Chapter Thirty-Eight
“He could have had the part, Rawson. It was his. I'll never understand some people.” Matt was astonished by Lucky's refusal accept a few suggestions, as he termed them, from the director.
“Never mind Lucky. What about you?”
“Of course I got the part. But Lucky just walked away. He'll get a reputation. No one will ever hire him. A simple request was too much.”
“How simple?”
“Simulate fucking Misha. S-I-M-U-L-A-T-E. There wasn't going to be any real sex. Everybody else did it.”
“Who was everybody else?”
“Me.”
Rawson wasn't happy to hear that. “You know, Matt, people think they're broadminded about things until they're faced with an actual event. Maybe Lucky doesn't care what Rex thinks. I can't say I'm thrilled that you're fucking Misha.”
“Simulate, Rawson, except I think Misha and his fireman friend actually did the deed. When I was leaving, Rex said he wanted to see if the high priest could chant while getting railed. Misha's a trooper. The only thing is - Rex needs to raise some more money for costumes.”
“Why doesn't he have you all naked and s-i-m-u-l-a-t-e costumes with lighting?” Rawson joked.
“Lighting … and maybe some body paint … interesting idea. It's been done in New York, of course; but never Washington ... that I know of.”
“Never Washington? Try any bar with pole dancers.”
“But that's not 'The Stage.' ” Matt was appalled. Rawson could hear the capitalized letters.
“A stage … a bar … not that different. Maybe Rex should shoot for more of a mass market venue.”
Matt was exasperated both by Lucky and Rawson's unanswerable comment; his upbeat mood was evaporating. Rawson's subtle criticism was more insidious than Mike's had been. “That guy is sick and obsessed.” was what Mike said; Rawson merely suggested Rex's ideas might work better in a different sort of production, something like pornography.
Matt returned to everyday matters. “Meanwhile, I need to find a job.”
“What about that job with Jeff Wolf? The book about politics and the theater?”
“I don't know much about politics,” Matt admitted.
“Again, he doesn't know much about theater. Yes, he knows about the playwrights, the writing craft, but not the mechanics of it, the business of staging.”
“Um … it sounds pretty serious … and I graduated BA magna cum nothing.”
“Matty, you're so much more than you think. You're smart and have a better education than you give yourself credit for. I've seen your margin notes on scripts. You can write and you're incisive. You know the subject matter and you could do it.”
“You think?” Matt did love a little praise; and a lot was even better.
“Confidence, Matt. Your looks aren't everything. I like you just as much in the dark. Want me to prove it?” Rawson asked, reaching for the light switch. They undressed and stood bathed in the moonlight coming in the broad front windows. Rawson held Matt in his arms and whispered, “Smart. Capable. Works hard.”
“Works while hard sometimes.” Matt's amendment matched his condition. He gave in to his feelings. Suddenly the glare of headlights swept across them as a vehicle turned in the driveway and stopped at the garage..
“I guess the driver got an eyeful,” Rawson commented still hugging Matt. “That's not Al's truck. I wonder who it is this late.”
Matt opened the door and listened. He heard the last of the transaction with the taxi driver. “It's Tom! Oh, shit. I wonder if he knows Al and Debbie are staying in his place.”
“He could stay with us,” Rawson proposed.
“Then we couldn't fuck … you know we get kind of noisy sometimes.”
“One night? We could do one night. Couldn't we?” However willing he was to let Tom stay in the dacha, Rawson was glad that Matt's first worry was that they couldn't make love. He pulled Matt close again and decided to let Tom and the girls figure out new sleeping arrangements by themselves.
“Tom, you have to watch this,” Al said after Tom agreed to spend the night on his own couch. “This is the funniest thing on the Internet. Ok, the girl is kinda hot, too.”
“Oh, Tin Doll,” Shelly rolled her eyes in broadly portrayed anticipation. “What are you going to do for me tonight?” She wore a filmy robe that only hid the details of her body; the main features were displayed to advantage. A voice off camera said, “Shirley, stick your tits out more.” The girl glared at the unseen speaker and said, “My fans are more than just tit-guys. They appreciate the whole package … don't you?” She held the robe open and looked for Tin Doll's reaction, which was wide eyes.
