment, vacuuming and dusting and scrubbing countertops while the client, a skinny man with thick glasses and a comb-over, silently watched. Afterward, Andrew told Wasserman he’d gladly take more jobs of that nature.

“You and the whole rest of this city, kid,” Wasserman had growled in response.

In between those assignments, Andrew finished reading aloud book one of the “mommy porn” trilogy to Marie and moved on to book two. He also used his recently improved housekeeping skills to thoroughly clean her apartment, particularly the kitchen and guest room. Their father was a neat freak. In addition, Mr. Reynolds had never been good with illness, frequently making excuses to leave the house or work extra hours when Andrew or Marie was ill. If garden-variety flu was too much for him, how would he deal with Marie’s vomit pail, bedpan, and shiny bald head?

Mr. Br
—Hugh
used to be compassionate
, Andrew thought, reluctantly giving the devil his due.
Maybe he’s softened up Dad when it comes to human frailty.

After a long morning of cleaning, Andrew had just returned to his apartment for a shower and some afternoon TV when his mobile chimed. It was Wasserman.

“Guess what, piss ant? Tonight, your biggest fan is stopping over in New York on his way to do God knows what, God knows where. Something about a green jobs initiative in Canada.” Wasserman employed the most world-weary tone possible, as if describing grade-schoolers using cardboard and duct tape to fashion a spaceship. If Wasserman believed deeply in something, it wasn’t green initiatives. Or politicians. Or Andrew Reynolds, for that matter.

“Cormac? That’s nice.” Andrew kept his tone casual. If anyone had seen the flush in his cheeks, he would have blamed it on his building’s diabolical heating system, which tended to go full-blast only from August through September. “Does he want to see me?”

Wasserman released a long, shuddering sigh. “What do you think?”

“Give me the details.” Andrew located a pen and paper, but found actually writing them down unnecessary. Even a recent transplant from Kansas knew how to find Madison Square Garden. Cormac had two tickets to a Rangers game. Andrew didn’t know much about hockey, but he adored live sporting events on principle. That it would be his first time in “the Garden,” as native New Yorkers sometimes called the arena, was just the glaze on the cannoli.

Andrew was in his bedroom, pawing through his casual clothes for the correct ensemble—not too dressy, not too casual—when his phone rang. Wasserman again.

“Yeah?” Andrew’s stomach dropped. Had Cormac changed his mind? Maybe decided the blond with the spray tan was better company after all?

“I’d really like to know what kind of super spud you got down your pants leg,” Wasserman said. “Note. That was sarcasm. But I just got another call about you. Name of Choudhari ring a bell?” He pronounced the surname correctly. When it came to paying customers, Wasserman always nailed the essential details.

“Paresh? From the party?”

“‘From the party?’” Wasserman imitated in a falsetto. “Yeah. That Paresh Choudhari. He called asking for your phone number. I said it’s policy not to give those out. So he gave me
his
direct number. Wants you to give him a call.”

“Um… why?”

“To discuss
Dancing with the Stars
. You want his number or not?”

Andrew took it down. His hands were shaking. When he disconnected from Wasserman, it took him a full five minutes to gather the nerve to punch in the numbers. Paresh answered on the third ring.

“Is this Andrew?”

“Um. Yeah. Hi.” Andrew winced, wondering if any man anywhere had ever sounded more lame.

Paresh chuckled. “I thought you might not call. That perhaps gay panic had set in.”

“I’m fine.”

“How many girls did it take?”

“What do you mean?” Andrew asked, knowing precisely what Paresh was driving at.

“How many girls did you sleep with to feel straight again?”

Andrew almost lied, claiming he’d forgotten his encounter with Paresh as soon as it ended, but found himself unable. “Just one.”

“You wouldn’t be untruthful, would you, Andrew? That’s one of the things I like about you. Your honesty.”

“You barely know me.”

“I know enough.” Paresh’s tone was rich, seductive, making the most commonplace words sound filled with unexpected promise. “Really just one girl? Am I so forgettable?”

“Monica’s no ordinary girl,” Andrew said, meaning it. He couldn’t see himself dating her long term, their temperaments were too different, but their mutual satisfaction in the sack was undeniable. “Besides—we did it five times. Well. Four and half, over two days.”

Paresh laughed. “And do you feel one hundred percent straight again, Mr. Gay for Pay?”

“Well… yeah.”

“See? Honest. I enjoy that about you. If you told me what you thought I wanted to hear, you’d be just like all the rest. So tell me, Andrew.” Paresh’s voice turned seductive again. “If I wanted to bring you back to my house for a special engagement, would you accept?”

Andrew’s heart sped up. “What did you have in mind?”

“Not a party. Just you and me. We don’t have to involve Mr. Wasserman. This can be a private transaction.”

“Um. I mean…” Andrew swallowed. “What do you want to, uh, do?”

