Scott Sherman: First You Fall

“That was teenage experimentation, Kevin.”

“And I fucked you.”

“Yeah, wel you’d have to cal that part a failed experiment, wouldn’t you?”

I had to grant him that one.

“You told me you loved me.”

“That was my dick talking.”

Now, Tony was the one who was lying.

“Wel,” I said, “dumb me, huh? Cause I sure loved you.”

“I know,” Tony said. He came over to the couch, sat next to me. Looked me in the eyes. “And I’m sorry. I knew that you had feelings, and I used you.

And I… cared about you, too. Very much.

“But, I didn’t want to be… that way,” Tony continued. “And, I blame myself. I was older than you.

I shouldn’t have let it happen.”

I felt tears in my eyes again, bit my tongue hard.

Tony waited for me to say something, but what could I say?

“I shouldn’t have come here,” Tony said. His eyes looked even darker than when he arrived. When did he get so sad?

He stood up. “But I just wanted you to know I was sorry for hurting you. I also wanted to let you know I was sorry about your friend kil ing himself. And I thought that maybe we could be friends. But we can’t be more than that, not again. I’m not gay.”

Tony walked to the door.

He looked at me one more time, waiting for me to do something. But what? Was I supposed to run after him? Beg him to stay? Throw myself at him?

Forgive him? Say good-bye?

I kind of wanted to do at least four of those things.

But I knew I’d be making a mistake. So I did nothing.

He opened the door.

“Tony.”

He turned around.

I walked towards him. Damn he smel ed good.

I ran my hand through my hair and licked my lower lip. “You’re wrong.”

An expression that could have been anything from desire to annoyance flashed across Tony’s face.

“Kevin, I told you, I’m married.”

“No,” I said flatly. “Not about that. About Al en. He didn’t kil himself. Come back in, and I’l tel you about the man whose murder you should be investigating.”

So, for the next thirty minutes, I told Tony about Al en.

I told him how happy Al en was and how optimistic he had been about the future. I told him of Al en’s many important roles in the community, his involvement with nonprofit groups, and of his deep and abiding friendships. I told him of Al en’s estrangement from his family, but his hope that his kids would eventual y come around. I told him I couldn’t think of anyone less likely to leap off a balcony than Al en Harrington.

Tony listened intently, leaning forward, occasional y asking relevant questions and taking notes. I could see what a good cop he must be.

I was only occasional y sidetracked by the sensual arc of his neck, his sexy way-past 5:00 shadow, his silky hair.

After I shared everything I knew, Tony sat back in his chair.

“He sounds like a great guy.”

“He is,” I said. “Was.”

“I wanted to hear everything you had to say so that you would know that I’m taking you seriously. But now, you need to listen.”

Tony leaned forward again. Close enough so that I could smel the beer on his breath. I tried not to be distracted by the way his lips moved.

“There were no signs of forced entry, and no signs of a struggle. The doorman said he didn’t see anyone suspicious entering or leaving. Everything points to a suicide.”

“Was there a note?”

“No, but those are a lot less common than the movies would have you think.”

“I just don’t believe he could have kil ed himself.”

“It’s what I know for now,” Tony said. “But come by my office in a day or two and we can talk again.” He stood up and handed me his card.

“Listen,” he asked, “was Al en expecting you tonight?”

“No, I was just dropping something off.”

“Wel, he was expecting someone. He had an open bottle of wine out, and two glasses.

Untouched.”

Tony walked to the door.

“Kevin, I’m sorry if I upset you. Thanks for letting me come by. It was, um, good to see you.”

I joined Tony at the door to let him out. But first, an experiment. I stood close to him. Too close. The top of my head was at his chin.

He didn’t step away. I could feel the heat coming off his chest, his breath on my face.

His breath was coming faster now.

Was he remembering how our bodies fit so wel together? How hot it had been?

I looked up at him.

“Kevin,” he said, a little hoarsely. “I can’t do this.”

I make my living by knowing men’s desires. I could read the hundred subtle little signs that said he wanted me.

Plus, he had a hard-on.

“Do what?” I leaned in a little closer and stood up on my toes. “This?” I brought my lips closer to his.

“Please…” he said, a starving man refusing a meal. “I told you, I can’t.”

I got closer, my lips a mil imeter away from his. He didn’t back away.

But I did.

“OK, then,” I said, extending my hand. I gave him my butchest handshake. “Thanks for coming by.”

Tony stepped backward and I slammed the door.

Fuck you, Tony Rinaldi. If I never see you again, it wil be too soon. I hope your dick fal s off.

After Tony left, the waterworks started again. This time, the feelings were mixed: sadness, anger, frustration, fear.

It had been a long time since I cried. Now, twice in one night. This was not good. This was not me.

I looked at my watch. Midnight. Stil enough time to meet Freddy at the club. I traded my T-shirt for a tank that said “Twinkie” on the front and “Fil ed with creamy goodness” on the back.

No time for subtlety. I was going out to get laid.

I hooked my earbuds into my iPhone, put on my favorite podcast, the funny and fabulous Feast of Fools, and walked the ten blocks to Blow, the la test club to open in my neighborhood of Chelsea. It has a large bar area, a smal er dance floor, and an even smal er back room.

I found Freddy exactly where I expected to, dancing alone, eyes closed. I also found the usual gaggle of guys watching him, some surreptitiously, some goggle-eyed.

Freddy was quite the sight. Five foot ten inches of hip-shaking goodness. Thickly muscled but not over built, with a classical y handsome face. Broad nose, wide lips, and a supermodel smile. Freddy’s ass was the stuff of legends. And he could move it like nobody’s business: Watching Freddy dance could bring a dead man to erection.

Freddy is the twenty-six-year-old African-

American adopted son of a nice Jewish couple from Cleveland, OH. Raised rich, liberal, and white, he’s a strange mix of contradictions and common sense.

Butch and campy, Semitic and street, wel — read and foul-mouthed, Freddy never ceases to surprise me.

He’s also endearingly sweet, terrifical y loyal, and blessedly nonjudgmental.

Tonight, he was wearing black jeans that could have been painted on, and a white T-shirt tight enough to show the nipple rings underneath.

When I was a freshman at New York University, Freddy was student president of the school’s Gay/Straight Al iance. We had a brief fling, but, as it turned out, Freddy had a brief fling with pretty much everyone. Freddy was the guy everyone wanted, and, if they were passably attractive, could get.

I, on the other hand, haven’t slept around that much. Wel, not if you didn’t count the guys who paid for it. Freddy couldn’t understand my choice of profession, but I couldn’t understand his uncompensated promiscuity. So we made a perfect mismatch. Al wrong as lovers, but perfect as best friends.

I watched the guys watching Freddy for a few minutes before I joined him on the dance floor. “Hey, baby,” I said, grabbing his backside. “You got a license to drive that thing?”