“So, Tin Doll, you're looking hot tonight. You and your little friend,” she continued as she ran a fingernail up and down the pouch of his jock strap. “All potatoes and no meat.”
“Tom, sit closer. You won't believe this. She makes such fun of his dick,” Debbie giggled.
“First, I want to get one thing clear,” Tyndall said, dropping any pretense at acting. “My little friend ain't that fuckin' little, ok? And tonight we're gonna prove that!”
“But sweetie, what's that gonna do for me?” Shelly asked, untying her robe for more attention. The camera zeroed in for close up. The unseen voice coached, “Shirley, more ladylike.” There was a visual jostling, the camera was unstable while Shelly said, “How in hell do you make a beaver shot lady-like?”
Tyndall ignored Shelly action, turned his back to the camera, and pulled the jock down. “Get me hard,” he ordered Shelly. The close up of Tyndall's ass was way too close.
While gurgling noises came from Shelly and a few sighs from Tyndall, Tom said, “I actually know both of them. He's a prof at AU and she used to work for me.”
The camera panned back and the long shot of Tyndall's ass continued. “Shirley, make more smacking noises,” came an urgent off-camera stage direction.
“Ow, sweetie,” Shelly cooed. “There it is.” She pulled back to admire the result of her oral overtime.
“Yes. There it is. And here's a ruler. Now watch this, all you freaks who keep calling me a three-incher.” He lay the ruler along the top of his dick, pressing it into his belly for added length. “Five fucking inches. FIVE!!!” There was a look of triumph on his face. “Almost ...” he qualified, when the close-up showed a different number on the scale.
“Four and a quarter, honey pie,” Shelly cooed. “It's my little bundle of fun. My little cockette.”
“We're doing straight fucking tonight,” Tyndall announced. He pushed Shelly back and rammed all four and a quarter into her. He was relentless and pounded with the full weight of his lower body. Shelly seemed to like it.
“Close up, Ma. Get the close up,” she moaned to the camera.
“Who's Ma?” Tom asked.
“Ooooow!” Shelly gasped as Ma maneuvered the camera between her legs.
“Her mother. Can you believe it?” Al asked.
“Tyndall, lift up,” Ma ordered, moving around to the front. “I want to get a shot of her clit.”
“You can't. It's too small.”
“Lift up,” demanded the unseen voice. “Her dick's as big as yours.”
Tyndall lifted up just as he began cuming. His dick snapped up as it came out of Shelly and shot semen at the camera, completely blurring the shot. Shelly, not wanting to be left out of things began moaning louder and louder that she was cuming, too.
The scene switched to a distant shot showing Ma unappealingly bent over trying to clean the lens of the portable camera. “So that's how that ended,” Shelly's narrative voice commented. “I got off. Tin Doll and his little man had fun. And Ma proved that a small dick is better than a fat ass.” Ma's voice could be heard, “Cut that part. I want that part cut. You hear me, Shirley?”
“So that's what you missed, hanging out in England. For less than the price of a movie, you get twenty to thirty minutes of hilarious sex. It's hard to call it porn. It's not a reality show; but it's reliable funny. Apparently tons of sympathetic guys watch it just to see how Tin Doll's little man does.”
“His name is Tyndall Arnstein,” Tom explained smiling. “Wait 'til Rory sees this. They are the ones who plotted to steal our system.”
The transatlantic passage wasn't as swift as the liner schedule advertised. One of the main engines was making trouble, leaking gallons of lube oil a minute at cruising speed. The captain reduced speed to twelve knots, which would delay their arrival in Ijmuiden by a day and a half. Ijmuiden was the huge port for Amsterdam and both Alex and Phil had been looking forward to seeing the city. The extra days at sea would be tedious in more ways than one.
“Do you realize it's been almost two weeks since we ...”
“Don't talk about it, Alex. You'll just make it worse.” Phil decided that his ten minutes with Boryslaw didn't really count to shorten the stretch without sex. He hated to think about it. Sex had come to mean much more to him than the brief satisfaction he derived from random mechanical couplings; their ache for each other was very much mutual.