“At first, I thought I might put you in the bath again. Lather you up. Squeeze you till you’re ready to pop. Then suck and swallow.”

Andrew exhaled, squirming inside his jeans. They were too tight to permit a comfortable hard-on, and he was half up already.

“There’s that pant I adore. Are you aroused?”

“Getting there,” Andrew muttered.

“You were so tight, I barely got a finger inside. Did you ask Monica to do that for you?”

“No.” Unbuttoning his jeans, Andrew pushed them down. And there he was, fully erect and straining against the waistband of his boxers.

“Why not?” Paresh asked. “Afraid she’d think you were queer?”

“Yeah.”

“I can do it better anyway. Next time you need some lubricant. Maybe I should use my tongue?”

Hand slipping inside his boxers, Andrew gave himself a hard squeeze. “Is that what you’ll do? If I come see you off the books?”

Paresh ignored that. “Did I hear another pant? Andrew, what are you doing?”

Phone pressed to his left ear, Andrew lay back on his bed, pants around his knees and member in hand. “Just… considering your offer,” he said, stroking himself from head to root.

“Put me on speakerphone if you need to use both hands.” Paresh sounded pleased with himself. “So as I was saying. I could put you in the tub. Suck you again, force my tongue all the way inside you. Then I remembered your little phobia. You might be afraid to make yourself so vulnerable, all alone with me. Yet I’d love to see you violated. To watch you take something much bigger than a finger.”

Andrew’s breath hitched. The idea terrified and fascinated him, making him clench inside as his right hand began its familiar, inexorable rhythm.

“Would you do that for me, Andrew? I promise not to touch you. I just want you to strip for me. Spread your legs for me. Lube yourself up for me. Slowly, using your own fingers, working in circles….”

Andrew gasped, imagining it all too easily: himself, nude and open for Paresh as intimately as possible. His grip tightened, hand working faster.

“… and then slide it up,” Paresh continued. “Slowly. All of it. You can take your own virginity. I just want to watch.”

“Slide… what?” Andrew barely managed to choke the words out.

“A toy, of course. I don’t have quite the right item, but I’ll get one. Nine inches long. An inch and a half thick. Shaped precisely like the real thing. I can’t wait to see you push it in. To watch it disappear—”

“
Oh
!” Andrew let go. He wasn’t surprised to hear Paresh laughing softly in his ear. He was only surprised he hadn’t splattered the ceiling.

“If you enjoyed that, think how much better it will be in my bed. With an appreciative audience,” Paresh said.

Andrew panted, fighting to get his breath back. He wanted to say no. Vaguely he knew it could be dangerous, putting himself in a virtual stranger’s house without anyone, even Wasserman, keeping tabs on his whereabouts. But instead of saying no, he gasped, “When?”

“Tomorrow night. Ten o’clock. Can I expect you?”

“Sure. Wait. H-how much?”

“I rather had the idea you’d do it for free. But since you bring up filthy
lucre
….” Sounding more smug than ever, Paresh named a sum.

Andrew sat up straight. He didn’t know if he really wanted to physically attempt what Paresh had just described. But with that kind of money, he could pay off his maxed-out credit card and stop receiving debt mediation phone calls every other day.

“I’ll be there.” Not wanting to hear Paresh laugh again, Andrew disconnected. Afraid to think about what he’d just done or how it made him feel, he headed directly to the shower, to make himself presentable for his date with Cormac.

Chapter 5

Between getting dressed and taking the train to Madison Square Garden, Andrew fired up his laptop and tried adding a new segment to his expanding gay-for-pay narrative. Describing the fledgling fashionista’s party and the “erotic housecleaning” service was easy. Another two sentences about Cormac’s return to New York with Rangers tickets, no problem. But transcribing Paresh’s phone call or his own physical response? He couldn’t make himself type a single word.

Frustrated, Andrew snapped the laptop shut. Despite all those As in English composition, most of them awarded, ironically, by his father’s then-secret lover, Andrew wondered if the manuscript was dead. He’d described the pool boy experience only up to the moment when he’d been forced to shuck his swim trunks, telling himself he’d add the bath tub encounter with Paresh at some later date.

Much later. Thank goodness for Cormac.

With nothing else to occupy him, Andrew arrived at the arena’s box office twenty minutes early, dressed in black jeans, a button-down shirt and a pinstripe blazer. Instead of athletic shoes he’d chosen Oxfords, newly polished. It seemed best not to wear anything too casual, in case Cormac wanted to hit a private club like the Blairmont after the game.

Andrew expected to mill around, scope out the souvenir stand, maybe pick up a keychain or pennant for Marie. Instead, he spied Cormac right away, leaning against a concrete pillar and eating a foot-long chili dog. Picking him out of the crowd wasn’t difficult. In a gray suit and trench coat, Cormac was easily the best-dressed, best-looking man in a hundred-yard radius.