Appearances, copyright 2006, 2007, 2008, by Etienne. All rights reserved.
If the idea of two men loving each other and expressing that love in a sexual manner offends you, then you have clearly come to the wrong place. Feel free to leave.
-3-
Bargains
"Well, Philippe," I said, stressing the French pronunciation (showing off?), as I settled back down, this time on the sofa, which placed me closer to and gave me a slightly different perspective of my prospective client. "We have so much to talk about that I hardly know where to begin. First however, let me apologize for Andrew and myself."
"Please, I much more comfortable with the English version of my name," he said, in that voice which by now had begun to send chills down my spine, "Philip will do very nicely." He quickly added, "Apologize? For what?"
"For discussing you and your case as though you were not even sitting in the same room with us. It’s a bad habit we lawyers frequently indulge, and it is and was, rude. I assure you that no offense was meant."
"None was taken," was all he said.
Before I could say anything else, there was another discreet tap on the door, followed by two waiters wheeling in a small cart containing, I supposed, our dinner, or at least a portion of it. Without a word, they went to the table in the corner and quickly arranged the first course, following which, the one in charge walked over to where we were sitting, cleared his throat, and said, or rather intoned "Dinner is served" in the same stentorian tone he might have used to address a gathering of fifty people.
As we started on the soup, which appeared to be a broccoli and cheese combination (Andrew really was trying to make me susceptible - he knew that I loved anything with broccoli in it), I asked Philip to tell me about himself, which, with starts and stops, and occasional prompting by my questions, he did.
Philip, it seemed, was from a very old but somewhat impoverished Louisiana family, who were still hanging onto a rundown antebellum plantation North of New Orleans as he was growing up. Lucinda (his late wife) was from a slightly less old but considerably more affluent Georgia family. As a child and young adult she had frequently visited relatives in Louisiana who lived near the d'Autremont plantation. They had thus known each other at least since before adolescence. She was the only offspring of her family and by the time she had finished college, was under intense pressure to marry and produce heirs. Neither of them, it developed, was particularly interested in marriage, oddly enough for the same reason. Philip had been interested only in boys from an early age, and while Lucinda occasionally (as they say) swung both ways, her predilection was for women.
Through a chance meeting on Bourbon Street, in New Orleans, in a setting which left little doubt (a gay bar, naturally) as to their respective sexual identities, they had admitted the truth to each other. After that, they began to meet more often, and had finally come up with a plan that would get her family off of her back, so to speak. They pretended to, and actually did, date each other, dragging the process out for a couple of years, finally announcing that they were going to marry.
Needless to say, it was a marriage of convenience. They had occupied, as far as the rest of the world was concerned, the same residence on West Paces Ferry Road ever since their wedding eight years earlier, and were in fact seen together at all of the right places and with all of the right people. Their private lives, however, were entirely separate. They had the means to and did maintain two apartments in different parts of town which they used for the purpose of conducting those secret lives, and had done so almost since the first year of their marriage. A very tidy arrangement, I found myself thinking.
There was much more than that, of course, and I filed all of it away for reference, to be digested later. By this time, we had worked our way through the soup, salad, sorbet, a wonderful veal dish which I recognized but could not immediately name, and a bottle of Mondovi-Rothschild Opus One Reserve. I made a mental note to compliment Andrew on his choice of wines.
I needed to ask Philip some very pointed questions about the murder, but decided to veer off on a tangent first, and (over dessert and coffee) got him to talking about his life. It turned out that he was somewhat gifted as a writer, and had published a number of novels - all of them under pseudonyms. His real talent lay, however, in the field of real estate, and he had accumulated a great deal of income property, overseeing the management of which took considerable time. All of which left him little time to indulge in much else. His "social life" as he put it, was confined to the occasional weekend here and there. He had managed to have several affairs over the years, none of them of any significant duration, and he admitted, there was no one in his life currently, which revelation started another chain of thought having to do with relationships.