They finished washing the evening's dishes and looked for the cook. “Druji? We're done. Druji? Are you here?” Phil called. The galley wasn't big enough for anyone to hide. Druji, as they called Andrzej, wasn't in the galley.
An unexpected movement of the ship caused Alex to bump into Phil. He reflexively grabbed Phil around the waist and then, equally reflexively kissed his neck. “Oh, Philly, I miss you so much.”
“Stop, Alex. Somebody could walk in. Tomasz said there are no secrets on a small ship.” Alex stopped and stood back. “I don't want you to stop. You know that. But Dimitri said no sex.”
“I'm supposed to be the one who worries about what Dimitri said. You are supposed to be the fuck-it-all American.” Alex was trying to flatten the front of his trousers. “Who is Tomasz?”
“My other roommate. His English is pretty good. I swear he knows everything that happens on this ship. He saw us kiss the other night. What he doesn't see, he guesses at.”
“I wonder if he knows anything about Russian art.”
“I can ask … indirectly, of course.”
Phil fought to stay awake that night, waiting for Tomasz to get off his evening watch. Shortly before midnight, Boryslaw went on watch and shortly after midnight Tomasz returned to the room.
“I'm getting the hang of things, Tomasz,” Phil began. “Today was the first day there were no surprises.”
“It comes. You get experience fast at sea. Why are you here, Phil? What made you decide to work on a ship?”
“Everybody's got a story, I guess. Mine is my band broke up, I owed some money and had no way to pay. Getting out of town and making a few zlotys fit my needs.”
“You owe a lot of money?”
“A lot for me. Musicians don't make that much unless the band is a smash. We weren't even a small hit. I figure four or five voyages might do it and I'll be able to go home with some money.”
Tomasz sympathised. He said he went to sea to get away from a huge family that got on his nerves. “She just kept having kids. Boom, boom, boom. All I had to do was look at her and, boom, another one. Noisy little fuckers. The engine room is quieter than my little house was.”
Phil tried to steer the conversation back onto something of interest. “So … is there any way to make extra money?” Phil hinted that he didn't care how he made money.
“You mean like getting Boryslaw to start paying for his privileges? There are a couple of other guys who might pay for somebody like you.”
“No, I not that. That business with Boryslaw - it's never happened again. I don't know what I could do, but I'd try anything that wasn't sex.”
“The traditional way is to lend money, but those guys are usually their own enforcers, and you aren't the type. You could try extra services for the passengers. Shining shoes and things. Those old guys who probably worked forty years in a steel mill like the idea of some kid sweating his ass off for them. They're good tippers, I hear.”
“Yeah, I'll try that. If you hear of anything else, keep me in mind. I'd like to go home someday. Need money to do it.” Phil got into his bunk. “I couldn't find Druji tonight. Have you seen him around?”
“Druji … no. I haven't. Sometimes there's a chess game in the ship's office. He could have been there.”
Tom spent three days doing performance audits in order to wrap up the Smithsonian contract. It was dull work, which was good, of course. Any excitement during these audits mean some scew-up had come to light and screw-ups generated profit-killing overtime to fix them. He was equally pleased to see that Gantry had the AU project under control. But after spending three nights sleeping on his couch, he was glad to be going to Alameda. By the time he would get back, the girls expected to be back in their own apartment.
Two Marks were on his California agenda. First, Mark the CEO congratulated him on getting them the English business. “We're going to give you the title 'Managing Director', Tom. Don't ask me what that means. It doesn't change your job any, but it sounds good, doesn't it? And an expensive consultant said it will impress the English. It comes with a raise, of course. And since you'll be gone at bonus time, I'll give you a secret preview of what you'll be getting.”
Mark the banker came next. “How many options?” was his first question. “My God, Tom. You have to get serious about this. You're talking about a lot of money. You'll have to sell some of your old stock to pay the taxes on the new options.”
Tom didn't want to get serious about money. He signed a management agreement with banker Mark's trust department and left the bank with a promise to see Mark at that night's lacrosse scrimmage. On his way to his motel, he pinched the back of his hand. It hurt. Millionaire's hands hurt just like poor people's hands.
