First You Fall: A Kevin Connor Mystery (17 page)

“We need to get a better read on Michael.” Freddy typed something into his computer. “OK, here’s the schedule for the Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy. And look—tomorrow they’re having a free seminar.” He read on. “Oh, this is too perfect.”

“What is?”

“The seminar. ‘Flight from Homosexuality.’”

“You shitting me?”

“No, and listen to this: ‘Flight from Homosexuality is about breaking the dysfunctional patterns that bind you from leaping boldly into a brand new life. This seminar is the perfect jump-start for those of you brave enough to boldly spring out of the death-style of homosexuality and into the promise of a healthier lifestyle.’”

“‘
Flight
from homosexuality,’” I repeated.
“Leaping
boldly?”

“Don’t forget
‘jump-
start,’” said Freddy.

“Kind of heavy on the whole flying metaphor, isn’t it?”

“And kind of coincidental for a guy whose dad supposedly threw himself off a building.” Shit. This was al getting very complicated again.

“Oh, and look,” Freddy enthused. “Michael Harrington himself is running the workshop. Talk about a hot ticket.”

“So,” I said, “wil you go with me tomorrow?”

“Honey,” Freddy grinned, “I wouldn’t miss it for the world. That hunky white boy’s gonna teach this little fairy how to
fly!”

I walked home from Freddy’s office, ignoring the catcal s and come-ons that my skimpy outfit encouraged.

I had a 2:00 date with a regular. That gave me two hours to kil . I decided to go to the gym and run home for a shower. At least I’d feel clean.

Dudley Chambers was one of the top psychiatrists in the entire city—not a bad achievement in a town with almost as many shrinks as taxis. Every month, I’d sit under

the

handsome

fifty-something-year-old

doctor’s desk and jerk him off while he participated in the board of director’s conference cal of the North American Analysts for the Advancement of Psychoanalytic Psychotherapy. That name was more than a mouthful, as was his dick, which must have topped nine inches.

With a cock like that, he real y didn’t need to pay for sex, but I wasn’t about to tel him that.

“I swear,” Dr. Chambers said, as he hung up the phone and scooted back to zip up his pants. “Your kind ministrations are the only things that get me through those excruciating cal s. Imagine, seven pseudo-intel ectuals who get paid al week to
listen.

By the time they get on the phone, they are so
pent
up
they just can’t shut up. They real y should find a healthier outlet for al those repressed feelings.” He patted my head. “Like I do.”

I grinned.

“Come sit up here, sweetheart,” he said, pointing to his lap. “Tel me what’s up with you.”

“Do you have a minute?” I asked.

“More than that, dear. And anything you have to say wil be more interesting than the posturing of those solipsistic bores I just escaped.” I told him about how a friend had become involved with The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, and about their promises that they could convert gay people to be straight.

“A dreadful sham, it is.” Dr. Chambers shook his head. “Yes, some smal percentage of gay people want very much to change, but why is that, my dear?

Because they’re il ? Sick? Of course not! It’s because society puts such burdens on them, because they’re not strong enough to build a life for themselves. Any decent therapist, even one unfortunate enough to work at something cal ed The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy, would help such an individual to live a life congruent with his natural orientation.

“But some charlatans exploit these poor, tortured souls and take advantage of their desperation. They peddle false ‘cures,’ impossible ‘conversions.’ They push religion or psychiatry as tools to pervert the natural self.

“And what tools do they use? They inflict shame upon their clients, teach them to hate themselves.

How else could you get someone to repress something as basic as whom they’re born to love?” Dr. Chambers scooted me off his lap and went to his bookshelf. “You should give this to your friend,” he said, handing me a copy of Wayne Besen’s
Anything but Straight: Unmasking the Scandals
and Lies Behind the Ex-Gay Myth.
“It exposes these frauds for the sick, self-hating bastards they are.”

“Self-hating?” I asked him.

