Gay-for-Pay Pt. 01

"Yep, that's our Jo," Marco says, sipping his beer. "But, ya know, Abel, I'm still not hearing what the problem is. And I gotta say, when you called me, you sounded almost desperate."

"I did? Wow," Abel says, drawing a deep breath and letting it go. "So, uh, Marco, you dated Jo. I'm guessing that you know that she likes to call herself what's called a, um, pansexual. . . ."

Almost as if he just dropped a bomb, Abel trails off and glances at Marco, trying to gauge his reaction to what he just said.

"Oh, that," Marco says with a chuckle. "But you do know that that's just basically bullshit, don't ya, man?"

"I don't know, Marco. Jo treats it almost like a religion. She says she doesn't believe that people are meant to be with just a man or a woman, or even just one man or woman. Look, I can't explain it as well as she can, but when it comes to sex, she's pretty certain. She believes that we should be open to being with as many people as we can—man or woman."

Abel chuckles some more and shakes his head. "Well, Abel, seems to me you've explained it about as well as it can be explained. But, listen to me, you can't buy into all that heady b.s. of hers. Jo spent years in college studying art, and then she spent a year in Greece walking around a bunch of ruins. And she came out of all that with some pretty far-out ideas, one of which is that the ancient Greeks lived in some kind of exalted sexual paradise because they lived before Christianity had a chance to fuck up their lives the way it's fucked up ours. That's where this notion of pansexuality comes from, the idea that we should all be open to sex with anybody, anywhere, anytime, anyplace. You know. It's just fucking crazy."

He glances suspiciously at Abel. "Abel, you didn't participate in that little swap party we had Saturday night just because of something Jo said, did you?"

"No."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, man. Look, Jo was pretty open with me from the start about where she was coming from. She said she was bi and wanted to have an open relationship. And I told her I was cool with that because I'm bi too."

"Are you? Because you didn't exactly seem that way Saturday night."

Abel's expression grows serious and he gives Marco a glum look. "Yeah, I know, and that's the problem. Look, Marco, I am bi. Really. I've been attracted to guys just about as long as I've been attracted to girls, but . . . I haven't had hardly any experience with guys. That sort of thing was pretty well looked down on in the kind of neighborhoods I grew up in back in Little Rock. It's one of the reasons I left. And it's not like I haven't tried to, you know, have some experiences since I moved out here. But the fact is I basically freeze up any time I even come to—well, just like what happened Saturday night—and then the whole thing just sorta falls apart. And I'm scared, man. I'm scared I'm gonna lose out on the best thing I ever had just because I can't get over this fear."

"Abel, are you really sure you want to get over it? I mean, you can't go around having sex with guys just to please your girlfriend."

"No, Marco, you don't understand. I feel like there's a whole side of me blocked. I basically moved halfway across the country to leave that fear behind. And Jo or no Jo, I want to get over it."

"Ay, that's a tough one," Marco says, stroking his chin. "And I gather you think I'm the one to help you get over this fear, as you call it?"

"Yeah."

"But why, man? You hardly know me."

"I know enough. I'm pretty good at sizing up people. And Saturday night I watched you—how you walked and talked and . . . basically just how you handled yourself. So sure of yourself. You're a real class act. I'd like to be like that. Do you think you can help me?"

"I can't make you into somebody you're not, Abel."

"OK then, look at it this way: Help me be a better me, just a me who's a little more like you. For instance, help me be more comfortable around gay guys."

"Whoa," Marco says thinking. "OK, amigo, I think maybe I can handle that. But no promises. Baby steps."

Abel laughs, relieved. "OK, cool, baby steps. Yeah, that's me: a baby. So where do we start? Should I come over to your place?"

"My place—why?"

"Well, um, we have to start someplace. And I was thinking maybe we try working one-on-one. You know, like training."

"Training? One-on-one? Wait a fucking minute. Is that your twisted way of saying you think we should fuck around together?"

Abel shrugs and gives Marco an extremely embarrassed look. "Oh. Well, um, I was just thinking that would definitely help me."

"Well, think again, amigo."

"But why not? Four days ago you were more than ready to jump my bones."

"That was then. Now things have changed."

"What things?"

"Well, for one, after listening to that convoluted story of yours, you're not just another guy to me, Abel. You're more like a brother. And I don't fuck around with my brothers!"

"So what happens now?"

