Scott Sherman: First You Fall

We spoke for a while more, and then my client announced that he had to get some work done. He had already paid for my time through Mrs. Cherry with his credit card, but as I was walking out the door, he slipped an extra hundred into my jeans.

“You were great,” he said, shaking my hand as if we had just negotiated a very important business deal.

“Thanks,”-I remembered! — “Jerry. Feel free to ask for me again if you come back to New York.” I flung my backpack over my shoulder.

“Wel,” Jerry said sheepishly, “I usual y like a new guy…”

Figures. Now I’d have to forget his name again.

There was nothing forgettable about the furnace outside. New York in August is like a hot day in Hel.

Even at 9:00 P.M., the air was wet and heavy.

I was supposed to meet my best friend, Freddy, at a bar at around midnight. That gave me enough time to drop off a book I had borrowed from my friend Al en Harrington on the way home.

Al en and I had met under odd circumstances. A year ago, he had cal ed Mrs. Cherry looking for some companionship. He had asked for a blond, blue-eyed guy, and I fit the bil. But when I knocked on the door, the good-looking, distinguished gentleman of about sixty looked disappointed.

“Oh no,” he said, “you won’t do at al.”

Now, as a professional, I don’t take this kind of thing personal y. People want what they want, and for me to be hurt by rejection would be like the subway complaining every time someone takes a bus.

Different strokes for different folks.

Stil, a flicker of annoyance must have passed my face, because Al en immediately looked chagrined.

“But where are my manners?” he asked. “Forgive me. Come in, let’s have a drink. And of course, I wil pay you for your time. But let me explain.”

I walked in and sat at a table where two wineglasses sat with an open bottle of Merlot. I didn’t know much about furniture at the time (Al en would eventual y teach me more), but this place was obviously posh. Expensive looking paintings, vases displayed on marble columns, and thick wool carpets made everything seem rich and comfortable.

Turns out Al en liked his guys blond and blue-eyed, which I fit. But he also wanted them tal er, more muscular, and more mature. “It’s real y my fault,” he explained. “I should have been more specific with that woman on the phone. Mrs. Cherry, wasn’t it? A lovely lady, even if, as I suspect, she has a penis.

“Besides,” he continued, “you look like you’re what, sixteen?”

I do look a lot younger than I am. “I’m perfectly legal,” I assured him. I put my head down and regarded him through my bangs. “Are you sure,” I said, rubbing my finger along the rim of the wineglass from which I had been sipping “that I can’t interest you in anything? How about a massage?”

I had seen the wineglass trick used by my favorite actress ever, Barbra Streisand, in On a Clear Day, when she tries to seduce a handsome young man by rubbing her glass with her finger, then across her lips, and down to her bosom. I didn’t have the tits for that last gesture, but you have to work with what you got.

Apparently, the move was familiar to Al en, too.

“Did you by any chance get that affectation from a Barbra Streisand movie?” he asked me. “Nuts?”

Nuts, of course, was Barbra’s seminal film in which she plays a prostitute accused of murdering her john. She also played a hooker in For Pete’s Sake and the Owl and the Pussycat. Those movies, along with Pretty Woman, and about a hundred Falcon videos, were pretty much al the training I had for my job.

I was excited that Al en made a Barbra reference, even if he got the film wrong. I corrected him gently.

“That’s right,” Al en said, “you know, some people find her a little overbearing, but I think she’s marvelous.”

We started talking about our favorite Barbra scenes. Al en couldn’t believe I liked The Mirror Has Two Faces, but I could watch Babs in a fire dril. We went on for hours. It turned out that we both were huge movie fans.

And thus a friendship began. Al en tried to pay me for my time that night, but I refused to take his money. After al, we hadn’t fooled around, and I enjoyed the evening as much as he did.

Since then, we’d get together about once a month for dinner or a show. While he always insisted on picking up the check, I never let him pay me as an escort.

Hustlers need friends, too.

I even recommended Randy Bostinick to him.

Randy was another hustler Mrs. Cherry represented.

He looked like an older, bigger, butcher version of me, with a body that could only be shaped by back-breaking workouts, steroids, and the appetite-suppressing powers of crystal meth. Randy’s figure is flawless; his biceps are cantaloupes, only tastier, his tits rival Dol y Parton’s, and his abs are so defined they look like a topographical map of a place you’d need a Land Rover to navigate.

Once, Mrs. Cherry talked me into doing a boy/boy scene with Randy at a gay bachelor party (wel, now that we’re getting “married,” don’t we have the right to enjoy the same rites of debauchery as everyone else?), and I have to say that just touching his chest was an erotic highlight of my life. The chemistry between us was so hot that we both walked out of there with over a thousand dol ars in our hands. Now that’s what I cal a good night’s work.

Al en Harrington was an interesting man. A self-made mil ionaire in real estate, Al en was married for most of his adult life, with two sons to show for it. In middle age, while his children were stil young, Al en came out of the closet with a bang when he realized that he had spent the last five years in love with his best friend. They final y got together, and Al en realized that the love of another man was what he’d been longing for.

The friend died of cancer three years after Al en’s divorce became final.

In the process of his coming out, Al en’s wife came to despise him. So did his sons.

“Losing my boys is the greatest sorrow of my life,”

Al en confided over dinner at the Four Seasons. “I haven’t seen or spoken to them in years. When I did, they were ful of venom towards my ‘lifestyle.’ My older son, Michael, was particularly convinced that I had ‘chosen’ to be this way, and that I could change if I real y wanted to. He even offered to help me, whatever that meant. My younger one, Paul, wel, he was always a fol ower, and he just went along with Michael’s and my ex-wife’s bitterness.

“Not surprisingly, Paul married a girl whose bitchiness makes even my ex-wife’s seem minor league. It’s sad how children are doomed to repeat the mistakes of their parents, isn’t it?”

Al en figured he’d hear from the boys again when they started having children. “Grandchildren tend to bring families together,” he told me. “Plus, I don’t think they’l want to stay away from my inheritance forever. I’ve already told them they’re out of my wil until they come around.”

“Wel, they’re idiots to give up a great dad like you,” I told him. “I can’t believe your kids rejected you just because you’re gay.”

“Wel, even if I left their mother for another woman, I’m sure they would have had issues. But I don’t forgive them. I’m their father and to be honest, I raised them to have better manners than this.

“I’ve made many mistakes in my life,” Al en told me. “I let the expectations and prejudices of other people make me deny the best parts of me. That’s what’s so great about your generation. You don’t have to hide who you real y are.”

Not always, I thought. I told him about Tony, the great love of my life who left me because he was scared. Al en shook his head. “I guess some people wil always be afraid of happiness.” Al en sighed. He took my hands in his. “Promise me that wil never be you, Kevin. Promise me you’l be happy.”