“Often,” said Dr. Chambers. “Many of these supposed

therapists

claim

to

be

‘ex-gay’

themselves. They can only justify their own cognitive dissonance by trying to convert others to their own internalized loathing. If the ‘patient’ buys their bul shit, they can claim that it ‘works.’If the patient is healthy enough to get the hel out of there, the ‘therapist’ can feel moral y superior. It’s a win-win for these execrable exploiters of their brothers. But you know what they say.” Dr. Chambers sighed.

“Um, misery loves company?”

“No, I was thinking of ‘Life sucks, and so do I.’” Dr.

Chambers sank to his knees. “What say we double your fee?”

If Dr. Chambers gave advice as wel as he gave head, I might have to switch therapists. Feeling significantly more relaxed, and a couple of hundred richer, I hailed a cab and went home.

Should I make it to heaven, I have no doubt that the first meal they serve wil be my mother’s stuffed cabbage. Loading up a second plateful (note to self: double cardio at the gym tomorrow), I tried to remember why I needed her out of my apartment so bad.

Then she started to speak and it al came back to me.

“It’s curtains,” she said, watching with pride as I ate.

“Mmmm,” I said, swal owing. “Curtains for who?”

“Not ‘for who.’ ‘For what.’ Your apartment. I was thinking curtains.”

“I have blinds.”

“Blinds!” my mother repeated, as if I had just uttered a heresy. “Blinds are for doctors’ offices.

Curtains are for a home. You need curtains. And some throw pil ows. Matching. I’m thinking floral.”

“OK, thanks, but I think I’l pass.” I gestured around the room. “It’s fine.”

“My son should be doing better than ‘fine.’ You’re always tel ing me that you’re making good money on your consulting work. Which, by the way, I would like to know a little more about.”

That was an area I real y wanted to avoid.

“I’m real y a blinds kind of person.” I said. “I think curtains and pil ows attract too much dust. I might be al ergic to dust. I’l have to check that out. Besides, I like it the way it is.”

“What’s to like? Inmates have better rooms than this. I feel like I’m in prison here. Where’s the color?

Where’s the drama? Where are the tchotchkes?”

“It’s fine,” I repeated.

“I don’t know why you invite me here and ask for my opinion if you’re not going to take it,” she pouted.

“I love you, Mom, but I don’t remember the part where I asked for your opinion. Actual y, I don’t remember the part where I invited you, either.”

“I assume I have an open invitation to see my only son,” she said.

“You do. But don’t you miss your own home? Your husband? I know that Dad misses you.”

“Good,” she said. “Let him miss me. Now, tel me about your work.”

I paused. Looked around the room pensively.

Settled on the windows.

“Curtains,” I said thoughtful y. “You know, now that I think about it, maybe it’s not such a bad idea. What did you have in mind?”

Visiting the Spider in His Web

THE NEXT DAY
I hit the gym (double cardio), volunteered at The Stuff of Life for the lunch shift, and then polished off a quick client at an uptown church (don’t ask).

At 6:45, I met Freddy in front of the building on the Upper East Side where the Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy has its offices.

Once again, I went for the preppy look: Brooks Brothers khakis and blue polo shirt. Freddy looked dashing in black Juicy Couture jeans, a white T-shirt, a silver choker, and black cowboy boots with silver tips.

“You forgot the spurs,” I told him.

“I didn’t want to over-excite the masses,” he said, giving me a hug. “You look very Republican.”

“I’m trying to look unhappy with myself,” I said.

“Repressed. Self-hating.”

“That’s what I said, darling. You look Republican.” We took the elevator to the second floor. The Center had the entire story to itself. The lobby was vast and intimidating, cold and modern in its design with lots of stainless steel and white surfaces.

“ V e r y
2001: A Space Odyssey,”
Freddy observed. “Where’s HAL?”

“Straight ahead,” I said, as we walked towards a handsome but blank-looking young man sitting at a long, curved reception desk. He didn’t smile as we approached.

“Hi, we’re here for …” I began.