"Don't worry, dumbass. I'm not gonna bail on you. I said I'd help and I will. I just don't know how yet. Give me a few days to sleep on it and I'll get back to you."

They leave their money on the table and rise to go. A little way down the sidewalk, the skinny waiter catches up to them and presses a slip of paper into Marco's hand.

"You forgot this," he says.

"No, muchacho. We left more than enough for the beers on the table."

"I know. It's not that," the kid says with a shy smile.

He hurries back to the restaurant. Marco opens the paper and finds a name and phone number inside along with a brief note.

"Love your movies. But you're way hotter in person."

************

True to his word, Marco calls a few days later with a basic plan. To draw Abel out of his shell and help him get over his panic attacks around gay men, he intends to try something called "total immersion." Beginning that Friday, he intends to take Abel to a series of gay bars, places that are crawling with gay men socializing, posing, cruising, drinking, and in effect doing all the things that straight men do in their bars. Marco is convinced that seeing hordes of gay men relaxed and "in their natural habitat," as he puts it, will inevitably cause Abel to relax and start to get over his instinctive fear of them.

Marco tells Abel to meet him at Disco Bravo in West Hollywood at about ten Friday night and texts him the directions. But not long after Abel arrives he gets another text from Marco, telling him he is running late.

Sorry dude. Got delayed at work. Will be

There ASAP. But don't wait for me. Get into the crowd.

Meet people. Strike up conversations. And circulate!

Circulate! Circulate!

Abel surveys the surging crowd and immediately gets a sinking feeling. While the place looks a lot like the dance club from the previous Saturday night, loud, packed, intensely social, the fact that it is composed entirely of men eyeing men, rather than men eyeing women, gives it a very different, and somehow intensely sexual, feeling. And unlike the prior Saturday night, Abel is by himself and on his own, and the very thought of being here, caught up in this sensual cauldron, is almost enough to send him fleeing for the foor in panic mode.

But he doesn't run. He swallows hard, takes a deep breath and looks around for a bar where he can find some liquid courage. He makes a beeline for the nearest one he sees and orders a stiff drink which he quickly gulps down. Then he orders another. Shaky, nervous, feeling warm with rum and cold with sweat, he nevertheless attempts to follow Marco's instructions and begins wander around the huge bar. There must be hundreds of guys here, he muses. Gay guys. Why the hell did Marco have to send him to such a big place? And where the hell is Marco anyway? Who in his right mind is still at work at ten o'clock on a Friday night?

As Abel walks and sips, trying his best not to look scared to death, several guys move his way and attempt to establish eye contact. But he is having none of it. Each time a guy comes toward him, Abel turns and goes in the opposite direction, avoiding even the slightest suggestion that he might be interested in making contact. Finally, he finds a a relatively safe covey hole to hide in behind a potted fern.

"Hey, dude, you look like I feel," comes a voice from the other side of the fern.

"Um, you talking to me?" Abel replies, startled and looking around.

"Yep, Robert DeNiro, I'm talking to you." The voice is coming from a nice-looking young man with freckles and reddish-blond hair.

"Robert DeNiro? I don't get it."

"You know . . . Robert DeNiro. From Taxi Driver. . .Remember when he starts posing in front of a mirror, and then says to himself, all tough-guy like, 'Who you talkin' to? You talkin' to me?' Then he pulls a gun on himself."

Abel laughs out loud. "Oh, yeah!"

"You don't look too happy to be here."

"It's not that. It's just that I, uh . . . I sorta got stood up."

"Bummer. Me too. Sorta. My best friend convinced me to come out tonight because he didn't want to come alone. And then the minute we hit the bar, he up and disappeared with some other guys. I don't even know where he is."

"Wow, that is bad. But I know the feeling. Don't you hate being stuck in a place like this alone?"

"Yep, no fun. By the way, I'm Patrick," the young man says.

"Abel. So, uh, Patrick, you come here a lot?"

"Now and then. You?"

"Nah, I don't exactly fit in a place like this. Not like you. You look like you belong here," Abel says, noting for the first time just how really good-looking Patrick is, especially when he smiles which he seems to do a lot.

"Nope, that's more Tommy's thing than mine. Unless I'm meeting somebody, I like to stay home."

"So, Patrick, what's your story?"

"What do you mean?"

"Like what do you do for work?"

"Oh, I don't work," Patrick says with a shrug. "I'm enrolled full-time in the USC Film School."

"College, huh? USC. Wow, pretty impressive. So what do you study . . . movies?"