He arrived at Rittler Park expecting to find all his old friends in their settled domestic situations, just as he left them. Rory and Tim, of course. Rory would have said if anything changed there. Eric and Z were a sure thing, too. Larry and Cal, almost as sure. But Darren and Nicky? He wasn't positive about that match. Seth? Andrew? I guess there will be some surprises, he decided.
“My God, you're a ghost!” Darren said, seeing Tom's English pallor. “You might as well live in the Sunset!”
Tom cringed at the thought of the Sunset District, that especially foggy, sun-less section of San Francisco. “You're supposed to notice my ruddy cheeks, not my white legs, Darren.”
“You remember Nicky?” Darren solved one puzzle. He and Nicky were plainly a couple. Without actually touching, their bodies blended together as they stood next to each other.
“Welcome home, Tom.” Heiko Wittelsbach, the Stanford student who had worked part-time for Tom, was looking impossibly handsome; he might be the only person in East Bay who could get away with wearing lederhosen shorts. The shorts were well worn, a little too short and a little too tight - fabulous, in other words.
“Is Daegan here?” Tom asked about Heiko's on-and-off friend/classmate/lover.
“No. He finished the year and decided to go to school in Ireland.”
“But you ...”
“... love Stanford. Without any distraction, I'm probably going to finish in three years.” Heiko saw the concern in Tom's eyes and answered with a huge grin. “Don't worry, Tom. Loveless doesn't mean sexless.” Heiko went to pick out a stick and Tom's gaze lingered on the attractive German.
“He's a walking ad for Bavaria, isn't he?” Z commented. “Rory is telling everybody you are practically running the company.”
“Z! Great to see you. Where's Eric?”
“The future doctor is across the Bay, at school. I get to see him awake and alert every third day or so.” Z didn't sound unhappy; Tom decided he was exaggerating.
Seth and Andrew came at Tom from two directions, knocking him down. “If we don't get up right now, I'm going get out of control.” Seth patted Tom's chest affectionately to make his point.
Tom looked at his two former lovers and recalled the good times he spend in their threesome. “I'm so glad to see you. What are you guys up to?” he asked.
“Oh … a little of this … a little of that … a little of him,” Andrew answered, winking broadly. Seth shrugged at the remark, indicating that Andrew's comment was more or less true. Their constant infidelity was matched only by their inability to leave each other alone.
“We still have your crystal ball, if you ever want it back.”
“If you like it, keep it,” Tom offered. “There's no morning sun in London, at least not where I'm going to live.” The three of them, when they lived together, had been regularly dazzled by the morning sun hitting Tom's crystal that hung and spun in the bedroom window.
When Andrew wandered off, Seth said, “I'll always keep it, unless you want it.” His smile said he remembered.
Play began and Tom was quick to discover he was out of shape. Did I really run my ass off here for an hour and a half every day? he wondered. He was winded after twenty minutes. He promised himself he would get more exercise in London.
Rory and Tim invited the gang back for dinner. Cal and Larry offered to carry Tom, who was still panting. “Not funny,” Tom said. “You see what the ravages of time can do. It's been a tough six months.”
The post-park dinner was unchanged. A lot of healthy food, a little to drink, and a little dessert just for the hell of it. They weren't in training for the Olympics, after all. Rory and Tim had bought two cakes at the Central Avenue open-air market; the cakes had five identifiable kinds of chocolate in them. One piece wasn't enough.
Heiko asked about the English contract. “Today England. Tomorrow the world. History will call you Tom the Hun. I wish I had your ability to sell.”
They talked for a while. Heiko was complimentary and engaging and so good looking. Either Tom had forgotten or Heiko improved a lot in six months.
“Heiko's amazing,” was Rory's input. “I hope we can keep him after he graduates. He's a real distraction, though.” Tom followed Rory's gaze and noticed Heiko was charming Cal, who was rarely flirty with anyone but Larry.
