Scott Sherman: Third You Die

“Actually, I already have. This guy named Charlie. I kind of like him. But the problem is, he’s got major issues with my work. He doesn’t want me to ever be ‘Brent’ again. He can’t stand the thought of me being with other guys. Especially on film. He really hates it. I keep telling him to separate what I do from who I am, but I think it’s a losing battle.”

I thought of my own situation with Tony. He never pressured me to give up my work, but there was a time when I had to change the specifics of what I did to appease him. “Is this Charlie guy worth finding a new line of work?”

“Maybe. But not yet. And since he’s getting kind of pushy about it, I’m thinking I’m going to have to break it off with him.”

His face seemed to lengthen with sadness. “Which is really too bad, ya know?”

I nodded sympathetically.

“ ’Cause I’m kind of sweet on him. But these guys, they go from one extreme to the other. They either want the fantasy, like the old men who offer me fifty thousand a month to live with them and role-play characters from my movies, or they want to kill the fantasy, destroy ‘Brent Havens’ and everything that goes along with him.

“Besides”-Brent’s expression darkened-“it’s a lot easier to get into this business than to leave it.”

“What do you mean?”

Brent-or should I say Richie now? — dropped his voice again. “Look around you. SwordFight has spent a lot of money promoting me. Making me a ‘star.’ They could make it hard for me to walk away.”

My mind immediately went to organized crime. “What do you mean?”

“It’s a dirty business. But I have insurance. I know stuff about them, too. I could blow the lid off SwordFight.

“The stories I could tell could shut them down. Probably put some of them in jail. How they helped me…” He didn’t finish his sentence as his eyes widened with a new idea.

“Hey, maybe I could do it here. On your mom’s show. Get my story out before they have a chance to spin things their way.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him Sophie’s Voice wasn’t exactly 60 Minutes. Plus, something about what he said didn’t ring true. I’d have to think about it later, when I wasn’t distracted by how damn adorable he was.

“Maybe,” I said. “Let’s add it to the list of things we can talk about over coffee.” I handed him my business card.

He tucked it into the back of his jeans.

“You should have my number, too,” he said. He grabbed a pen off a desk pushed against the wall. “Gimme your hand.”

Brent wrote his digits on my wrist, dragging it out to keep the physical contact going as long as possible. “Coffee’s so boring, though. Sure it wouldn’t be more fun to talk after a couple of drinks? Maybe at my place?” He arched his eyebrows suggestively. He finished writing his number and traced over it with his index finger.

I had to admit the boy was good. Too good. I wouldn’t trust myself at his place. Even without the alcohol.

His finger running along my wrist felt ridiculously sensual. Why was I so attracted to this kid? He was an undeniably well-put-together specimen, but not my type. Since falling for Tony I really hadn’t been particularly interested in anyone. Yeah, Andrew was tempting, and there’d always be a place in my heart-and pants-for my BFF Freddy, but Brent had me as hot as Sarah Palin at a gun show.

What was it about him?

Or was it me? Was the fact that he resembled me in so many ways part of the turn-on? Had I just discovered my kink? Not domination or plushies but clones?

For now, none of that mattered. Brent was an incorrigible flirt. He was going to keep wagging his tail and humping my leg until he wore me down. It was time to throw some cold water on this puppy.

“Did I mention my boyfriend’s a cop?” I asked him. I’ve found that tends to act like the anti-Viagra on even the most determined suitors. Knowing the guy you’re trying to cuckold has a gun is more deflating than a cold shower.

“Coffee it is, then,” he said, dropping my hand. “When should we-”

We were interrupted by the trumpeting voice of Mason Jarre. “Would you look at them?” he boomed.

He was walking over with Kristen LaNue at his side. “Magnificent,” Kristen whispered. “Like two angels.”

“Almost twins,” Mason marveled. “Are you thinking what I’m thinking?”

“That we need to get these two together on film?” Kristen asked him.

“I can picture the DVD cover in my head already. Brotherly Love Two, ” Mason suggested. “Or, Adventures in Twincest.” His eyes darted from one of us to the other, back and forth. I was pretty sure he was imagining the climactic scene at that very moment. His voice was thick with excitement. “We can work out the details later.”

Mason pissed me off. I’d already made it clear to him I wasn’t interested. If there’s one thing I hate, it’s a guy who won’t take no for an answer.

I would have told him off right then and there, but I couldn’t think of a way to express my aversion to appearing in porn without sounding like I disapproved of Brent for doing it.

It was Kristen who saved the scene from getting ugly. But then again, he was a director. “Now, don’t pressure the boy,” he advised Mason. Then, he turned to me. “You have our cards. Think about it, okay? We could at least talk. I promise-we could make it worth your time.”

Brent gave me an evil grin. “You really should, Kevin. You know, if we do it on film, it isn’t cheating. It’s work.”

Having made similar distinctions in my own life, I couldn’t blame Brent for trying.

“Sure,” I said, figuring it was a good time to make my exit. “I’ll think about everything. And maybe we will get together.”

But I said that last part to Kristen, not Brent. For some reason, I had a feeling it’d be better if Kristen and Mason didn’t know that Brent and I planned to meet. I’d keep that to myself.

Just like I wouldn’t tell Tony about the flirting between me and Brent.

Walking away, it struck me that in the past half hour, more lies had been told, secrets revealed, and new ones made than I’d have thought possible in such a short time.

It didn’t seem like a good basis on which to start a new friendship. Maybe I’d be better off if Brent didn’t call.

Speaking of which, I’d better not go home with a guy’s number scrawled on my arm. Even a guy without Tony’s professional investigative training would be suspicious of that. I went to the bathroom to wash it off.

I was about to start scrubbing when I thought, What the hell? I took a picture of the number with my iPhone. Who knows? Maybe I’d have a reason to call Brent someday.

A perfectly innocent reason. Yeah, Brent might be delicious, but I had no doubt I’d be able to resist taking a bite.

Does it count as another lie if you only say it to yourself?

A month later, I was in my apartment watching the “Kinks for Cash” episode with my best friend, Freddy. It wouldn’t air until later that week, but he’d been bugging me about seeing it since he found out Brock Peters was a guest. I got a DVD of the final cut from one of our editors so Freddy would forgive me for what he’d considered an almost unforgivable slight on my part.

It was the night after the taping of the show. Freddy and I went out to dinner, and I told him about meeting Brent Havens and the other weird experiences of the day.

“Wait,” Freddy interrupted me. “Let me make sure I understand you. You threw a party for a roomful of gay porn stars and didn’t invite me?”

“I didn’t exactly throw a-”

“How long has it been that you’ve hated me?” Freddy asked.