"Yeah, I want to be an actor."

"An actor—really? Do you know that I've been in LA almost four years and you're the first genuine actor I've actually met? Wow, this is exciting. Have you been in anything I might've seen?"

"Not yet. But give me time. I did finally get an agent. He promises to get me into some commercials real soon."

"Well, looks to me like you've got time. What are you—nineteen?"

"Twenty—almost twenty-one. But that's not all that young in Hollywood anymore. Timothee Chalamet was eighteen when he got his first starring role."

"Well then, I guess you'd better get the lead out, old man," Abel says kidding him. Patrick giggles. "What sort of movies do you like? Something like Taxi Driver is pretty heavy duty. Is that the sorta movie you want to be in?"

"Oh, I'm not particular. I'll take what I can get."

"What about horror? I really like horror."

"Horror's nice, I guess," Patrick says. "But if I had my pick, I think I would choose Action/Adventure, and then comedy. They say horror can get pretty messy."

"Yeah, I'll bet," Abel chuckles. "So, who knows. You might the next super hero. If you could be a super hero, which super hero would you be?"

"Jeez, I don't know. I never really gave a thought. Who would you see me as?"

"What about the incredible Spider-man?"

"With the mask? Jeez, I don't know about that."

"I think I was thinking about the tights," Abel says, looking him over. "Seems to me you'd fill out the tights real good."

"Oo, I doubt that. I don't really work out."

"You don't have to. Remember Spider-man is the slim wiry type who crawls up buildings and swings through the air. You gotta be slender, but slender in the right kinda way. I think you could definitely handle the part."

"You think so?" Patrick says, drawing closer to him. He tentatively reaches out, touches Abel's chest, and lightly fingers it.

A look passes back and forth between them. When Abel doesn't pull away, Patrick leans in and give him a gentle kiss on the mouth, nothing heavy, just a light sweet kiss. But when it ends, Abel reaches out and pulls him back in for a longer, deeper, more searching kiss that clearly ignites some sparks between them. As the kiss progresses, Abel becomes bolder, tightening his grip on Patrick's slender body. Patrick in turn responds, letting his hands explore Abel's strong shoulders and upper body, drinking in the wonderful intoxicating taste of the young man's mouth. Abel can feel the heat growing, his cock tightening, and he backs Patrick against a wall, and begins to slowly grind his manhood into the boy who is clearly just as turned on as he is.

"Hola, amigo," comes a familiar voice in Abel's ear and he feels a tap on his shoulder. "I'm not interrupting anything, am I?"

"What? . . . No," Abel says, breaking apart from Patrick and swallowing hard, visibly shaken. He casts a deeply embarrassing glance at Marco who is grinning wide and giving him a knowing look.

"You sure about that, amigo?"

This time Abel doesn't even try to answer, just casts his eyes downward looking terribly guilty.

"And who might this be?" Marco inquires, looking at Patrick and obviously admiring Abel's choice in men.

"Patrick," Abel manages to say. "That's Patrick."

"Nice to meet you, Patrick. Que pasa?"

"You're late," Abel says, trying to divert Marco's attention away from Patrick.

"I'm surprised you noticed," Marco says, still clearly enjoying the uncomfortable looks on both Abel and Patrick's faces. "Like I said, compadre, didn't mean to interrupt. After all, it looked like you two were getting mighty comfortable."

"I think I should go and find my friend, see what he's up to," Patrick says and quickly walks away.

"Hey, don't leave on my account," Marco says, calling after Patrick. "Sorry to bust up your little party," he says turning back to Abel. "But imagine my surprise. I had an appointment run late, but after that I hustled to get here, thinking poor Abel was probably freaking out because he thought I had deserted him. And then I walk in here and find you in flagrante with that hot little piece there."

"It wasn't like that," Abel protests, still finding it hard to look Marco in the eye. "Mostly, we were just talking."

"No need for explanations, mi amigo. I know how it is, getting stuck on your own in a place like this. Something's bound to happen."

"I wish you'd stop talking like that, Marco. I'm not even sure what was happening."

"Will you please stop apologizing? You were doing exactly what I told you to do: Mingling, circulating, getting to know the locals. I'm proud of you, muchacho. Good to see I don't have to worry about you."

"Not so fast, Marco. I wouldn't be declaring victory just yet, if I was you. OK, so yeah, maybe I did find someone, and maybe something did actually start to happen. But that's over. And already I can feel myself tightening up and I'm getting a little weak in the knees. I don't know how these guys do it."