Tom returned to his motel near the airport feeling torn in at least two directions. His life in Alameda had been so close to perfect. All it lacked was somebody like Alfred. He would find somebody like Alfred, if he looked long enough – he knew that. But why look for somebody like Alfred? He already had the best possible Alfred in the world, one who loved him, and he lived only about fifty-five hundred miles away. In some contexts that distance is trivial; but, in practice, when you get into bed alone with a hard on, it's incalculable.
The nagging loose end in all Tom's thoughts was a signal; he wasn't even sure it was a signal. Maybe it had been more a temptation, more an unbelievable tease. Whatever it was, he had the feeling that Heiko was available. There was nothing explicit, but Tom knew Heiko didn't fool around unless he meant it. Could I be wrong? I guess; but I don't think so, Tom decided.
Alfred tossed in his own motel bed. It was too small and slightly uncomfortable, plus he was alone. They were in Petersborough, on loan to a local firm that needed temporary staff to audit a large client. The work was pure drudgery, auditing receivables and expenses. Alfred had volunteered to go; as the junior clerk, he would have been sent anyway. It was a long day and it was a relief to finally break and go for dinner. George felt the same way.
“Here's to us,” George said, raising his glass. “The two most miserable clerks in Peterborough.”
“I'm not miserable. Just tired.” Alfred looked at the amber liquid. “This stuff tastes great,”
“Alfred, once again, I'm so sorry ...”
“George, forget it. No apology is necessary. Huxley was just having fun.”
“So mortifying, though.”
“But, if you think of it, it did built a team. I'm not in awe of you anymore and I think we work better together because of it. You got embarrassed. I got embarrassed. We're even.”
“How did you get embarrassed? You weren't standing around with your willie at attention.”
“But Huxley had me wipe you down. He knew I'd be bothered by being the cause of your … discomfort. It felt like I was caught playing with you.”
George signaled for more drinks and said, “I hadn't thought of it that way … you playing with me.” Neither had Alfred until a moment ago, but he kept quiet on that point. “It really is like you were playing with me.” George went over the idea in his mind.
They began talking about the job at hard. “I figure we have two more days of this, minimum,” George said.
They had more to drink than to eat and returned to their room feeling tiddly. Undressing together, George commented on his flaccid state. Alfred joked about wiping his back and George got into bed quickly to hide his sudden arousal. They pretended nothing had happened.
The next night ended differently. While Alfred was in the bathroom, George turned out the lights and lay on his bed. Alfred came into the darkened room and groped for his bed. George grabbed his wrist and wouldn't let go. Nothing was said, but George held on with an iron fist and pulled Alfred onto his bed.
George was completely naked, lying face down. It was so easy. George had prepared himself. Alfred fucked him. Alfred felt him tense slightly when he first penetrated, but then he relaxed and spread his legs more. George remained motionless and silent as Alfred pushed deeper. There was a tiny gasp when Alfred pushed; otherwise he was as still as a statue as the fuck continued.
This was so different, Alfred thought. Tom has a tight little ass and George is beefier, more yielding. It was a completely different feel; but maybe it could be improved. “Arch your back,” he said and George complied, pushing his butt upward. That worked; Alfred could penetrate more deeply. It worked for George too; he gasped loudly when Alfred pushed deeper. Alfred thrust repeatedly, he felt George gradually opening up, yielding more, his gripping hole loosened slightly in an arousing way. It didn't take long for the climax. Alfred moved to his own bed when it was over and then listened as George beat off.
George grew noisier as he stroked. There was a pause while George applied some lube to his cock then the stroking resumed. Alfred could hear every stroke as George speeded up. Then a deep breath, a sigh, a quick exhale, a gasp, and a pause. Soon, going slower, George resumed, prolonging his pleasure.
Alfred crossed to George's bed and lay alongside him. He put his hand on George's thigh and felt the tension. He slid his hand along the taut muscle until he found George's balls, tight and pulled up close to his body. Alfred's touch was the trigger. George erupted. His body heaved but aside from the heavy breathing as he thrust into his fist, he said nothing. He still said nothing as Alfred returned to his bed and there was an uneasy silence in the morning. Alfred's attempt to bring up the night before was rebuffed. George immediately turned the talk to work.
