Monkey Suits (26 page)

Ritchie relented, and stayed naked while Mai Ling moved from room to room.

“A farewell concert,” she said as she removed her violin from its case and played a little Scarlatti in her kitchen after making Ritchie wash the dishes. She had begun to play as a joke, but Ritchie ended up not at all laughing, he was so touched. He watched, leaning at the sink, her violin gleaming in the morning spill of light as she played for him and no one else.

By the time he got home, Ritchie noticed the door to Brian and Ed’s room was closed. They were still asleep, he assumed, so he went into his room, stripped down to his boxers and walked out into the loft space to do some pre-biking stretches, something he only did when he was alone. Glancing at his map of Manhattan, he surveyed the yellow highlighted patches, wanting very much to add an extra bright mark to the spot at Mai Ling’s apartment. He could have gone to bed, but thinking about Mai Ling kept him awake. His thoughts brought him to a new arousal.

He strode out to the loft couch and discovered Brian lying in the morning sun under a tangled mess of sheet and pillows. The sheet jutted from Brian’s legs. Ritchie smirked, stepped closer, and waited. Brian awoke to find Ritchie’s hand wrapped around his cock.

“Good morning.” Ritchie grinned wide.

“Ah, my secret love, you have returned.” Brian stretched catlike, thrusting his erection up to meet Ritchie’s hand. “Watch the teeth this time, okay?” he joked.

Ritchie pulled his hand away and stood over him. Brian made no effort to hide his nakedness as he sat up.

“When did you get in?” Brian asked.

“Half an hour ago.”

“What’s her name?”

“Who?”

“The girl you ravished. It is a girl, I take it?”

“I’m not telling you.”

“Okay, okay, jus’ tryin’ to chat, man to man, as it were. Just glad you finally got laid after all these months.” Brian made a grab for Ritchie’s shorts, but Ritchie pulled back.

“Yeah, right.”

“How’s about you make us some coffee?”

“What are you doing out here?”

Brain rubbed his belly. “Domestic squabble.”

“Wanna talk?”

“Well, he’s still holding back, scared about being a member of the Virus Club.”

“Well, you need to be sensitive to what he needs. He’s goin’ through a rough time.”

“Thanks, Ann Landers,” Brian snapped. “Now, seeing as I’m lacking in some nookie,” Brian sat back in the sofa and clutched his cock. “Why don’t you come here and sit on me and let me bust that pretty little virgin butt?”

Ritchie mock-glared down at Brian. “How’s about I bust that pretty little face?”

“Ooh, rough stuff,” Brian grinned, grabbing Ritchie in a tackle, knocking him to the floor.

Ritchie resisted at first, but figured he could get a few well-deserved sucker punches into Brian. The two rolled around on the floor, grappling on the small carpet below the sofa. Brian grabbed Ritchie’s thigh, forcing his way between his legs, where he teasingly lunged his mouth down on Ritchie’s shorts. Ritchie pulled away, grabbing at Brian’s butt, giving it a few loud slaps.

“Ow! Hey!” Brian slapped Ritchie’s back, twisting his legs around for a scissor lock. The two fumbled around, knocking over a table.

Woken by the noise, Ed stood in the doorway to the loft, his robe barely wrapped around his body. He watched the two play a moment, then grinned.

“Is this a new morning exercise, recreating our favorite scenes from
Women in Love
?”

27
Trish Fuller sat at her antique Scandinavian writing desk
while talking
on her three-line touch-tone telephone. The desk was a gift from the American Ambassador to Sweden, whom she had dated at Brown before meeting Winston.

Her assistant, Margaret, was busy working on planning stages for the AIDS benefit that was set for June at the Met. Although over two months away, the colors for the flower arrangements had been decided and Trish had instructed Margaret to try and get the florists to lower their price for thirty centerpiece bouquets down a few thousand dollars. It was a benefit, after all.

She talked on the phone with Monica Goldman, the wife of the bond trading CEO who was working with her on the benefit. The two had planned to have the author Drew Van Sully give the keynote address, but his health had deteriorated. The author, whose award-winning novel
Thicker Than Water
, his non-fiction struggle with AIDS framed around a hejira to Cairo, had reached the best-seller list. But Mr. Van Sully would probably not attend, having been hospitalized with pneumonia for the second time.

“Monica dear, we have to consider other options,” Trish said into the phone. “The poor man could be ... gone by then. Even if he’s not, you know how they get. It’s called dementia ... Yes ... God knows enough of our friends practically have that and they’re not even sick ... Well, we could get the mayor to make the speech ... Of course, he can’t know we didn’t consider him first. That would be a major faux pas ... Do you want to call his assistant? ... Terrific ... Tell him he can only bring one guest ... No, not that woman. God, I hope he doesn’t bring her. It would be scandalous ... Oh, I suppose he’ll need to bring his goons ... Well, if he keeps them out of sight ... Yes ... Do you have the number? ... Terrific. Alright ... I’ll see you at lunch on Tuesday ... Terrific ... Tah.”

She hung up the phone and wrote three thank you letters for dinners from the previous week. After wrapping up the last details before four o’clock, she made a call to a California private line.

