Scott Sherman - Third You Die

Due to many complicating factors, not the least of which was my lack of desire to be exposed to the world as a male prostitute, I worked hard to keep my name out of the story and direct all possible credit to Tony for breaking the case. When the murder turned out to be not just an isolated incident but part of a bigger and deadlier conspiracy, Tony’s profile was further elevated.

As far as I was concerned, he deserved all the credit in the world. He was a great cop: caring, hardworking, and unafraid to put his own life on the line in the service of others. Yeah, it just so happened he’d collaborated with me on solving Allen’s murder, but there were many other, lower-profile cases that didn’t make the papers but which brought justice to those who most needed it.

“Please,” I told him, “if you hadn’t figured out what I’d gotten myself into, I wouldn’t even be alive today. As far as I’m concerned, it’s the untold parts of the story that most qualify you as a ‘hero.’ At least to me.”

Tony ran his thumb over my lips. “How do you always manage to say the nicest thing?”

“I follow my heart.” I nipped at his finger.

Tony ran his hand through my hair as I scanned the rest of the invitation. The seats ran $500. Not all of them, mind you, just one.

No disparagement to the Police Officer’s Public Service Division, but, apparently, I wasn’t the only whore in Tony’s world. What the hell, I’d like to know, were they serving for $500 a plate? Maybe I should get into the catering business.

Luckily, the card explained, As a recipient of an Award, you will receive two complimentary tickets. We hope you will share this important evening with the loved one of your choice.

While a small portion of my attention went toward continuing my discussion with Tony about what a great honor this was and how excited I was for him, the major part of my ADHD-adlled, multitasking mind was pondering the question that has preoccupied gay men on occasions like this since time immemorial: What Will I Wear?

The invitation called for “business attire,” but that wasn’t as clear as it sounded. I wanted to don something tasteful, but not too dull. I had half a closet of conservative Brooks Brothers suits I used to wear to visit some of my escorting clients (either because it was their fantasy to screw a young Republican or because I needed to pass as one to fit in at their apartment/restaurant/hotel), but all of that seemed too boring and generic for Tony’s dinner.

I also had some fetish-wear from the old days, but, while I did wear it for work, I was pretty sure it wasn’t the kind of “business attire” that’d be appropriate. Disregarding what anyone else thought, I doubted Tony would appreciate my wearing leather chaps, a Catholic schoolboy’s uniform, or gold lame shorts. Well, at least not to his event.

My work attire these days was pretty casual. Consisting mostly of polo shirts in the summer and sweaters in the winter, it also Would Not Do.

Which all led me to one exciting conclusion: I had to go shopping.

I’d have to bring Freddy. He’d enjoy it even more than I would. I’m a bit of a fashionista, but Freddy made me look like someone who’d consider the men’s clothing at Walmart the height of haute couture. He could tell the difference between a Giorgio Armani, Hugo Boss, or Ansell Darling suit at five hundred paces. Plus, his taste was impeccable, and he had a way of flirting with salespeople that not only got us the most conceivable attention but the best possible price. For a man who looked his best naked, Freddy knew a lot about how best to cover up.

I was imagining how excited he’d be to paw through the racks of Bloomingdales with me when the part of my brain that was listening to Tony alerted me that I was wasting my time.

“… especially after all we’ve been through,” Tony was saying, “I think it would be for the best. Don’t you? I think it would mean so much for her to be there.”

He was talking about his mother. Ever since he’d told her about his divorce, she’d been cold and withdrawn from him. Tony came from a religious family where you stayed married no matter what the problems were. Infidelity, spousal abuse, incarceration: None of these were good enough reasons to put asunder what God had joined together, or some such thing. Even though it was Tony’s wife who’d initiated the separation, his mother held it against him.

While a part of me enjoyed knowing it wasn’t only Jewish mothers like mine who tortured and manipulated their children with guilt, my heart broke for Tony. He truly loved his mother, and, in his typical good-guy, Boy-Scoutish, has-to-be-perfect, rule-following way, he couldn’t deal with disappointing her.

Not that he’s ever talked about it. Tony wasn’t exactly the type to go on about his feelings.

His bringing her to the awards dinner, I knew, would mean a lot to her. He needed to give her an opportunity to be proud of him. They both needed it.

Tony’s decision made perfect sense. His distance from his mother had to be causing him pain, even if he kept it to himself. Maybe sharing that evening with her would help heal the rift between them.

That would be good for me, too. I wanted Tony to be open with his family about us. Maybe seeing him win this accolade for his professional dedication and achievement would help them understand he was still the same person, with the same high morals and ethical standards, no matter who he loved.

Sure, it would have been nice had Tony chosen me to take to dinner. It would probably be one of the most important nights of his life, and part of me felt I should be the one to share it with him. But, big picture, his decision had the potential to do more good for our relationship than any one evening. If I were mature about it, I had to admit it was a win for me, too.

So, why did I feel like I’d suffered such a loss? Everything Tony said made sense. I even agreed with it.

Yet I couldn’t shake the nagging doubt that if I were a girl friend, I’d be there with him. That Tony’s bringing his mother as his “date” had less to do with her than with me. It was just another example of my being the Dirty Little Secret.

Was that true? Or just another example of my being self-centered, thinking everything Tony did was a referendum on “us”?

Did it even matter? Supposedly, I’d come to terms that Tony needed time to accept being with a man. So, why was I comparing him to Kristen LaNue earlier and why was I questioning his motives now? I expected him to love me openly and unconditionally, but did he get that from me?

As Tony continued to explain-defend? — his decision, I tried to be encouraging. I said every supportive, self-sacrificing thing I could think of, never letting on I was hurt.

“You and your mom enjoy your five-hundred-dollar dinners,” I told him at one point. “Having spent half her life raising a pain in the ass like you, god knows she deserves it.”

When it doubt, keep it light. Or a little dirty. “But when you come home,” I said, leeringly, “you’re mine. And you and I will celebrate your accomplishment in bed. Deal?”

Tony beamed, looking relieved and grateful. He had to have known I’d expect to be his date. My letting him off the hook so easily probably came as a surprise. A welcome one, at that.

It was a gift I was willing to give him. At least, tonight I was. But tomorrow, or next week, or next year, I was going to need him to start giving back.

If there was one thing I’d learned working the sex trade, it was that love, in any form, comes at a cost. The guys who paid me a couple of hundred dollars to feel cared for got off cheaply. Real love was paid in sacrifice, compromise, and the willingness-no, the desire-to put someone else’s happiness above your own.