want to suck your dick, or not? Of course, he’d be insane if he didn’t. Even I want to suck your dick, and everyone knows I’m a big fat dyke.”
I couldn’t always tel when Mrs. Cherry was kidding. I’m pretty sure she didn’t know, either. But that was part of her charm.
“But you’re right; Al en’s death is curious, too.
Hmmm… you know what we need, darling?” she asked. I shook my head. “Cocktails!”
Mrs. Cherry disappeared behind a beaded curtain and returned moments later with two perfect martinis.
“I’d offer you something stronger,” she said, handing me my glass, “but I know what a boy scout you are. Besides, you have a date tonight, remember?”
I assured her I did, and we talked some more.
When I was ready to leave, she gave me a peck on the cheek. “Now, go make yourself beautiful, darling,” she said. “And make Momma some money.”
I got home at seven and had a protein shake. I checked my answering machine. Cal er ID showed I had another message from my mother. That was two in two days.
To say that my mother is high maintenance would be like saying that Lindsay Lohan enjoys an occasional drink. Or, used to enjoy. Let’s give Lindsay a break, OK?
My mother’s messages often ran for several minutes, during which she’d either lecture me on how I should be living my life, or detail the minutiae of how she was living hers.
I couldn’t deal with her just now, but I promised myself I’d listen to her messages tomorrow.
The next cal came from a law office. “This is Susan Oliver cal ing from Messner, Baker, and Stern. This message is for Kevin Connor. Mr.
Connor, please cal me to discuss an urgent personal matter. Thank you so much.” She left her number.
I didn’t think I owed anyone enough money that they would have gone legal on my ass, so I figured it was safe to cal her back. I got her machine and left her a message with my cel phone number.
My e-mail was mostly spam, except for a message from Freddy. “I can describe that boy from last night in three words: Dee Lish Ous. Have you solved Al en’s murder yet? Cal me!”
I took a shower, shaved my face, chest, and bal s, and put on a pair of tan khakis and a light blue Izod polo shirt. My client tonight was a regular, and he liked me to look preppy.
In the cab to his apartment, I thought about something Mrs. Cherry had said about Al en. “He was such a good customer.” Freddy had asked me if I knew anyone else who knew Al en, and I had forgotten about Randy Bostinick, the hustler I recommended to him.
Unfortunately, I hadn’t known Randy as wel back then as I did now. If I had, I wouldn’t have made the recommendation. Because as hot as Randy is, he’s also a little bit nuts. I’ve heard a few stories of Randy going off on guys in clubs when he thought they were being rude to him.
I also knew more than one of his old boyfriends who was seen trying to hide a black eye or swol en cheek. They learned the hard way that steroids and crystal meth may make a boy beautiful, but they don’t do much to improve his anger management skil s.
I had my own story, too.
Once, when Randy and I were at a bar together, a guy approached me. The guy was cute, but he had an intense stare that made me a little uncomfortable.
He leaned over to say something, but I couldn’t hear him over the crowd. I asked him to repeat himself, but it sounded like he was mumbling.
I didn’t want to be rude, but I couldn’t understand what he was saying. I shook my head, but the guy just tried again.
“Hey,” Randy bel owed from behind me, “can’t you see my friend’s not interested? Buzz off.”
But the guy just leaned closer and tried to talk right into my ear. Randy, thinking the guy was moving in for a kiss, had enough.
He put down his beer-some horrible American brew that only he would have the nerve to drink in a trendy gay bar-grabbed the guy by the shoulders, and threw him against the wal. Al eyes in the bar turned our way.
“Hey, punk,” Randy shouted. “What the fuck is your problem! I told you, he’s not interested. What are you, fucking deaf or something?”
Wel, imagine our embarrassment when it turned out that he was. That’s why his speech wasn’t very clear, and that’s why he was staring. He was trying to read my lips. That’s also why he didn’t hear Randy tel ing him to back off.
Once the misunderstanding was made clear, Randy went from sixty to zero as fast as he had previously accelerated. He was especial y gratified to learn that the guy was trying to ask me if Randy and I were together, because he was interested in Randy.
“I owe you a drink,” Randy said to the stil — shaking deaf guy. “And if you want, I’l take you home afterwards and touch you up nice al over.”
The deaf guy was reading Randy’s lips and he looked like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing.
Seeing. Whatever.
You could see how tempted he was by the prospect of spending time with Randy, but he was also wondering if he shouldn’t just leave now rather than risk his life with this beautiful nut.
But after a Cosmo and twenty minutes of watching how Randy’s impossibly strong shoulders tapered down to slim hips and an unbeatable ass, he decided that even if Randy kil ed him, it wouldn’t be a bad way to go. They left together, and Randy later told me “deaf guys are hot! He had a mouth like a Hoover, great fingers, and, after sex, I didn’t have to make any conversation or anything.”
Stil, despite a happy ending, Randy’s run-in with the deaf guy gave me firsthand knowledge of how out of control Randy could get.
Tony told me that Al en was expecting someone the night he was kil ed.
Could it have been a handsome hustler with a bad temper?
Randy was strong enough to throw a man off a balcony.
But why would he want to?
Under other circumstances, I would have cal ed Tony with my suspicions. But I couldn’t tel him how I knew Randy without revealing too much about myself.
I might be determined not to want Tony anymore, but I certainly wasn’t about to let him know about my hustling. That might make him not want me. I couldn’t have that!
No, I’d have to fol ow up with Randy on my own.
Two hours later, I found myself in an apartment on the Upper East Side, a high-priced neighborhood fil ed with wealthy dowagers and young investment bankers. If only they knew what their neighbors were up to.
I heard a telephone ring, but I was al tied up.
Literal y. Seated in a chair, my hands bound behind my back, my ankles lashed to each other. I was also nude, gagged and blindfolded.
I could hear my tormentor answer the phone.
Muffled voices conspired. Then he came back to where he had imprisoned me.
“I’m so sorry,” said my client, Melvin Cuttlebeck.
His thin, high voice was hushed. “That’s my boss on the phone, and I real y have to take this cal. It wil be about ten minutes. Shal I untie you?”
“No, I don’t mind,” I said through the gag, which, to be honest, wasn’t on tight enough to be effective anyway.
“Fabulous,” Melvin whispered. “I wouldn’t want you to be uncomfortable. I’l be back in a jiff.”
I wouldn’t ordinarily do this kind of scene, but Melvin Cuttlebeck must be the world’s most solicitous sadist. Although he enjoys the fantasy of binding and dominating me, he’s terrified of actual y causing any pain. Or even discomfort.
As a result, he always ties me loosely enough so that it doesn’t chafe. In fact, I could probably just slip out of tonight’s ropes.
In our first session, Melvin spent over an hour showing me different knots and how to open them. “I wouldn’t want you to feel the least bit trapped,” he told me. “This way, you know that you can always get yourself free. After al, what would happen if I had a heart attack or something? Why, you could be stuck here for days!”