Robert and I had maintained the fiction that we were merely friends and school roommates until after he received his degree in architecture. As I had two more years of Law School, he decided to do some postgraduate work so that we could stay in Cambridge together. When his parents came to Cambridge for his graduation, he told them of his plans for two more years of education, without of course, telling them the whole story. They had been adamant that he should come home and find a job. His summer savings and part time jobs during the school year were insufficient for his needs without their support. They knew it, and attempted to use that fact as leverage to persuade him to follow their wishes. Their tactics had caused him to lose his temper, whereupon he told them precisely why and with whom he intended to stay in Cambridge for two more years. That, of course, had precipitated a breach in his relationship with his parents. They had flown home in a rage, and had neither spoken to nor written him again.
Fortunately, I had a good income from a large trust fund that had been created when my parents died, as well as a smaller amount from a trust set up by my maternal grandparents. I was not rich, but had sufficient means to allow myself the luxury of not having to work during College or Law School. It had not been quite enough, however, to support the two of us, but that income, augmented by our summer savings, some government loans and grants (because of my private income, I did not qualify for grants, but Robert did), and part time jobs in Boston, managed to see us both through the next two years. I finished Law School and he received his Masters, after which we both found jobs in Atlanta, and began our respective careers.
The waiters had long since cleared the table and departed, but not before reminding us that we would not be disturbed, but if we needed anything, we should pick up the telephone on the desk to call. By that time, we were sitting side by side on the sofa, jackets off, enjoying a fine glass of port (W & J Graham 40 Year Old, of course).
Just as I was about to ask my pointed questions, he surprised me by asking me about myself. I gave him the short, condensed version, starting with school, including Robert, and leading up to the present.
We had lived together until Robert died of a brain tumor shortly after the tenth anniversary of our first meeting. Even after three years, thinking about the final months of Robert's life brought me almost to the point of melancholy. At one point, I had very nearly sold the townhouse that we had bought, furnished, and decorated together, because everything in it was a reminder, one way or another, of Robert. In the end however, I decided that I could not part with something that we had both worked so hard to create, and I tried to concentrate upon remembering the happy years that had preceded those final months.
I had not gone out with anyone since then, despite Richard's constant attempts at matchmaking. Richard, my best friend since junior high school, had moved into the largest of the three spare bedrooms during Robert's illness in order to help with the care of Robert, and had stayed on afterwards taking up the care of me. Richard's presence and upbeat attitude was one of the things that had kept me sane during the first months after Robert died.
Philip was attentive during my recital and made appropriately polite and seemingly sincere responses. In fact, he gazed at me so intently and with such evident interest, that I distinctly felt the foundation under my defenses begin to shift and crumble. To switch the conversation to safer ground, I decided to cut to the chase, saying. "Enough about me, already. We need to talk about the murder.”
"What do you want to know?"
"First, do you have any idea who might have done it?"
"None whatever." He paused, and looked thoughtful.
"What?"
"I just thought of something Lucinda said recently."
"What was that?"
"I need to backtrack just a moment. Did I mention that she was about six weeks pregnant?"
"No, you didn't."
"Her family was still very much on her case to produce an heir. She got this notion that if we produced an heir, they would shut up. So she had herself artificially inseminated, using me as donor. We could have gotten her pregnant in the ‘normal’ way, but neither of us derived any particular pleasure from sex with each other. Anyway, the pregnancy was confirmed, and she did mention that she was thinking about breaking off her current affair for the duration of the pregnancy, at least."
"How did the other woman feel about that?"
"I'm not sure, but I got the impression that her lover was getting somewhat possessive, and Lucinda was tired of it. You have to understand, that we simply did not talk about such things very much."
"You are suggesting that she told this person and that got her killed?"
"I suppose it is possible."
"Did she have any other lovers?"
"Never more than one at a time, as far as I know. We jointly agreed, in the beginning, that we would not rub each others nose in that aspect of our lives, and kept it totally separate."
"So, you never met any of them?"
