Second You Sin (26 page)

“Shoot.”

I fil ed Freddy in on what had happened with Tony and with my mom.

“So, you didn’t tel Tony about Jacob Locke or anything else?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think I can. Tony barely tolerates my work as it is. If I give him even a little more reason for concern, he’l break my legs to keep me off the job.”

“Seeing as how most of your work is done on your back, why would that slow you down?” Freddy asked.

“Wow,” I said. “Ever since you started ‘dating,’

you’ve become so catty.”

“Like you can talk, whore.”

“Hussy.”

“Tramp,” Freddy countered.

I played my ultimate card.
“Dater.”

“Oh, Jane,” Freddy groaned. “You wouldn’t be able to do these awful things to me if I weren’t in this wheelchair.”

“But you are, Blanche,” I vol eyed back. “But you are!”

26

Who Are You Now?

The next day was Friday, and at four in the morning, I gave up on my fitful quest for sleep. My head was too ful of Tony, Freddy, Cody, Rueben, and, mostly, Jacob Locke.

Too many men in my bed.

Never thought I’d say that.

Jacob Locke. So, he was The Eggman. I should have seen that coming.

Other than his odious gay-baiting commercials, I didn’t know much about him. Who was he?

I got up from bed and opened the refrigerator.

Hmmm . . . nothing had magical y appeared since last night.

I real y had to go shopping.

Then I remembered—the cutlery drawer! I opened it gleeful y and found the Clif Bar I’d put there last night. I grabbed a bottle of water and headed for the computer.

Sitting in the dark, eating my chalky breakfast bar, I had to wonder: Could my life be any more fucking glamorous?

Sigh.

I booted up my Mac and opened Safari. On the Google home page, I entered “Jacob Locke.” Five mil ion four hundred thousand results came up for the conservative candidate. That seemed a little unwieldy, so I tried to narrow it down. “Jacob Locke gay.” Why not? Maybe someone had outed him along the way.

Somehow, that only brought the number of hits down to two mil ion four hundred sixty thousand. A quick perusal of the headlines didn’t reveal anything juicy about him personal y. Although, it was pretty clear he had gays on his mind quite a lot, not to mention on his tongue. Wel , not literal y. At least, not that I could prove.

What I could prove was that he talked an awful lot about homosexuals.

I decided to see what wisdom he had to share on this matter to which he was so obviously drawn. Here are some of his choicer quotes:

“On the subject of homosexuality, I’m more inclined to believe the teachings of Moses from the Mount than the boys from
Brokeback Mountain.
” Moses taught about homosexuality? Real y?

Where—in the book of Leviticus/Club Remix version?

“Homosexuality is an aberrant, unhealthy, and sinful lifestyle that we have to tolerate but are under no obligation to accept.”

This struck me as what they cal “kinder” conservatism. What the hel is the difference between tolerating and accepting us? Why do either if we’re so irredeemably twisted? It’s just a bunch of words thrown together to simultaneously appeal to his rabid religious base while not total y alienating the moderate voters in the middle. If a patient in a mental hospital said this, they’d up his medication.

“So-cal ed gay rights have about as much in common with real civil rights as gay marriage has in common with normal marriage.”

I kind of agree with him on this one, but that logic leads me to the opposite conclusion. Move on.

“America cannot continue to build the family of nations around the world if we al ow the col apse of the family here at home.”

Yes, because we al know how equal marriage rights for gay people wil cause every heterosexual union to immediately splinter and fail.

“America’s culture is based on the fact that we are a religious people. If we recognize God in our Declaration of Independence and our currency, shouldn’t we be wil ing to recognize him in our bedrooms, as wel ?”

Hey, I’ve slept with a lot of guys, but I was stil pretty sure if God showed up in my bedroom, I’d recognize him. Bet he’d be hot.

“They say ‘go gay’? I say ‘no way!’ ”

Way!

I could go on, but I think you get the point.

