imaginary pus. Stuff like that.”
“If anyone else told me these things,” Freddy said, “I’d think they were insane. But, you’re right-on the Kevin scale, that qualifies as ‘nothing major.’ ”
“See?” I said. “You had no reason to worry.”
“Well, when you have time, I want to hear every detail of what happened.”
“Play your cards right,” I promised him, “and I might even show you the video.”
“My darling, darling boy,” Mrs. Cherry gushed as she flung open her door. I was hit by a wave of the Bal a Versailles perfume in which she doused herself, the cloying floral notes fighting each other for attention. It mostly masked the other odors from the apartment-stale marijuana smoke, patchouli incense, garbage that should have been taken out a day ago.
Mrs. Cherry was two hundred pounds and five feet of indeterminate gender. Although she lived as a woman, I was 99 percent sure she’d been born a man. Whether she’d achieved her ample bosom, rounded hips, and other female characteristics through surgery, hormonal supplements, or a wish on a genie’s lamp, I had no idea. She had an air of magic and fantasy about her that made any combination of those seem possible.
Mrs. Cherry ran the escort agency I used to work for. She’d been a great boss, looking out for my best interests and screening my clients to ensure I was never in a dangerous or harmful situation. When another guy in her employ was hit by a car a few months ago, Mrs. Cherry paid all of Randy’s hospital bills and kept his nursing staff happy with frequent deliveries of food and guest baskets.
After a suffocating hug, she ushered me into her large living space. Years ago, she’d bought several apartments on her floor and combined them into one, creating a labyrinth of mysterious, elaborately decorated rooms. The furniture was overstuffed and buried under mounds of pillows, the walls papered with busy feminine patterns, everything colored various shades of red, purple and pink Tiffany lamps, beaded curtains, and crystal chandeliers further contributed to the illusion you’d been transported to a New Orleans brothel sometime in the 1920s.
I sank into one of her enveloping settees.
“Can I get you something to drink?” Mrs. Cherry offered. “Some champagne? Beer? A Shirley Temple?”
“Water would be great,” I replied.
She returned moments later with a silver tray, which held an etched crystal pitcher filled to the top with icy cold water, a matching glass, and a small plate of thinly sliced lemons and mint leaves, all set upon a frilly lace doily. Mrs. Cherry never did anything without embellishment.
“I wish I could delude myself into thinking you’re here to tell me you are coming back to work,” she said, sitting across from me. “But you look much too happy and successful for me to believe that.”
“Well, I don’t know about all that, but you’re right-that’s not why I’m here.”
Mrs. Cherry shrugged, then smiled. “I watch your mother’s show every day,” she gushed. “What a pistol that woman is! Such fun! But my favorite moment is when your name rolls by in the end credits. ‘That’s my boy,’ I think. It’s only on screen for a few seconds, but they’re some of the best moments of my day.”
Her voice cracked on the last few words, and I thought I saw the sparkle of a tear in her right eye. “I’m ever so proud of you, Kevin,” she said wistfully. “I always knew you were special.”
I thought about the difference between Mrs. Cherry and Mason Jarre. They both were in the business of employing young men for sex work, but Mrs. Cherry genuinely cared about her charges. She didn’t use the illicit nature of her enterprise to justify regarding her employees as subhuman commodities. She was proof that, even in the sex trade, you could treat people with kindness and dignity. No, more than that. You could be loving and generous, creating a virtuous cycle of shared loyalty and respect.
Which raised a question. “When your boys leave the business,” I asked her, “do they just disappear?”
She looked genuinely puzzled. “Whatever do you mean, sweetness?”
I told her how Mason related his experience with boys dropping out of sight when they wanted to move on, never saying good-bye or staying in touch.
“Oh, that sounds awful,” Mrs. Cherry said. “I don’t know if I could stand working like that. I’d be so concerned! That man must be out of his mind with worry. If one of my boys just stopped returning my calls or didn’t show up for a job, I’d do whatever it took to find him. Just to know he was all right. This is a big city-anything can happen!
“You know as well as anyone, my little angel, when a boy wants to leave the business, I have no problem with him moving on. I wish my boys the best in life. If that man’s models are leaving like that, without even a fare- thee-well, there must be a reason. Either they’re afraid of him or…”
“Or what?” I prompted.
“Or something’s happening to them.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Mrs. Cherry removed a lacy handkerchief from her deep cleavage. She twisted it nervously in her hands. “Nothing good, I’d imagine.”
“That’s what I need your help with,” I said. “Just how ‘not good’ this situation is.”
I explained how I’d met Brent, what happened when I finally got around to calling him, and what everyone had to say about his disappearance.
“How awful,” Mrs. Cherry said. “No one seems to care at all about this poor boy.” She gave me her warmest smile, the one that makes you feel like she’s hugging you even when she’s way out of reach.
“Except you,” she amended. “But that’s your greatest gift, you know. Caring. It’s what made you such an outstanding escort. It wasn’t your good looks-not that you’re not absolutely delicious, darling. Nor was it your creativity in bed or, from what my clients have told me, your surprisingly large… endowment.”
I felt my cheeks redden.
“Darling, you’re the only person I know who could sleep with hundreds of men but still blush at even an oblique reference to your penis.”
“It’s hardly been hundreds…” I felt the need to clarify. “And with most of them…”
Mrs. Cherry waved her handkerchief at me. “Darling, please. No need to feel defensive. Who would know better than me? I was the one who arranged those assignments, remember.”
I was about to explain that for most of my “career,” I’d done more dates that involved role-playing and fantasy than actual sex. Especially after I reunited with Tony, I drew the line at anything that involved oral or anal intercourse. My specialty was safe kink delivered with good humor and a smile.
“My point was”-Mrs. Cherry winked-“your clients raved about you not because you brought them to orgasm- any of my boys could do that. So, for that matter, could their own hands or a laundry machine if you lean against it just right during the ‘heavy duty’ cycle.”
I gave her a WTF look.
“Or so I’ve heard,” she said quickly, anxious to get off that last example. “In any case, it wasn’t the sexual release they achieved with you that stood out for them. It was the emotional connection.
“You made them feel, for that brief time, cared for and understood. That’s a gift far greater than merely getting their rocks off.”
I remembered my conversation with Freddy and Cody earlier that week about my client who found his deepest satisfaction in clown play. It wasn’t easy for him to find someone who wouldn’t go running when he told him he wanted him to dress up like Bozo and pelt him with pies. Even paid companions treated him like some kind of freak. They may have gone through with the act, but he could always sense their contempt and disapproval beneath the surface.
But with me, he said, he never felt the nose-holding disdain that his other partners always seemed to have. Which was probably because I didn’t feel it. As long as it didn’t hurt them or involve hurting someone else, there was no kink with which I couldn’t empathize. I didn’t share the kinks, but I wasn’t disgusted by them. Nor did I feel somehow superior or more evolved just because I didn’t get a hard-on when I saw a poster for the circus.
Who’s to say what determines what turns you on? Why is someone who’s excited by a woman in high heels morally better than someone who gets the same rise from oversized jester shoes? As a gay man, 90 percent of the people with whom I shared a gender couldn’t understand what I wanted in bed. Who was I to judge someone else?
“It’s funny,” I said. “I was thinking the same thing about you. How much you care about the boys who work
