Second You Sin by Scott Sherman Page A

I said. “I’ve never had sex in a bar, or in a park or a bathroom or, for that matter, on the subway. Half the time, I can’t even get a seat on the subway, let alone . . . oh, never mind.” I was hoping she missed that I didn’t deny the beach.
    “Darling, it’s the lifestyle. I understand these things.
    You forget your mother is a very sophisticated woman.”
    “Just because I’m gay doesn’t mean I’m . . . easy,” I pointed out petulantly.
    “I’m not accusing you of anything.” My mother attempted to be conciliatory. “There’s nothing wrong with a little kink. Once, on the Long Island ferry, your father and I snuck into the . . .”
    I hung up the phone, counted to ten, got a pen, and cal ed her back. “Sorry, I hit the wrong button with my chin.”
    “That’s al right, darling. I was just going to tel you about the time your father and I . . .” I hit the phone with the pen. It made a satisfying clack.
    “Damn,” I said. “That’s Tony on the other line. I have to take this.”
    “How is that handsome Tony?” my mother asked.
    Ever since she caught sight of him bare-assed a few months ago, I think my mother has had a bit of a crush on Tony. “Are you two stil . . . ?” I hit the phone again. Clack! “Sorry, I real y do have to get this, Mom. See you Tuesday.”
    “OK,” my mother shouted. “Be there at noon! Bring Tony!”
    I hung up and said a silent prayer for Yvonne, for whom I suddenly felt a great rush of sympathy.

    Now that Tony was gone, I wasn’t sure what to do with my evening. There was laundry to be done, and bil s to be paid, but my mind kept returning to Randy, lying in his hospital bed, alone. I didn’t know if he had any family or real friends. The only person I could think of we were both close to was Mrs. Cherry, the slightly demented but charming drag queen who ran our escort service.
    Mrs. Cherry! I had to tel her. She picked up the phone on the first ring.
    “My favorite boy,” she greeted me. “To what do I owe the great—no, the orgasmic pleasure—of this cal ?”
    I told her what happened to Randy.
    “Oh my dear,” Mrs. Cherry said when I was done.
    “The poor, poor lamb. I must cal his clients and cancel their appointments. Would you be interested in perhaps picking up some extra work? Oh, wait, that won’t do, wil it?”
    Randy was the imposing muscle stud of legend; I was the cute boy-next-door type. We didn’t share the same clientele. “Probably not,” I agreed.
    Mrs. Cherry asked me the name of Randy’s hospital and doctors.
    “Don’t you worry,” she told me. “I’l make sure that Randy has everything he needs. Momma wil take care of the bil s.”
    Mrs. Cherry always looked out for her boys, which is one of the reasons many of the city’s top hustlers worked with her.
    I gave Mrs. Cherry al the information I had.
    “You’re such a dear,” she said. “Now don’t forget, tomorrow afternoon, you have that client from West Eighty-second Street. That very nice, very rich one.” In Mrs. Cherry’s eyes, I knew the two qualities were synonymous.
    I told her I’d be there.
    “You’re perfection!” she exclaimed.
    I ordered in Chinese food and channel surfed until I found What’s Up, Doc? I watched the movie, ate my steamed chicken, and tried not to worry about Randy.

    8

    Send in the Clowns

    The next morning, the phone awakened me at 6:30, which pissed me off until I saw who was cal ing. I hit
    “talk.”
    “Hey,” I said sleepily. “What’s up?”
    “You stil in bed?” Tony asked leeringly. “Nice picture in my head right now.”
    I sat up. “You’re pretty chipper for a guy who just woke up.”
    “Never went to bed,” Tony answered. “At the station al night. Driving home now to crash for a few hours.”
    He sounded tired.
    “You should have stopped off here,” I told him.
    “Then I wouldn’t be getting any sleep, would I?” I had to admit that was true.
    “Anyway, I just cal ed to say I was sorry I had to run