"Calm down, mi amigo. I didn't say we were done with this thing. I just want you to take some pride in what just happened here. Think about it, man: You came into a gay bar on you own, circulated, struck up a conversation with one of the local denizens, and even took it to the next level. From where I'm standing that's real progress."

"OK. Fine. Progress. Now what?"

"Good question," Marco says with a sigh. "And I am going to answer that just as soon as I get something to drink. Hold still and I'll be right back."

And with that Marco trots off to the bar to get himself a drink. As soon as he is gone Abel feels a tug on his elbow. He turns to find Patrick lurking behind him.

"Patrick," Abel says, looking relieved, "I thought you'd gone."

"I'm about to. Tommy wants to go to another bar, so I'm going to have him drop me off at my apartment. Look, I really liked meeting you. And I hate to see it come to an end."

"Me too."

"It doesn't have to. Look, I just live a couple of blocks from here. If you want to, why not come by my place after you leave the bar—just so we could hang out some more."

"I don't know if I can do that, Patrick."

"It's up to you. Look, I really gotta go. Why don't you give me your phone. I'll leave you my name and number. If you decide you want to come by, just give me a call."

Abel hands him his cell phone and watches as Patrick types in his number. Meanwhile, Marco returns and observes what is happening. As soon as Patrick hands Abel back his phone, he hurries off again to join his friend.

"He always seems to be running off," Marco comments. "Was it something I said?"

"He has to go. But I think you do make him nervous."

"And why would that be.?"

"I don't know, man. But you were starting to make me kinda nervous too. You were coming on a little strong."

"Was I? Well, strong is as strong does, compadre. Sometimes you just gotta take the bull by the horns to get what you want in this world. That's something I learned from my rich white roommate in college Never forgot it. OK, next up, I want you to talk to at least three more guys in this bar this everning."

"Three? Oh, my God," Abel says, swallowing.

"See, amigo, that's the wrong attitude. You should say, 'Just three? Hell, I'm gonna do five.' Now, go out there and impress me."

Abel wanders off, looking more perplexed than ever.

************

A couple of hours later a doorbell rings in an apartment in a complex on Melrose Avenue. Patrick opens the door.

"Hey, I'm really glad you called," he says flashing a big smile.

"Um, I didn't know if I should. It is pretty late. I thought you might've gone to bed."

"I had, but I got up again. Come on in."

He pulls Abel inside and immediately wraps him up in a kiss. Abel responds but then gently pulls away from him.

"Look, Patrick, I'm really not sure I should be here. I got a girlfriend."

Patrick shrugs. "I figured you might."

"Yeah? How?"

"Come on, Abel. You stood out like a sore thumb in that bar. Guys like you—looking so scared you looked like you might spook if somebody came near you—have usually just came out. And older ones like you usually have either a girlfriend or a wife at home."

"It doesn't bother you?"

"Not if it doesn't bother you. Does it?"

"I'm, uh, not sure," he says coming deeper inside the apartment. "This is a nice place you have here."

"You want something to drink?"

"Nah, I'm good. I've had plenty to drink tonight. I even had a nice stiff one before I ever left my place. Going into that bar was one of the hardest things I've ever had to do."

"Really?" Patrick asks.

"I'm not exactly sure why, but gay guys: They scare the shit out of me."

"Including me?"

"No, not so much. I think maybe that's why I came over tonight. I wanted to figure out why you don't tie me up in knots."

Patrick approaches him, touches his arm. "I'd like to explore that too. But are you really OK being here, considering you have a girlfriend?"

"My girlfriend isn't the problem, Patrick. We have an understanding. She goes her way and mostly I go mine. In fact, she's even encouraged me to explore my gay side."

"You haven't really been with a guy, have you, Abel?"

"Does it show? No, not really. I had a few encounters in some back alleys back home, but nothing much happened."

"Then don't you think it's about time something did happen?" Patrick says.

Once again, Patrick draws close to him and begins touching his shoulders and chest.

As in the bar, Abel responds instantly, drawing Patrick into a close embrace and planting a hot kiss on the boy. If anything, this kiss is even more intimate than the one in the bar as Abel takes the lead, stroking Patrick, caressing his body, and letting his large strong hands trail the length of the boy's smooth youthful body from neck to back to butt. When their lips finally part, both young men exhale a deep groan of desire and go on holding each other, craving the deep well of heat welling up between them.