Read Online Monkey Suits by Jim Provenzano - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jim Provenzano
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Nintendo. He got a job at Tower Records, late shift.
Following his escort days, Brian went through a period of straight boy obsessions and quite a few journeys into the sex clubs on the West Side. He’d missed the power of his whoring days, and to compensate, he’d simply get drunk after work, go to J’s or the Cellblock. It was at one of these late night encounters where he met Marcos Tierra. That night, or morning, rather, in Marcos’ bed (once again familiarizing himself with horizontal sex), Brian charmed Marcos into getting him an interview with Fabulous Food later that week, months ahead of the next training session.
“Do you have a tuxedo?” Philipe had asked.
“Yes,” he had lied.
Brian spent a hundred fifty dollars of his escort money on a good used tux at the Antique Boutique and another forty on a stylishly Aryan haircut. A week later he was booked for an intimate affair at Sotheby’s.
An Austrian jeweled dish: $30,000. Brancusi sculpture: $140,000. The piece of the evening, a Degas etching, sold for $300,000 to a Japanese investment corporation. Most of the high rollers weren’t seen. A phalanx of tense suited men walked back and forth from a bank of telephones.
After the auction, the small reception overwhelmed Brian. People loomed over him, holding drinks and looking down as he stuttered to name the hors’ d’oeuvres. Twice he nearly tripped as large men barreled past him. They seemed to exude an air of dominance and assurance. Some of them, while not obese, seemed to burst with the power and wealth he had occasionally touched as an escort. Yet now their power seemed remote, contained in their bodies. He remembered a Creepy comic book from his youth, where a man on a desert island, while walking and talking, was actually quite dead, only animated by spiders, which burst from his corpse, spilling out of the rotting mouth, ears and eyes. He imagined some of these people vomiting gold coins and chains, as if the wealth coursed through their portly bodies.
It was after that first party that he’d met Ritchie, who mentioned he was looking for a new roommate in his loft. Looking up at the half naked man, his curly hair and smooth chest striking in the crowded back room, Brian couldn’t resist. Less rent, more space and living with a guy this cute? He couldn’t say no, even if it was in Brooklyn.
Although Ritchie turned out to be straight, he felt a bond with the guy, even after their drunken coupling that proved both Brian’s persistence and Ritchie’s quick return to heterosexuality.
Brian dove into catering headlong, teasing the bookers over the phone in flirtatious tones he’d polished from his escort days. Still, it wasn’t enough, especially through the summer. He livd bumped around a few odd jobs, until, on a desperate night, looking for an older man who might buy him dinner, he walked into Christopher’s, a dark bar and restaurant on Christopher Street. An older man bought him a drink within minutes, listened to his tale of economic woe and offered him a job. He was the manager.
The Christopher’s job lasted a while, and so did Lee, whom he met there. Things got too sticky for Brian, and then Ed moved in with he and Ritchie. Brian felt free of his damaging passion, and almost forgot his less than legal days.
Until Tony called.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your ex-roommate gave it to me.”
“But I–”
“Not to worry. I am always discreet,” Tony soothed. “I have a very special client for you. He has very unusual needs.”
“I gave it up, Tony. I don’t need it anymore.”
“He can pay six hundred.”
“What is it, S and M?”
“Nothing like that. But it is a bit elaborate. You have to sign a contract of confidentiality.”
“Huh?”
“He’s rather well-known, and must maintain his, um, private life.”
“Must be loaded.”
“Quite. Like I said, four hundred. Cash.”
“Tasty.”
“It’s also a bit
Following his escort days, Brian went through a period of straight boy obsessions and quite a few journeys into the sex clubs on the West Side. He’d missed the power of his whoring days, and to compensate, he’d simply get drunk after work, go to J’s or the Cellblock. It was at one of these late night encounters where he met Marcos Tierra. That night, or morning, rather, in Marcos’ bed (once again familiarizing himself with horizontal sex), Brian charmed Marcos into getting him an interview with Fabulous Food later that week, months ahead of the next training session.
“Do you have a tuxedo?” Philipe had asked.
“Yes,” he had lied.
Brian spent a hundred fifty dollars of his escort money on a good used tux at the Antique Boutique and another forty on a stylishly Aryan haircut. A week later he was booked for an intimate affair at Sotheby’s.
An Austrian jeweled dish: $30,000. Brancusi sculpture: $140,000. The piece of the evening, a Degas etching, sold for $300,000 to a Japanese investment corporation. Most of the high rollers weren’t seen. A phalanx of tense suited men walked back and forth from a bank of telephones.
After the auction, the small reception overwhelmed Brian. People loomed over him, holding drinks and looking down as he stuttered to name the hors’ d’oeuvres. Twice he nearly tripped as large men barreled past him. They seemed to exude an air of dominance and assurance. Some of them, while not obese, seemed to burst with the power and wealth he had occasionally touched as an escort. Yet now their power seemed remote, contained in their bodies. He remembered a Creepy comic book from his youth, where a man on a desert island, while walking and talking, was actually quite dead, only animated by spiders, which burst from his corpse, spilling out of the rotting mouth, ears and eyes. He imagined some of these people vomiting gold coins and chains, as if the wealth coursed through their portly bodies.
It was after that first party that he’d met Ritchie, who mentioned he was looking for a new roommate in his loft. Looking up at the half naked man, his curly hair and smooth chest striking in the crowded back room, Brian couldn’t resist. Less rent, more space and living with a guy this cute? He couldn’t say no, even if it was in Brooklyn.
Although Ritchie turned out to be straight, he felt a bond with the guy, even after their drunken coupling that proved both Brian’s persistence and Ritchie’s quick return to heterosexuality.
Brian dove into catering headlong, teasing the bookers over the phone in flirtatious tones he’d polished from his escort days. Still, it wasn’t enough, especially through the summer. He livd bumped around a few odd jobs, until, on a desperate night, looking for an older man who might buy him dinner, he walked into Christopher’s, a dark bar and restaurant on Christopher Street. An older man bought him a drink within minutes, listened to his tale of economic woe and offered him a job. He was the manager.
The Christopher’s job lasted a while, and so did Lee, whom he met there. Things got too sticky for Brian, and then Ed moved in with he and Ritchie. Brian felt free of his damaging passion, and almost forgot his less than legal days.
Until Tony called.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your ex-roommate gave it to me.”
“But I–”
“Not to worry. I am always discreet,” Tony soothed. “I have a very special client for you. He has very unusual needs.”
“I gave it up, Tony. I don’t need it anymore.”
“He can pay six hundred.”
“What is it, S and M?”
“Nothing like that. But it is a bit elaborate. You have to sign a contract of confidentiality.”
“Huh?”
“He’s rather well-known, and must maintain his, um, private life.”
“Must be loaded.”
“Quite. Like I said, four hundred. Cash.”
“Tasty.”
“It’s also a bit
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