"Only once, and I didn't actually meet her, merely saw her from a distance. Three or four years ago, we turned up at the same party, quite unexpectedly, each of us with dates. Lucinda and I spotted each other from opposite sides of the room. I nodded to her, and pointed to the door, indicating that my date and I would leave, which we did. I didn't really get a good look at the woman she was with."
"Any chance that person was the one she was still seeing?"
"I doubt it, to the best of my knowledge her affairs never lasted longer than six months or so."
"Could one of her former lovers have killed her for some reason?"
"I'm not sure. If that is who it was, it’s very strange that it happened at the house on Paces Ferry, because we had a firm understanding that we would never bring any of our partners there. I never did, and as far as I know neither did she. On the other hand, she might well have brought a former lover to the house in order to keep her current lover from knowing about it. When I was being questioned by the detectives, they kept pounding away at the fact that there was no evidence of forced entry. I suppose that could be taken as an indication that she knew the killer, and had let them in."
"What exactly have you told the police?"
"Well, they wanted to know where I had been that weekend, and could I prove it. I told them I had spent the weekend out of town, but refused to tell them where. I don't think they believed me, though. They asked me who I thought might have done it, and I told them that I had no idea."
"Did they say anything else to you?"
"I'm not sure. I was very upset and in shock when they questioned me, I had just gotten home, and it is all a blur, now. As you can imagine, Lucinda and I were not 'in love' with each other, but we had known each other for more than twenty years and were in some ways, very close, almost like brother and sister."
"What makes you think they might arrest you?"
"Just a feeling, I guess. They keep coming back and asking the same questions over and over again. I don't think they are satisfied with the answers. I also get the impression that they aren't looking very hard in any other direction, either."
"Is there anything else you think I need to know at this point?"
"Only that I think they have somehow discovered that I am gay."
"What makes you think that?"
"Nothing they said overtly, just some sly innuendo in some of their questions and remarks."
"I'll be honest with you, that's not good. Our dearly beloved District Attorney is a notorious homophobe, and he is so publicity-hungry that he is liable to go after you so that he can milk it for all the free press its worth."
"I know, I've heard stories about him, and that is one of the reasons for my concern."
I steered the conversation back to generalities for a time, so that part of me could talk, while the other part pondered all that I had just assimilated. He had good reason to be concerned. If the District Attorney, Craig Wetherbee, could work a gay angle into this case, he would run with it, I feared, even if it were built on thin air. A staunch Southern Baptist of the worst hellfire and brimstone sort, Wetherbee was notorious for his homophobia. It was rumored that he had aspirations to higher office, perhaps even the Governor's job. I snapped back to reality, realizing that I was being asked a direct question.
"I'm sorry," I said, "I was wool-gathering for a minute, there. What were you saying?"
"Will you help me? That is, take the case?"
"Yes, of course," I replied. He must have sensed some hesitancy in my voice, perhaps even an unspoken 'but,' because he articulated it for me.
"But...?."
"Well,” I said, “the firm will want a retainer of at least $25,000, against $400 per hour for my time, and $100 per hour for any associates' time, and any out of pocket expenses for investigators, etc."
"No problem," he said, and then a sly look came over his face as he continued "And what will you want?" with a slightly mocking tone in that golden voice.
I don't know what came over me at that point, but the shifting foundations of my fortress caused the crack to yawn widely open, and from a spot on the ceiling, I seemed to be looking down at us on the sofa, and I saw and heard myself saying "You."
"In what way?"
"Naked. In my arms. On that rug. Right now."
"And what else?" the blue eyes were still virtually inscrutable but there was a definite hint of something in them.
In for a penny, in for a pound, I thought. Again, from afar, I heard myself saying, "You. In my bed. Every night."
"Not naked?"
"Well, I took that as a given and didn't want to seem redundant."
"For how long?" Still no discernible reaction.
"Until your legal problems are resolved, or until we get tired of each other, whichever takes longer."
