Scott Sherman: Third You Die

“I don’t-”

“Because the only thing I love more than a party is porn, and the only thing I love more than porn is actual sex, and it sounds like you somehow managed to keep me from all three at the same time!”

It was true that Freddy loved sex. I knew that firsthand. We’d started as lovers back in college, but the idea of a committed relationship was about as appealing to Freddy as sunbathing is to a vampire. His idea of monogamy was sleeping with only one guy in the same day. Once he knew your last name, it was a sign the two of you were getting too serious.

So, we became friends. Besties, as the Brits say. There was still a sexual tension between us, but over the years it’s faded somewhat. Whether that was due to time or to Tony is hard to say.

It took me a few minutes to convince Freddy there was no “party” and that I had no idea so many of Brock’s friends and co-workers would show up. Even so, I admitted, I should have told him that Brock would be on the show.

“If I knew you were a fan, I would have invited you,” I explained. “But I had no idea you’d even heard of him.”

“Heard of him?” Freddy asked incredulously. “I’ve done a lot more than heard of him. I’ve seen him. I’ve studied him. I’ve sullied myself to him, in all his throbbing muscly goodness.”

“So, you like his movies?”

“I’m talking about at the gym. In the steam room. We’ve gotten it on four or five times there.”

“Oh my god,” I marveled. “Is there any man in New York you haven’t slept with?”

If so, it wasn’t for lack of trying. Freddy was one of the best-looking guys I’ve ever known, and that includes men who got paid $2,000 for an hour of their time. A beautifully built African American with perfect features and the piercing eyes of a professional Casanova, Freddy exuded a sexuality that made me believe in the power of pheromones. Men were drawn to him like no one I’d ever met, and Freddy enjoyed his gift to its fullest potential.

“I haven’t slept with your husband, darling. At least not yet. So, stop pissing me off before I decide to steal your man, blondie.”

“As if,” I answered, channeling Alicia Silverstone from Clueless.

“Haven’t fooled around with Brent Havens, either,” Freddy continued. “Although I wouldn’t mind. That’s one sweet-looking kid. And probably as close to sleeping with you again as I’ll ever get.”

Huh. Freddy had noticed the similarities, too.

I told him about our awkward flirtation.

“He probably did it just to get on the show,” Freddy offered.

“Why,” I asked sharply, “would it have to be about that? Is it impossible to believe that he found me attractive?”

“Of course not,” Freddy said, enjoying this opportunity to yank my chain. “For a man in your late thirties, you’ve held up remarkably well.”

Freddy knew I was twenty-four, the insufferable bitch. “As have you,” I countered. “And I don’t care what anyone says, I think you look great with that extra weight. There’s nothing wrong with a little muffin top.”

Despite the fact he knew we were teasing, Freddy couldn’t help glancing at his perfectly flat belly.

“Ha!” I said victoriously. “Made you look!”

Freddy decided to ignore my triumph. “I’m just pointing out that Brent Havens sounds like a manipulative little thing who knows how to hook a guy. You said he wanted to get out of the porn business. Maybe he thought that appearing on your mother’s show could be the first step to a legitimate career.”

“You think he was playing me?”

“I think he’s a player. The problem with being a player, though, is you don’t always know yourself what’s a game and what’s real.”

“One real thing,” I said, “was that the guy who runs his studio, Mason Jarre, was a total sleazebag. He practically raped me with his eyes. He pushed me hard to consider working for him-too hard, if you know what I mean. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. I can see why Brent feels like a slab of beef.”

“This guy Mason is forcing Brent to make movies?”

“No,” I answered. “Not exactly.”

“So, he wouldn’t accept Brent’s ‘no’ when offered, then? When he said he wanted to get out?”

I tried to remember our conversation. “I don’t think Brent’s asked yet.”

“Huh. But you think Mason pressured Brent to work for him in the first place, right? Coerced that innocent-looking sweetie into a life of onscreen debauchery?”

I couldn’t say that, either. In fact, I distinctly recalled it differently. “Actually, I think it was the opposite. Now that you bring it up, I don’t know that Brent’s ever said ‘no.’ ”

“My kind of boy.” Freddy grinned. “I don’t know, Kev. I’ve watched some of Brent’s work-he seemed to be having a pretty good time. I’ve seen him in interviews and read articles, too. Feels to me like that kid’s doing exactly what he wants to. Not by accident, either. He gets himself where he wants to be. And my feeling is, if he wants to move on to something different, he’ll do whatever it takes to make that happen.”

“I don’t know,” I answered. “You didn’t meet him like I did. He seemed very sweet. Genuine. Not the Machiavellian figure you’re painting.”

“Machiowhatnow?” Freddy asked. “What does a Starbucks drink have to do with anything?”

Freddy was what you call street-smart. Let’s just leave it at that.

I’d been a psychology major at NYU. Despite my ADHD, what I did learn stuck in my head like glue. “ ‘Machiavellian.’ From the sixteenth-century Italian writer and philosopher Nic-colo Machiavelli. He wrote about immoral men in a way that seemed to endorse the unethical use of power to get ahead. He’s become a symbol for selfishness and greed. Psychologists even have a test called the MACH-IV that measures a person’s likeliness to deceive and manipulate others for his personal gain.”

“Thanks for the lecture, Doctor IQ. Put simply: Brent’s power is his sexuality, right? So, that’s what he’d use.”

See? Street-smart. Not an insult after all.

Had Brent been planning to use me? Was I really so naive that I fell for it?

Of course, I hadn’t told him I worked for the show until midway through our conversation. On the other hand, maybe he noticed the ID his boss missed and figured it out when I first bumped into him.

Assuming he hadn’t planned the whole thing and been the one to bump into me.

My head was spinning out of control. I either needed to take more Adderall or get off this train.

Disembark, I decided. What did it even matter? Brent hadn’t called me and I hadn’t called him. Whatever happened, or might have happened, was behind us.

Except, I felt it wasn’t. We’d made a connection. I was sure of it. It didn’t feel “over” at all.

So, why hadn’t we been in touch?

I knew why I hadn’t called. Too much temptation.

Why hadn’t he?

“There’s only one thing I don’t get,” Freddy said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

I leaned forward. In his own way, Freddy could be very insightful. I felt lost in the dark trying to figure this out. Maybe Freddy would shine just the light I needed.

“Why,” he asked, squinting with the effort to understand what could very well be the question that would clear this all up for me, “would Starbucks name their delicious milky coffee treat after some old Italian guy everyone hates?”

Or, maybe not. “That’s a ‘macchiato,’ honey. Not a ‘Machiavelli. ’ ”

“I thought that sounded wrong,” Freddy said, shoving me in the shoulder like I was the one who’d made a mistake. “I just didn’t want to embarrass you by correcting you. I’m considerate that way.”