Scott Sherman - First You Fall

“You always did drool a lot,” she said, coming in and taking off her shoes. “And not just when you were a baby, either. I remember you were in the first grade, and your teacher asked me what we were giving you to drink at home because your chin was always wet and covered in…”

“Enough!” I shouted. “As charming as this trip down memory lane is, can we skip any more stories about my bodily functions?” I fol owed her as she walked into my kitchen.

“Oh, please, don’t even get me started on your poopies! I remember one day, oh, you must have been three years old, I had you dressed in the cutest white outfit and…”

I picked a knife off the counter and pointed it at my chest. “That’s it. I’m cutting my heart out right now.”

My mother opened up the refrigerator. “Don’t be such a drama queen.”

“‘Drama queen?’”

“I run a beauty shop, darling. I can talk gay. And there’s stil nothing to eat in this thing.”

“I go out a lot.”

“Tel you what,” my mother said. “How about we hop in my car, drive out to somewhere where there are real supermarkets, Queens or Brooklyn or something, and go shopping. Let’s pretend real people live in this apartment.”

“I don’t cook.”

“I’l cook.” She walked over to the stove. “Does this thing actual y work, or is it just for show?” She turned the dial and the pilot light caught. “Hal elujah!

We have fire! Now I know how the cavemen felt.”

The truth was, my mom’s cooking didn’t sound half bad. Neither did a ful y-stocked kitchen. I didn’t have a client tonight, or any other plans, either. I was thinking of staring at the phone al night hoping Tony might cal, but I could always do that tomorrow.

Besides, she’d be a captive audience on the car ride, and I could use the time to plead my father’s innocence.

Four hours later, I was fat and happy sitting at my computer. My mother was in the bedroom watching Matlock or something.

It had been a fun evening. Although I didn’t get anywhere on the Dottie Kubacki front, (“I know what I know and don’t ask me what I know, al right?”) we did tear up the supermarket and fil ed my cupboards with more food than I knew they could hold. The apartment stil smel ed of her signature liver with cabbage and onions, which sounds disgusting but is real y delicious. And there was stil about ten pounds left over for tomorrow.

The evening made me remember that when I wasn’t embarrassed or overwhelmed by my mother, she was pretty good company.

A stocked kitchen. Home cooking. A shower that rained on me. Maybe having her here for awhile wasn’t going to be so bad.

“Hey,” my mother’s voice came from the bedroom.

“Where’s that magazine I was reading last night?”

“What magazine?” I asked her.

“The one in your nightstand. With al the naked men.”

Oh. My. God.

She had to go.

I was typing the phrase “how to kil your mother” into Google when I got an instant message: “R u free?”

It was from Marc Wilgus, one of my favorite clients. I typed back “I’m available, but never ‘free.’”

“LOL,” Marc replied. “Seriously. I’m bored amp; horny. Wanna cum over?”

Marc was a great guy, and sex with him was always fun. I’d do him for free, although I wasn’t about to tel him that.

“C u in 20,” I answered. I didn’t want to interrupt my mother’s show, so I left her a note saying that I was meeting some friends.

Marc opened his door and immediately pul ed me inside, pinning me against the wal and kissing me hard and deep.

It was probably the movie Pretty Woman that popularized the myth that prostitutes don’t kiss. Think about it: Does it real y make sense that a hooker would suck Richard Gere’s dick but not make out with him?

In fact, it’s our clients who usual y avoid the lip lock. If a guy wants to kiss me, and if he’s clean and doesn’t have bad breath, I’m not adverse to some tonsil hockey.

Least of al with Marc. He was as good a kisser as he was everything else.

Al around us, computers buzzed and whirred.

Marc worked out of his apartment as a reverse-hacker. Security companies hired him to try and break into their client’s computer networks. If Marc found an opening-and he always did-the security company knew to develop appropriate countermeasures.

In other words, Marc made his living doing things most people would go to jail for. But then again, so did I.

In addition to being good at sex, Marc was handsome as hel. He was just a little tal er than me which made him kind of short. His body had obviously never seen the inside of a gym.

Sometimes he’d cal himself “fat” but he wasn’t. He wasn’t in great shape like a cover boy, but he was warm and strong and his skin was the smoothest I’ve ever felt. He must have been in his mid-thirties, but he could pass for younger. He had luxuriously black curly hair that I could spend hours running my hands through.

Had I met him under other circumstances, I might have been tempted to go out with him, except for one smal thing: I wasn’t entirely sure he ever went out.

Marc lived his life almost entirely on the Web. He ordered groceries and meals on the Internet. His movies, music, and pornography arrived over his FIOS line. He even hooked up with me through Mrs.

Cherry’s Web site.

“Mmmm,” I said, pul ing away from his embrace.

“It’s been kind of a long day. Do you want me to grab a shower?”

Marc licked me from my neck to my ear, whispering, “only if I can join you.”

I put my arms back around him, hooking my thumbs into the back of his jeans. I started pushing down. “Wanna get wet?”

Marc pressed his impressive bulge against me.

“I’m already getting wet.”

“Sweet talker.”

Marc took my T-shirt off and put his lips to my right nipple. He sucked hard and I gasped with pleasure.

“Fuck the shower,” Marc said, putting his hands under my ass. He lifted me off the ground and I wrapped my legs around his back. He carried me towards the bedroom. “Let’s fuck.”

An hour later, I needed the shower even more. Marc lay on top of me, the drying evidence of my orgasm threatening to permanently glue us together. Marc tossed his condom on the floor, where it landed with a wet plop.

“Damn, that was good. How much,” Marc asked playful y, “would it cost to have you move in?”

“More than you could afford.” I ran my hands down his back.

“Hey, careful what you say,” Marc smiled. “You’re talking to a man who can hack into the bank accounts of seven of the world’s ten richest men.”

“Only seven?”

“The other three haven’t hired me yet to try,” Marc answered. He rol ed off me, finding out too late how sticky dried cum can be. “Ouch!”

“Love hurts,” I said.

“You’re tel ing me,” Marc answered. “And I haven’t even paid yet.”

“Listen,” I said, thinking of the uncomfortable couch and my mother’s snoring awaiting me at home, “if you want I can stay the night.”

“I’d like that,” Marc said, “but I’m kind of in the middle of breaking into the satel ite systems of a smal Central American nation. I better get back to work.”

“No problem,” I said, disappointed.

I couldn’t help but think that Richard Gere never kicked Julia Roberts out.

Maybe I should have held back on the kissing.

After I got dressed, Marc slipped two hundred dol ar bil s into my hand. “I’l settle the rest up with Mrs.

Cherry online,” he told me.

“You’re great,” I said, giving him a hug.

“You too,” he said. “What’s your schedule like next week?” I told him the nights I was free, and he said he’d get back to me. It was a sil y dance we did, because we both knew he’d never schedule a date in advance. In Marc’s virtual reality, everything came to him when he wanted it, and he never knew what he’d want from one moment to the next. If he saw me online when he was horny, he’d get in touch and we’d get together. If I wasn’t available, another rentboy would enjoy his generosity.