What makes someone like Jacob Locke? I read his bio. Born in Utah to a religious fireman father and a stay-at-home mom who only made it though the sixth grade. He was homeschooled, thus ensuring no new ideas could enter his tiny little head. His father was a strict disciplinarian.

“My dad would lay out the hose at work and smack us with his hose at home,” he told Barbara Walters in 2001. Boy, did I wish Babs had a better ear for a double entendre.

Despite being taught through high school by an academical y limited mother, Locke attended and graduated, with C’s, from Brother’s Baptist University before going on to St. Simon’s Seminary in Austin, TX.

Although headed for a life in the clergy, Locke apparently decided that God’s true plan for him led to show business: Locke dropped out of seminary with one year to go to take a job in Christian broadcasting. His
Ask Father Jacob
show became an instant hit, despite the fact that he was only a

“father” at that time to his first-born daughter.

From a
People
magazine article in 2002: “Jacob Locke is not your typical talk show host. Mixing folksy common sense advice with Biblical y inspired teachings, Locke’s humor, humanism, and down-home charm have even non-believers tuning in daily.”

Unhelpful y, the article didn’t specifical y address whether he takes it up the ass.

Locke’s need for attention (stil looking for Daddy’s hose, buddy?) wasn’t satisfied by the pulpit or the radio show. By 2004, he was the star of
Father Jacob Speaks the Truth,
a strange little show on the second-most popular conservative cable news channel. Here, he interviewed many world leaders and celebrities, lecturing each on how God would want them to behave.

Like al narcissists, however, Locke craved more and bigger mirrors. In 2008, he began building a political operation, and now, he was launching his first presidential campaign.

When asked why voters would support a presidential candidate with no previous elective experience, Locke replied, “Wel , when you buy a bar of soap, you don’t want one that’s covered with slime, do you? I’m here to clean up our country. The fact that I’m not part of the current mess makes me
more
qualified for the job, not less.” Who knew that “folksy wisdom” was synonymous with “bat-shit crazy”? But the truth was, mil ions of people were buying his shtick. While no one considered his bid for the presidential nomination particularly serious, he was definitely up to something. Setting himself up for a more credible run in the future? Building up his donor database?

Who knew? He had some kind of plan.

My guess was it was for something bad.

I was stil on the computer when the sun rose. I hadn’t turned up anything scandalous or useful.

But I did have an idea.

According to Locke’s site, his campaign headquarters were in New York City, near the Times Square area. It seemed incongruous—shouldn’t a conservative candidate with his credentials be running his campaign from Arkansas or Mississippi or somewhere else they taught creationism in the public schools? His Web site addressed the issue:

“We’ve chosen to establish our beachhead in New York City for a reason—to show that good, God-fearing people who want this country to return to its core principles are everywhere. The beating heart of America’s financial and media empires mustn’t be left to the liberal elite. Father Jacob’s messages of faith, fidelity, and family values are for al Americans to hear. But we need your help! Click below to make a contribution of time or money to help us take back America.”

Below were links to “Contribute” or “Volunteer.” I clicked on the latter. The linked page explained that perspective volunteers should feel free to come by the office any weekday, from nine to six, to fil out an application.

Sounded like a plan to me.

27

Ordinary Miracles

At seven, I headed out to the gym and punished myself through a heavy back and legs routine, fol owed by thirty minutes on the el iptical. I picked up a protein drink and drank it on the way home. On my corner, I stopped at the local deli to get some milk, bananas, and bread.

“Hey, Kevin,” I heard from behind me. I turned around and saw a face I never expected to see in my neighborhood grocery.

Or anywhere else, for that matter.

“Marc!” I said, giving him a big hug. “I can’t believe you’re here!”

Marc looked down sheepishly. “Ta-da.”

Marc Wilgus was a former client of mine.

Handsome, charming and supersmart, Marc was a computer genius. His specialty was hacking. But he was no crook. Marc could break into any computer system anywhere in the world. Companies and governments paid him hundreds of thousands of dol ars to identify the holes in their networks and develop the tools to patch them.