“Nan? This is Trish. Hullo, dear. How are you? Oh, yes the Armani looked fabulous on the news ... Yes, I’m so sorry you can’t come to our little party at the Met ... No, I understand completely ... You’ll be in town the week after? ... Well, we’d love to see you ... Why don’t you come to dinner? ... Oh, just a few friends, you know Caroline and Ken, Marcella and Donald and Winnie and me. How’s that sound? ... Oh, terrific ... Oh, yes, no problem, we’ll let your security people do their thing whenever they need ... Oh, I understand, Nan ... Yes, it’s been so difficult ... Why, of course ... Well, Winnie wants to have Ron do another interview just as soon as he can ... Well, we let the boys do their thing their way, don’t we? ... Yes, I know, I heard you had to get a new hairdresser. How is he? ... Terrific. I’ll have to call him when I’m on the coast ... .Yes ... Alright ... Well, you just have Cynthia call Margaret about the details ... Certainly ... Terrific ... Love you, dear ... Keep it up ... Bye.”

What a coup
. She hung up the phone, her face practically cracking with a grin. She lit another cigarette, only to realize she already had one burning in the ashtray.

“Mar-gret!” she called out to her secretary, who rushed in with a pad and pencil.

“Yes, Trish?”

“Call Fabulous. We’ve got a little dinner party after the benefit. Tell Fenton if he wants to get in Suzy and Liz’s columns he better come up with something new for Ron and Nancy.”

“Oh.” Margaret’s eyes bugged a bit, then glowed. “Oh, yes. I’ll get right on it.”

That night at dinner, she waited until coffee was served before she brought up the subject of the benefit. The Edwardian table seated ten, but the two sat at one end, Winston at the head, with Trish at his left.

“Win?”

“Yes, love?” Winston set his coffee down and dug a spoon into his mousse.

“About the benefit ...”

“Yes, how’s that coming?”

“Terrific. Just fine. Ron and Nancy won’t be in town until afterward. But we’re thinking of asking the mayor to speak.”

Winston withdrew the spoon from his mouth, set it down and swallowed. “Oh.”

“Why the look?” she goaded him.

“Because, love, whenever you’re thinking of doing something that usually means you’ve already done it.”

“Now, that’s not true, completely.” They grinned slightly at each other. “I know you and he have had your disagreements, but I was just hoping you’d be able to set them aside this one night.”

“He’s going to have to sit at our table, I take it?”

“Of course. The guest of honor should be at the host’s table.”

“Just don’t put him within speaking distance of me. That paunchy old queen gets on my nerves.”

“I know, dear, but if you just ...”

“Once he starts in about his pet projects and one person asks him a thing about all those corrupt employees, he gets into such a tirade. Has no manners. He is completely inept at making any dinner conversation that isn’t about himself.”

“I know dear, but just give it a long-term vision. Ron and Nancy will be in only weeks after that. It’ll all be fine. You always tell me to do the same.”

Winston sipped his coffee, then glanced across the table at his wife. The years had certainly taken their toll on both of them. At least they stayed together. She tolerated so much, so many indiscretions.

“Fine. I’ll be a good boy.”

“Oh, dear, thank you so much.” She took a large scoop of mousse. Perhaps that would be the dessert for the benefit.

Winston drained his coffee. He had to finish his editorial for the next week’s issue. “At least a loudmouth mayor is better than a diseased author.”

Trish cringed. “Winston!”

28
Lee crowded next to Cal to comb his hair for the third time.

“You look tired,” he told Cal, who stood naked at the sink, shaving.

“Well, so do you.” Cal replied as they bumped hips.

“I’m talking about all that pot,” Lee said.

“You smoke it with me.”

“Not all the time. Not when I work.”

“It helps me when I edit tapes. Helps me create. Everybody liked what I did what the protest footage.”

‘Everybody’ included some of the hunky activists at the screening. Lee found himself among like-minded fellows with very similar tastes in gorgeous cameramen. He’d barely had time to talk with Cal that night, and stuttered through a response when one of the hunks asked if he and Cal were boyfriends.

“You and Cocteau, Cocoa Man.” Lee relinquished the sink and stood at the toilet to pee.

“Well, you drink coffee all the time.”

“Everybody does that.”

“So what are you gonna do, throw a ‘Just Say No’ shopping bag over my head ’til I quit?” Lee laughed at him. He reached down and grabbed Cal’s ass. It felt good in his loose jeans, like a surprise package.

“Y’know what Marcos said after work that night we met at the Waldorf?”

“Wha?” Cal mumbled while he brushed his teeth.

“He said you looked too skinny. I said, ‘You can’t see anything in a tux anyway, except a pretty face and a good frame.’ He called you skinny anyway. Then he said, ’You know that means it’s hangin’ low.’”

Cal laughed. Toothpaste spilled from his mouth. “Hangin’ low?” He spat out foam.

“Yeah. Later he asked me if it was true.”

“And you said?”

“Well, Marcos is rarely wrong about men.”

“So, what did you say?” Cal wiped his face on a towel.

“I told him he should count my blessings.”

Cal turned to Lee and gave him a toothpaste-fresh kiss.