Scott Sherman - First You Fall

“OK,” I said. Wel, at least I’d have some time off.

“And, darling, I hate to be indelicate, but you have to know that you can’t be in the business I’m in without dealing with some, let’s just say, questionable partners. Now, it’s nothing you need to know about, but rest assured that I will be fol owing up with Mr. Foley.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I’l cal you when I’m presentable again.”

I had some time to kil, and a lot of nervous energy to burn off, so I decided to walk for awhile before hailing a cab home.

I supposed I was lucky that after a few years of hustling, this was the worst I had to show for it. But maybe it was a sign. With the money from Al en’s wil, I didn’t have to do this anymore. I could go back to school and live off his bequest until I graduated.

Besides, I thought, I didn’t think Tony would approve.

But then again, who was he to judge? He was married, for Christ’s sake. If I could overlook that, surely, he could accept my job.

Tony. I’d be seeing him again in less than an hour.

My body flushed with pleasure and I got a stupid grin on my face.

And, in the pit of my stomach, the wonderful/terrible squishy feeling that meant I was in deep.

But something stil bothered me. Albert Foley.

Why did that name seem so familiar? I had a feeling that it was important I remembered.

I thought about the names I had heard or said recently. Had I read it somewhere? Saw it on television? Was it someone I met?

Focus, Kevin, focus.

Then, it came to me.

It was a name I read to Marc Wilgus..

I pul ed the list Tony gave me from my wal et.

There it was: Albert Foley.

He committed suicide two weeks ago.

Suddenly, I didn’t feel very safe at al anymore.

The squishy feeling in my stomach was replaced by the dul ache of anxiety.

Assuming Albert hadn’t resurrected himself to bash me, someone was setting me up. Someone who felt free to use Albert’s name, which meant he probably knew Albert was dead. He used Al en’s name, too.

Was there a connection after al?

But who would want to see me hurt… or worse?

Was it Michael Harrington? The guy in the hotel room looked to be about his size, but it al happened so fast, it was hard to say.

Michael knew I had gone by his business to snoop him out. He seemed like he wanted to hurt me the other night. Plus, he real y hated gay people.

But he didn’t seem like the type to wear a slave mask.

Then there was the younger brother, Paul. What was it Freddy said?

“Sometimes, people with secrets are wil ing to kil to protect them.”

Would Paul kil to keep his secret safe? It seemed suspiciously coincidental that I had just seen him at a sex club last night.

Of course, I didn’t know that the guy in the hotel room wanted to kil me. He might have just been sending me a message: Back off.

As if.

Everything had gone down so quickly I couldn’t tel if the guy was closer in size to Michael or Paul. Or it could have been neither of them. Maybe it was someone they hired to rough me up. Maybe like Mrs.

Cherry, the Harrington brothers knew some

“questionable” people.

How come everyone seemed to have criminal friends except for me?

Then I realized that, given my profession, I was a criminal.

I real y needed to rethink my life. Which, given the fact that I just chased off a knife-wielding assailant, wasn’t looking too long.

It might be time to get some help.

When I arrived at my building, Tony was once again standing outside. He looked so good that I forgot how bad I must have looked, until I saw his look of concern.

“What happened?” he asked, reaching out to gently touch my swol en cheek. “Are you OK?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “It’s a long story.”

“Did you get mugged? Did you cal it in?”

“No and no. Come upstairs and I’l tel you.”

As soon as we got into my apartment, I gave Tony a nice, long kiss. He tried to push me away.

“Kevin, I’m serious. Tel me what happened. What can I do?”

“Two more minutes of this, just to flush the bad stuff away,” I said. “Then, I’l tel you everything.”

After a while, I felt his body start to respond. His breathing quickened, his hands moved down to my ass, cupping, kneading. Then he pushed me away again.

“That’s it,” he said sternly. “Sit. Talk.”

So I did.

I wanted Tony to reach his own conclusions, so I started with the visit Freddy and I paid to Michael Harrington at The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy. Then I told him about running into Paul at Sexbar.

“So, you hurt your cheek when the wal fel down?”

Paul asked, pul ing me closer on the couch to him.

“Poor baby.” He kissed my neck. I cuddled closer.

Then he smacked me on the head. “But what are you playing at? I told you, al the evidence points towards your friend’s death being a suicide. Putting yourself in front of Michael like that was dangerous.”

“If he didn’t have anything to do with Al en’s death,” I asked, “why was it dangerous?”

“Because he sounds crazy,” Tony said. “They al do!”

“That’s my point exactly. With that many nuts running around, one of them’s bound to be a kil er.”

“This is New York City!” Tony yel ed. “Half the fucking population belongs in a straightjacket.”

“There’s more,” I said.

“What more could there be?”

“I think someone might be trying to kil me.”

“You haven’t told me everything, have you?”

“Not yet.” I sat up. “Here comes the hard part.”

Well, I thought, an hour later, sitting alone in my apartment, that could have gone better.

There was no way to explain what had happened this morning without tel ing Tony why I had gone to that hotel room. Which meant I had to tel him how I made a living. So, I started with that.

“I don’t understand,” Tony said. “What do you mean you ‘hustle?’ You mean drugs?” He looked appal ed.

“No,” I said, “of course not! I mean, I date guys for money.”

“You’re a prossy?”

“Not exactly. More like an escort.”

Tony stood up from the couch where we both had been sitting. “Let me get this straight. You have sex with guys for money?”

“I wouldn’t cal it sex. It’s fooling around. It’s nothing. One guy likes to spank me.” I watched the color drain from Tony’s face. “But very, very gently.

Another just wants to measure my inseam. Then there’s the guy who wants me to wrap him up in cel ophane and…”

“Wait!” Tony put his hand up. “I have to sit down.”

He plopped down on the couch again.

“You mean, you never have sex with these guys?”

“Wel, maybe sometimes, but it’s not real y ‘sex.’

It’s just business.”

Tony’s eyes narrowed. “I can’t believe I was starting to… what happened to you?”

“Nothing ‘happened,’” I said. “I found out that I could get five hundred dol ars for squeezing some guy’s crotch in a fancy restaurant. Plus, I get a nice dinner! I told you, it’s no big deal!”

“I just…” Tony was at a loss for words. He put his head in his hands.

I slid over and put an arm around him. “It doesn’t mean anything. It has nothing to do with this. With you.”

Tony pushed me away, angrily. “Don’t touch me!”

“Tony…”

“No, I’m serious; I can’t believe you’re a prostitute!

I arrest people like you!”

Now he was pissing me off. OK, maybe I had an unconventional line of work, but no one got hurt. Wel, not until today.

“And I get paid by people like you!” I answered.