“Straight ahead and to your left,” he directed. “The big room at the end of that hal way.”

Freddy rested his hands on the counter. “How, if I may be so bold as to inquire, do you know what we’re here for?”

Blank Boy didn’t blink. “I assume you’re attending our free informational session, Flight from Homosexuality. Am I correct?”

“It’s the boots, isn’t it? Straight boys would never wear boots like this.”

“It’s the only session being held tonight,” HAL

answered.

Freddy leaned in closer. “What do you think?” he half-whispered. “Does this shit work?”

“It did for me,” Hal said robotical y. “Have a productive session.”

Freddy pul ed me aside as we walked towards the meeting room. “We have
got
to get out of here!”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s like a whole
Stepford
thing going on here,” he hissed. “Did you see that boy? They make you straight by stealing your identity and replacing you with a pod person!”

“The pod people were
Invasion of the Body
Snatchers.
In
The Stepford Wives
the women were replaced by androids. Or something like that. I don’t think it was very clear. Now stop being such a baby.”

“OK,” Freddy said, “but if I wake up in a giant pod, I am going to be very, very angry with you. Green is
so
not my color.”

The meeting room was as cold and sterile as the rest of the office. Ten rows of eight chairs apiece faced a raised white platform that served as a stage.

The room was brightly lit from overhead halogens.

We sat in the back where there was a chance we’d go unrecognized.

There were about forty other men in the audience.

Although the program had not yet begun, they sat silently, staring straight ahead, leaving an empty chair between them whenever possible.

“This is weird,” Freddy whispered. “We just walked into a room ful of gay men and no one turned around to check us out.”

“They’re here to eschew that kind of behavior,” I reminded him.

Freddy stood up and raised his arms over his head. “Damn, I think I pul ed my shoulder out at the gym this morning,” he groaned. He stretched out, causing his T-shirt to ride up and reveal his flawless stomach and his biceps to bulge menacingly against the sleeves of his T-shirt. “Mmmm …” he moaned,

“that feels better.”

Every eye in the room turned to look at him. Eyes widened, jaws dropped. Lips were licked. Then, almost as one, the men, remembering why they were here, guiltily flushed red and turned away.

You could feel the defeat in the air.

Freddy grinned. “That’s better.”

Just then the overhead lights dimmed to total blackness. At the same time, a spotlight from behind us il uminated the stage. I could feel the floor vibrating a little before the music started to swel .

The song, incredibly, was “Sharp Dressed Man.”

“ZZ top?” Freddy asked.

“I think it’s like a theme song for straight guys,” I answered.

Just then, from where I don’t know, a tal , handsome man ran onto the stage. Michael Harrington, bursting with energy. Over the roar of the music he shouted, “You. Can. Change!” With each word, he pointed into the audience. “You. Can.

Change!” he shouted louder, stil turning and pointing. “You. Can. CHANGE!”

He pointed right in the direction of Freddy and me, but his expression didn’t alter. Good. He couldn’t see into the dark audience.

Gone was the reserved and dignified man I had met at the reading of his father’s wil . Michael was now in ful televangelist/motivational speaker mode, and it was a sight to behold.

Suddenly the music cut off. The room seemed quieter than silent, if such a thing was possible. The loudest noise was Michael’s heavy breathing. He stood stil for a moment. Then, in a whisper, he slowly extended his finger and swept it around the room, pointing to al of us at once.

“You … can … change,” he whispered theatrical y.

Another dramatic pause.

He pointed directly to a man in the front row. Stil whispering, he asked him, “Can you change?” No answer.

“This is
not
a hypothetical question,” Michael’s deep voice began to rise again. “This is
not
a hypothetical life. This is the real thing, man!” He got right up in the guy’s face. “Can you CHANGE?” The poor bastard in the front row wasn’t getting it.

“I hope so,” he squeaked.

“You hope so?” Michael thundered. “You hope so?

Hope is for church and for women! You are men!” He pointed to someone else. “Can
you
change?” he bel owed.