Monkey Suits by Jim Provenzano Page B

nervous attempts to dial all seven digits, he reached a soft deep voice that coaxed out his name and falsified experience, and that he only lacked size. Perhaps the gym hopping had come in handy. He arranged a meeting with the voice, whose name was Tony.

    After two hours pec-pumping at Better Bodies the next day, Brian’s head floated on visions of well-dressed gentlemen wining and dining him in a black and white ’30s night spot. His pretty yet uninformed visions soon disappeared after meeting Tony.

    Admitted into a West 81st Street condo by a seven-foot Jamaican doorman in full coat uniform, Brian was announced and led up to an elevator, which was blanketed to protect the walls while someone moved in. The cubicle resembled a padded cell.

    A short swarthy man who looked like he should be selling pizza on Bleecker Street, if not for the diamond pinkie ring, opened his apartment door as Brian stepped into the twentieth floor hallway.

    “You didn’t brag on the phone.”

    Brian blushed.

    “Come in. Sit down. Have a drink. I won’t be a minute.”

    The windowed view of upper Broadway glistened through the floor-to-ceiling window. A single black leather sofa, glass table and two chairs, and nearby brightly-lit kitchen impressed Brian, stirring his craving for such discreet opulence, although it felt a bit cold.

    While Tony talked on one of two telephones, Brian sat patiently at the other end of the glass table, sipping a soda. The acrid smell of freshly laid carpet filled the room.

    Tony hung up. “Sorry about that. So, why do you want to be an escort?” His dark eyes glowed like a leopard at midnight.

    “Uh, well, I’m an actor. I mean, I wanna be an actor ... an’ I wanna get different experiences.”

    “Well, you may get plenty of experience with different kinds of people. All our clients are very nice gentlemen, very respectable. We have a lot of regular clients.” Tony’s voice was oddly soothing. He proved to be very businesslike, providing suggestions, a package of Trojans, and a small bundle of credit card slips.

    “Do I have to take one of those department store things?”

    Tony smiled. “Oh no, just rub it with a pen. Let me show you.” The escort business proved not to be nearly as glamorous or creative as expected.

    “A rubdown is eighty. You are nude and you massage him and get him off manually, if he likes. Full escort service at one-fifty goes further. It’s always your discretion as to how safe you wanna stay. Most of my clients’ tastes are pretty vanilla. They’re probably just gonna suck you a bit and get the same. Maybe later, we’ll let you do some of the more ... creative assignments. But remember, it’s always up to you. Just be your own pretty self and they’ll feel like they’re getting their money’s worth.”

    “Okay.” Brian glowed with naivete.

    “So, do you wanna use your real name?” Tony sipped his club soda. He leaned his round, beard-stubbled face over the glass table. The phone rang.

    “You mean ... ?”

    “Most of the guys use a different name. Makes things a bit more objective. A nom de plume, as it were.” The other phone rang, a different tone. “Hold on,” Tony purred. “Metropolitan Man, please hold. Campus Man, how may I help you?”

    While he chatted on the phone, Brian reeled through a list of film stars, high school crushes and quick lays. He needed a name that was sexy yet butch. Tony finished his phone conversation and returned his gaze to Brian. “So?”

    “Uh, Mel?”

    “Too trendy. They’ll expect an Australian accent.” Tony slurped his soda, poured an ice cube into his mouth and crunched it out of existence. Brian felt a shiver.

    “Uh, Troy?”

    “We’ve got one.”

    “Chip?” Brian glanced down at the glass table. Two rings of water from his glass overlapped to form a wet infinity symbol. He noticed his own fingerprints and wondered about the possibility of being arrested. Rent boys, a gay friend from London