Monkey Suits (22 page)

“Oh, Lord,” Ed pulled away. Overcome with simultaneous revulsion and hysterical laughter, they raced back into the theatrical safety of the tent.

As Marcos settled in to his apartment on Horatio, he looked over the small pile of club invites. Nothing for that night interested him. More go-go boys and drag queens. More booming house music, beer, and cigarettes. Maybe tomorrow night.

He flicked through the television, stopping briefly on a late rebroadcast of the eleven o-clock news. A reporter stood under a harsh floodlight, his hair a bit too neat. The report was about a young man dying of pneumonia who’d been misdiagnosed and abandoned at St. Paul Hospital, his body untouched for a day and a half after his death. Marcos shivered and switched channels, missing the moment when a photo of the identified victim, one Charles Sinclair, was shown on the screen. In his recent yet brief labors, Charles was also known at his catering jobs as Chet, the same Chet who Lee last met in a movie theatre, and whom Brian had known, intimately, yet briefly.

There was nothing worth watching, so he flicked the TV off. Snuggled into his bed, he scooted his Stork Club ashtray closer, lit a last cigarette, and flipped through his pile of
Torso
magazines to find a hunk for the night.

“Kissinger was at the party tonight.”

“How was he?” Cal asked from the bed as he watched Lee undress.

“Oh, he was great. I served him a drink.”

“What did he have?”

“Sex on the Beach.”

“Did you chat?” Cal teasingly lowered the bed sheets, displaying a few more inches of his smooth abdomen.

“Oh yes.” Lee peeled off his socks. “I told him I loved him in
Nixon in China
. ‘Never knew you could sing so good.’” Cal lowered the sheets to reveal the dark patch of black hair above his thickening penis, which peeked from the covers. He lowered the sheets more as Lee tugged off his tented Jockeys.

“Now, where shall we start?” Lee stood on the futon and surveyed Cal’s wiry musculature, his cock pointing upward to his belly button as it popped out of the sheet. He leaned down and began licking. As he reached up to Cal’s face, the two kissed. After a moment, Cal pulled away.

“You smell like food.”

“Fabulous Food?”

“Uh, yeah. Why doncha hop in the shower?”

Lee looked at him, insulted for a moment. What would have become a scowl shifted to a sly grin.

“Only if you join me.”

He did.

Since Cal’s roommate worked days, and the walls of his apartment near Journal Square were thin, Lee become the host by default in their nights together. Cal continued to work several nights, and Lee’s catering jobs picked up sooner than he thought. That left them days free, or late nights. Lee made a habit of letting Cal know when he’d be home. A call at two in the morning was always Cal, who walked the twenty blocks back toward Lee’s apartment. Lee’s bathroom was also a bit roomier.

Water cascaded down the smooth curves of Cal’s body as Lee kneeled, licking on Cal’s erection. He opened his mouth wide, letting the warm water trickle into his mouth. He gulped, then took in more, and squirted it up to Cal’s belly. They didn’t leave the tub until both had slurped, sucked and soapily tugged each other to growling orgasms under the shower. Drying off produced shivers of pleasure.

Lying together in bed, Cal purred as he stroked Lee’s wet locks of hair.

“I really like you coming on my face.”

“Thanks. I really liked, god, you’re like a boxer with that jaw. I ... I never, I haven’t tasted your ... I don’t usually swallow, or let a guy–”

“Look, I told you I’m negative, but we shouldn’t. I like doing it in the shower ‘cause it’s cleaner. Safer. I’ll do it any time you want like that, but we gotta do the rules.”

“Woah. Yes. Fuck the utility bill.”

They nestled, quiet, comfortable after their openness in making a sort of sexual pact.

“So, how’s your friend doing? The one who’s sick.”

“Ed? He’s not sick. He’s just positive.”

“Sorry.”

“He’s alright. He’s got this whole spiritual thing going on. Brian’s trying to be like all domestic and helpful, but he’s never really done that. Actually he’s a selfish jerk, so that’s what makes it tough for Ed.”

“Must be rough,” Cal said.

“Have you ... had to deal with that?”

“A few friends have it, but that was before I met them.”

“I don’t know what I’d do.”

“I would hope you would tell me, first of all.”

“Don’t you think I would?”

“Of course.”

“You think I’d lie about something like that?”

“No, I just–”

“Would you?”

“No.” Cal brought his face within an inch of Lee’s. “No.” He kissed him, as if to prove it. “Now why don't lick my butt like you been talkin’ about, now that it’s all clean, you slave to the rich.”

With his glasses somewhere on a table, Lee looked down at the blurry vision of fuzzy mounds along Cal’s backside, trusting the hazy image before him, preparing to lose himself in its beauty.