You’d never think anyone with his looks and money would need the services of a professional sex worker such as myself except for one smal problem—he was a total agoraphobic.

Marc lived his whole life in his spacious, high-tech apartment where his every need was either met online or delivered to his door. Like I used to be.

I real y liked Marc. So much so that, after Marc helped save my life a few months ago, I had to stop working for him. It was pretty obvious he was developing feelings for me, and likewise, me for him.

I was honest with him. I told him that what was growing between us was more than a business relationship, and that we had to figure out what we wanted to do about that. Marc admitted he was fal ing for me and that he thought it was best we stop seeing each other.

After one last fling in the sack, and a somewhat teary good-bye, I thought I’d never see him again.

“What are you doing”—I couldn’t think of a polite way to put it, so I just said—“out?”

Marc looked a little pale and wide-eyed. “Pretty amazing, huh?”

I couldn’t help but hug him again. “I’m so proud of you.”

Marc hugged me back. Tightly. I could feel his heart pounding. “You stil like that chai tea?”

“Live off the stuff.”

“How about I take you to that Starbucks down the street and tel you about it?” He blushed furiously.

“Unless you have somewhere else you need to be?

I’m not sure what the protocol here is.... It’s not like I run into a lot of people in my apartment.”

“No,” I said, remembering I had nothing on my calendar until a nooner with a podiatrist on Sixth Avenue. “I’m total y free. Let’s go grab a cup.” At the coffee shop, I got a better look at him. Marc was stil as good-looking as ever, tal and thin, with a prominent nose and strong cheekbones. But there was tension in his body language that I wasn’t used to. He was nervous.

“So,” Marc said after a little smal talk, as we sat across from each other in a smal booth. “After you and I had our talk, you know, ‘the’ talk . . .” I nodded.

“I realized it was time I ran a few diagnostics on myself. Turns out, not leaving your apartment for five years isn’t normal.” He gave a little sideways grin that made me want to kiss him. I sipped my too-hot tea to burn off the impulse.

“Who knew?” I offered.

“I had . . . issues, Kevin. Fears. There are reasons why I am the way I am, but they’re not important.

“What was important is that when you walked out that door the last time, I wanted to run after you. I real y did.

“I made it as far as the lobby of my building before col apsing to the floor. A ful -blown anxiety attack. I’d never had one before. I thought I was going to die.

“The doorman found me hyperventilating in a fetal position and cal ed an ambulance. By the time it arrived, I was already back in my apartment, trying to catch my breath by breathing into a paper bag.”

“Marc,” I said, “I’m so sorry. I didn’t know. I would have been there.”

“It wasn’t your fault. It wasn’t so bad. I didn’t have to go to the hospital or anything. I explained to the paramedics what happened, they took my readings, gave me a Valium, and suggested I get some help.

“So I did. It took five weeks before I was able to find a psychiatrist who was wil ing to see me in my apartment. But that’s what I needed. Baby steps.

Then, bigger steps. Then the first steps out the door.

Now, I take two or three walks a day, always different paths, each one a little longer than the day before.” Marc was drinking black coffee. He twirled the cup restlessly. “God, when I tel you this, it al sounds so crazy. You must think I’m real y fucked up.”

“Can I be honest with you, Marc? I don’t know if it’s because of my line of work, or because of my family, but I think
most
people are real y fucked up.” I reached across the table and took his non-coffee-twirling hand in mine. “Thing is,
you’re
actual y doing something about it. Do you know how few people ever admit to their demons, let alone face them down?

“I think you’re pretty amazing.”

Marc squeezed my hand. “Wow. I can’t believe how much I’m feeling right now. That’s one of the things about my . . . condition. I pretty much control ed everything. Nothing arrived in my world unless I sent out for it. I didn’t have to worry about feeling surprised, or scared, or hurt.