To my surprise, and wonder, he stood up, said simply "Sounds good to me," and started removing his tie. Of course, I stopped him immediately - I prefer to unwrap my own packages.
The next thirty minutes or so will be etched in my brain forever. We began to undress each other, starting with shirts and ties.
His chest was as smooth as silk and from the definition his muscles showed I deduced that he worked out regularly. I stroked his smooth, tanned, chest, moved my hand down to his extremely flat stomach, and said "I'm glad that you're not hirsute."
"What would you do if I were?"
"Well, earlier in the evening I noticed that the bathroom is not only fully equipped, but well stocked, including shaving cream, and razors. I guess I would have had to try them out."
"Too bad I'm not. That sounds like fun."
I unbuckled his belt and unzipped his trousers, which immediately fell to the floor. He was wearing sexy, low-rise square cut, boxer briefs not unlike my own, and I slid them down over his thighs, kneeling as I did so. This put me face to face with a beautifully proportioned cut penis which was already well on its way to becoming rock hard. I noted that his pubes were somewhat trimmed and his balls appeared to be shaved. This was getting better and better. I took his erection in my mouth and swallowed it to the hilt. I gave it several strokes with my mouth before he pulled me back to my feet.
“You have me at a slight disadvantage - you’ve still got your pants on.” He proceeded to remove my disadvantage and we embraced and kissed deeply, our erections straining against each other.
We sank down on the rug in front of the fireplace and without any further conversation, assumed a classic sixty-nine position, taking each others’ erections into our respective mouths. It was all over with hands and mouths, almost before it had begun. In point of fact, it had been so long since I had experienced real sex (sex with oneself doesn't count), that I came as quickly as a sixteen-year-old virgin.
"Sorry to be so quick," I said, "but it’s been three years."
"Not to worry," came the reply, "next time will be better."
"I don't see how it could be better."
"Well then, we'll just have to make it last longer."
And we started again. This time it did take somewhat longer, and it was, unbelievable as it may seem, better. Afterwards, we lay side by side for a long while without speaking.
Finally, he said simply "Penny."
"Well, I was just thinking of what Charles Ryder said the first time he saw Sebastian Flyte's ancestral home."
"I've both seen and read 'Brideshead,' but I don't remember the line."
"Golly."
"You are surprised that I don't remember something from a book I read years ago?"
"No. When Charles Ryder first saw Brideshead Manor House from a distance, he said, simply, 'golly.'"
"Oh yes, now I do remember. Most appropriate. Then, as now."
There followed a great deal of inconsequential small talk. Finally, I said, "Now that we've had some practice, lets go somewhere and try this in a real bed." Despite the fact that hours, even days, seemed to have elapsed, it was only about eleven.
"My place, or yours," he said with a smile that lit up the room. With that smile, I was hooked, knew it, and didn't give a damn.
"I think, given your uncertain legal status, that it had better be my place. This club has a covered entrance around back for use in inclement weather. We can have my car brought around there so that if you truly were followed here, you will not be seen leaving with me. You can arrange to have yours picked up tomorrow."
He agreed, and when we were dressed and presentable, I used the phone to call down and request that my car be brought around to the rear entrance. He took the phone and told the appropriate person that he felt the need of a designated driver, was catching a ride with me, and would have his car picked up the next morning.
By eleven-thirty, we were back at my house. I gave him the fifty-cent tour, and within minutes we were upstairs. We went through the ritual of undressing each other for the second time and were in bed almost in less time than it takes to tell about it. Strangely enough, I had no second thoughts about bringing this man to share the bed that Robert and I had shared for so many years.
I was hooked, all right. Head over heels. I honestly did not know quite what to do about it, except of course, enjoy it while it lasted.
-To be continued-
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Your feedback, as always, is appreciated, be it good, bad, or indifferent.
My stories may be found on the following site:
http://tickiestories.us/Etienne_m.htm
My thanks as always to the tireless Rockhunter for editing the last few chapters.
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