20
A giant hatched groove in the island’s surface,
Fifth Avenue’s double-
laned boulevard of wealthy white residents seemed to lead on forever.

Ritchie stood in the middle island for several moments, glancing down at the neatly clipped shrubs, the freshly planted tulips and the expanse of traffic whooshing by on either side at 75th Street. He clung to the strap of his travel bag, then glanced at the addresses to figure out how far he was from his next job.

The afternoon concert at the 92nd Street Y had been packed, and Ritchie sat toward the back wall as Mai Ling’s concert of three Bach solo pieces brought the audience to applause and a long line of fans.

He’d stepped outside, hoping to catch her leaving. Then, realizing it would be a stupid way to meet this woman, after a few minutes, he hailed a cab.

“Can I have that?” A light voice floated over the dull roar of passing cabs. Ritchie spun around to see Mai Ling in a simple black overcoat. The cool air put a blush in her cheeks.

An older Asian woman held her violin case.

“Oh. Hi.” He eagerly reached out to shake her hand, then regretted its seemingly simple friendly manner.

“Have we? The Met, right?” she said.

Other people skirted about them, hurrying past. She thankfully waved the cab off.

Ritchie's heart leapt. “Oh, yes. I saw you were doing a short concert and. Excellent, by the way. Have you been performing elsewhere?”

“Oh, yes. I went to LA and San Francisco and Seattle. It was very nice. I forgot how rainy it can be out there.”

The older woman said something in Chinese. Mai Ling responded curtly.

“You’re not some crazy fan, are you? ”

“No, no. I just thought I’d like to get to know you.”

“I'm just going a few blocks, actually. We could walk?”

“Oh, um. Okay.”

“No, she can go ahead.” Mai Ling gave some instruction to the woman who didn’t seem pleased, but she was sent off in another cab.

Ritchie shifted his weight, thrilled to finally meet her again. What did this mean? Did she even think about dating?

“I gave a few copies of your CD to friends for Christmas.”

“Oh really? How nice. I hope they like it.”

“How could they not? It’s really a nice recording.”

“Oh thank you. I guess those Grammy people were right.”

He almost pretended for a moment he knew about that, but smiled instead. “Listen, um, I have to get to a meeting, but when are you performing in New York again?”

“Oh, not for a while. I’m practicing and heading off to Europe in a few months.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“But I’ll be back in May.”

“Well, I’ll look forward to that.”

“Thank you, Richard.” She had remembered his name. Mai Ling smiled, waiting, her hands in her pockets.

“Well, uh ... ” The uptown traffic cleared. “I’m going this way.”

“I’m going West.” They stood apart.

“Well, it’s nice to see you again.”

“Yes.”

“Have a good tour.”

“Thank you.” Ritchie turned and waved again as he crossed the street. Mai Ling stood watching him go, her own lane rushing downtown.

Ritchie turned away, thrilled to have met her again.
That’s all, isn’t it? You should just be happy with that, right?

As quickly as his doubts flooded him, they were swept away when he turned to see Mai Ling still watching him from the island after the light had changed. He rushed back across, dodging a pair of speeding cabs.

“Listen,” he mocked a casual air, despite being a bit out of breath. “I don’t know if I’m way off base, but ... ” Her black eyes gleamed. Would she be completely insulted?

“I would very much like to see you again.”

“Oh. That might be possible.”

“Perhaps dinner? You could recommend a good concert, I’m sure.”

“Yes, as long as you wouldn’t mind me criticizing my competition.”

“No problem.”

“Do you have a pen?”

“Felt tip, ball point or Grumbacher number seven?”

“And don’t look at the art.”

Neil Pynchon attempted to glare at his crew of ten waiters. Clustered in the immense white kitchen of a Park Avenue town house, a short Filipino maid, wiping a few dishes, looked on in amusement.

“What a control queen,” Marcos crossed his arms as he whispered to Ritchie.

Neil continued. “While the guests are here, do not look at the art. I don’t want to see you all gazing at the Manets while the guests are looking for a drink. You pay attention to them. Understood?”

The silence of return showed a combination of acknowledgement and resentment. Neil was pushing his way up the captain’s rungs to swank private parties. Others weren’t.

“So, you’ve all got a few minutes, so just wait in here until we call you.” Neil whisked out the swinging kitchen door, gleaming white on the inside, faux-green marble on the other. He stepped out into the massive living room the size of a museum wing to talk with the assistant to the resident, who owned a hundred twenty-seven department stores.

The waiters shifted about, their black monkey suits in stark contrast to the gleaming white panels and cabinets of the kitchen.

“The pantry is bigger than my whole apartment,” sighed one.

“Two of mine,” Marcos added.

“Did you see the art in there?” a tall balding waiter with glasses asked Ritchie.

“Yeah, nice stuff.”