The following night was a wordless repeat. When Alfred fucked him, he grabbed George and gripped the larger man by the shoulders for better leverage. George for the first time responded; he sucked on the fingers of Alfred's hand as if they were cocks. There was still no conversation or other outward sign of affection. Just the sex. Raw satisfying sex. Alfred felt as relaxed as a sleepy cat when it was over. He tried to roll George over and jack him off, but that was unnecessary. The sheet under George was wet and smelled of semen. George had fucked the bed while Alfred was fucking him.
In the morning the two finished their examination and went over their findings with the audit manager. “The expenses, with rare and minor exceptions, clerical errors no doubt, are all documented and seem proper,” George summarized.
“Did you find anything else? Any anomaly, documented or not, that just didn't feel right?” the manager asked.
“There is an oddity in the third week of the month. The expense for travel is two to three hundred pounds higher than in other weeks. I couldn't find any reason for it, based on number of trips or places visited. Every listed expense was just a little higher in the third week. Every month,” Alfred reported.
On the bus back to Norwich Alfred read a book and George watched the scenery roll by. Shortly before they arrived, George had a statement and a question. He sounded nervous. “There's an bank audit in Ipswich next week. Want to volunteer with me?”
Something in the way George said “with me” reminded Alfred of Tom. He felt remorse, more guilt than he had ever felt before when he told George, yes, that he would go to Ipswich with him.
Al was bothered again by Debbie's restlessness. Sleep was becoming harder as Debbie grew larger. “I'm sorry. I just don't know where to put my stomach. This baby makes every position a pain,” Debbie whined.
Just wait, Al told herself. Just wait. Four more months. A hundred and twenty days. Two thousand eight hundred and eighty hours … Ah, fuck the minutes. Just wait. It'll be over. And then what? Midnight feedings. Diapers. Lots of diapers. Sore breasts. Stitched-up pussy. God! Is this the right thing for a basically selfish dyke to be doing?
She got up and went to the kitchen. She noticed that Debbie seemed to relax when she got out of the bed. It's over, I guess. The baby will suck up every ounce of energy Debbie has. It's over. I wonder if she'll breast-feed. There is so much we haven't talked about. I'm a disgrace to lesbians keeping all this to myself; I'll have to talk to Debbie. She considered waking Debbie, but gave up that idea. It can wait. I just don't know if I can do all that work without a little compensation. Our love life is probably over. I've heard other mothers say that. Shit! What to do? I don't really want to quit … to leave. I …
She thought of two dozen possibilities and then had a radically different idea, an intriguing idea, an astonishing vision. Could I? she wondered. Is it fair? Would I dare? Alternatives began vanishing one by one. The idea became compelling and it was so wrong. So wrong in several ways. Unfair to Debbie and unfair to the baby especially. But people have done dumber things, she rationalized. A world population of six billion proved that. There were easily five billion dumber things running around on two legs. The idea appealed to her more and more.
“I'm getting pregnant, too!” Once she made her decision, one practicality emerged. What an interesting problem, she thought.
Should I get Rawson to be the father? Or Lucky? Rawson would be so responsible … I'd never have to worry. But Lucky … what a great set of genes to inherit. Not that Rawson is any slouch … I bet Lucky has a bigger dick … But initially he showed such asshole tendencies … Rawson the Republican … that's a downer, but he isn't, not really … Rawson the reasonable … Rawson the thinker … Lucky the artist … Lucky the lover … he is so good to Mike … Syringe or natural, like Debbie … God, she pissed me off - fucking Mike … I could tell she liked it … Shit, I'm soaking my panties … I'll fuck 'em both … that's what I'll do … and tell each one I told the other one he's the father … but you're the real father … don't say anything … Oh, Jeez … I haven't been fucked in soooo long … not by a guy … maybe a syringe would be better … I'm gonna be a motherfucker, literally …
“Ouch!” Al's finger had gone in too deeply, interrupting her reverie. Gotta trim my nails, she thought. I'll give the baby brain damage.
I, uhm, am flattered, I guess... 
.
