can’t joke about lesbos, but you can call me ‘chubby’? Double standard much?”
I knew he wasn’t really mad. “I’m just trying to get to know Brent better.”
“I suppose you could do that by watching him on video getting tag-teamed by Lucas Fisher and Hugh Jestman,” Freddy observed. “Or you could, I don’t know, call him. Didn’t you say he gave you his number?”
“He did, but—”
“I know, why bother talking when you can form the deep emotional connection that only comes from seeing someone anally penetrated by a large vibrating egg? In my opinion, more friendships should start that way.”
“Like yours don’t,” I said. “Besides, I’d prefer talking to him. There’s just one problem.” I filled Freddy in on Brent’s disappearance and my efforts to find him.
“Oh. My. God,” Freddy intoned. “That beautiful child. You’ve done it again.”
“What?”
“Gotten another one killed.”
“Killed? Who said anything about killed?” I ran through all the other possibilities for Brent’s absence, my theories and the ones offered by the guys at SwordFight Productions.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Freddy responded. “And maybe he grew wings and flew to the moon, too. Let’s be honest, sugar. Boys who go missing around you turn up dead. Terminated. Rubbed out, knocked off, whatever. How many times does this need to happen before you accept that you have the karma of a cadaver dog? You’ve stumbled across homicides like Angela Lansbury when she played Jessica Fletcher, except without her raw sexuality. I’m calling your biography Murder, She Wrote. Again. ”
“Okay,” I admitted, “maybe I’ve had some weird flukes in that area. But this is New York. It’s bound to happen.”
“Oh yeah?” Freddy asked. “Who else does any of this shit happen to?”
“Tony deals with murders all the time.”
“He’s a homicide detective,” Freddy said. “People call him when there’s a victim; he doesn’t run into one on every other corner like they’re a Starbucks or something.”
He had me on that one. Not that I’d admit it.
“Can I come over or what?”
“Sure,” Freddy said. “What could be more fun than a movie marathon featuring a probably-dead legend o’ porn? We can put on some Amy Winehouse and moon over pictures of a young Patrick Swayze while we’re at it.”
“Could you stop being so morbid?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if you pick up some ice cream on your way over. I just ran out.”
“No problem. You want I should pick up some dinner, too?”
“Ice cream and dinner?” Freddy asked. “No, darling, the ice cream will be dinner. That way, it counts as one course. What are you trying to do, make me fat?”
“Uhhh,” Freddy moaned as we watched Brent’s movies on his ridiculously large sixty-five-inch screen while lying on his bed. Freddy lived in a studio apartment, and there was no couch, sofa, or other chairs. Given his usual definition of “hosting,” there was no reason for such traditional seating. You were either on your way in, out, or in his bed. Why else would he have you over?
“Oh my god, that’s good,” Freddy groaned. We were watching a particularly sexy scene in a movie called School Gayz. Brent played a prospective fraternity member being rushed by the world’s hottest pledge master. At the moment, Brent was being asked to prove his loyalty to Alpha Gamma Rimya by seeing just how far up his butt he could accept his co-star’s tongue. It didn’t seem like a particularly tough hazing, but who was I to judge?
“So sweet. So fucking smooth and good. I gotta have it,” Freddy pleaded.
On screen, Brent groaned. “Gimme more, sir,” he begged.
Freddy ran a hand over my chest. “Yeah, baby, like he said. ‘Gimme more,’ ” he rasped hungrily, his breath hot against my cheek. “I want more.”
“Get it your own damn self,” I told him. He was talking about the ice cream I’d brought over. He’d gotten through the
I knew he wasn’t really mad. “I’m just trying to get to know Brent better.”
“I suppose you could do that by watching him on video getting tag-teamed by Lucas Fisher and Hugh Jestman,” Freddy observed. “Or you could, I don’t know, call him. Didn’t you say he gave you his number?”
“He did, but—”
“I know, why bother talking when you can form the deep emotional connection that only comes from seeing someone anally penetrated by a large vibrating egg? In my opinion, more friendships should start that way.”
“Like yours don’t,” I said. “Besides, I’d prefer talking to him. There’s just one problem.” I filled Freddy in on Brent’s disappearance and my efforts to find him.
“Oh. My. God,” Freddy intoned. “That beautiful child. You’ve done it again.”
“What?”
“Gotten another one killed.”
“Killed? Who said anything about killed?” I ran through all the other possibilities for Brent’s absence, my theories and the ones offered by the guys at SwordFight Productions.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Freddy responded. “And maybe he grew wings and flew to the moon, too. Let’s be honest, sugar. Boys who go missing around you turn up dead. Terminated. Rubbed out, knocked off, whatever. How many times does this need to happen before you accept that you have the karma of a cadaver dog? You’ve stumbled across homicides like Angela Lansbury when she played Jessica Fletcher, except without her raw sexuality. I’m calling your biography Murder, She Wrote. Again. ”
“Okay,” I admitted, “maybe I’ve had some weird flukes in that area. But this is New York. It’s bound to happen.”
“Oh yeah?” Freddy asked. “Who else does any of this shit happen to?”
“Tony deals with murders all the time.”
“He’s a homicide detective,” Freddy said. “People call him when there’s a victim; he doesn’t run into one on every other corner like they’re a Starbucks or something.”
He had me on that one. Not that I’d admit it.
“Can I come over or what?”
“Sure,” Freddy said. “What could be more fun than a movie marathon featuring a probably-dead legend o’ porn? We can put on some Amy Winehouse and moon over pictures of a young Patrick Swayze while we’re at it.”
“Could you stop being so morbid?”
“I don’t know. Maybe if you pick up some ice cream on your way over. I just ran out.”
“No problem. You want I should pick up some dinner, too?”
“Ice cream and dinner?” Freddy asked. “No, darling, the ice cream will be dinner. That way, it counts as one course. What are you trying to do, make me fat?”
“Uhhh,” Freddy moaned as we watched Brent’s movies on his ridiculously large sixty-five-inch screen while lying on his bed. Freddy lived in a studio apartment, and there was no couch, sofa, or other chairs. Given his usual definition of “hosting,” there was no reason for such traditional seating. You were either on your way in, out, or in his bed. Why else would he have you over?
“Oh my god, that’s good,” Freddy groaned. We were watching a particularly sexy scene in a movie called School Gayz. Brent played a prospective fraternity member being rushed by the world’s hottest pledge master. At the moment, Brent was being asked to prove his loyalty to Alpha Gamma Rimya by seeing just how far up his butt he could accept his co-star’s tongue. It didn’t seem like a particularly tough hazing, but who was I to judge?
“So sweet. So fucking smooth and good. I gotta have it,” Freddy pleaded.
On screen, Brent groaned. “Gimme more, sir,” he begged.
Freddy ran a hand over my chest. “Yeah, baby, like he said. ‘Gimme more,’ ” he rasped hungrily, his breath hot against my cheek. “I want more.”
“Get it your own damn self,” I told him. He was talking about the ice cream I’d brought over. He’d gotten through the
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