Second You Sin (2 page)

Although I wound up being saved by my semi-boyfriend, the incredibly beautiful and conflicted Officer Tony Rinaldi of the New York Police Department, I couldn’t shake the feeling that there had to be more to existence than just getting by.

I might not have made it to heaven that night, but I got close enough that I wanted to make sure I knew the password.

I wasn’t raised in a religion, so I asked friends about theirs. Eventual y, I found out about Unitarian Universalism. It’s a religion that has no dogma and no ritual. They don’t tel you what to believe in or what to do. You’re encouraged to live in a way that’s honorable and respectful of the natural world and other living things. The UU principles value democracy and freedom. You don’t even have to believe in God or Jesus to be a UU—although you’re encouraged to be courteous to those who do.

UU churches are supportive religious communities that prize diversity and intel ectual curiosity.

Plus, the reverend of my church is a bril iant, inspiring speaker, openly gay, and total y hot. Every week, I listen to his sermons and am simultaneously spiritual y uplifted and turned on.

Sexy enlightenment? Works for me.

A couple of months ago, one of the Sunday school teachers cal ed in sick. Reverend Jack asked if I could fil in. Although I had hoped that his first request of me would involve massage oil and nude wrestling, I would pretty much do anything he asked.

So, I helped out. Working in the preschool room reminded me just how much I enjoy being around children. When an ongoing position there opened up, I was happy to volunteer. Now, every Sunday, I attend the early sermon and help run the preschool for the second session. The kids are great, and my coleader, Cindy, is funny and warm.

She’s also been a teacher long enough to know just how uncomfortable working in a urine-soaked sweatshirt can be.

“Go see Shirley in the office,” she told me. “She probably has some T-shirts left over from some church event or something.”

Shirley-in-the-office was one of those women who seemed to work at every church in the world: somewhere between seventy and one hundred, hair pul ed back in a tidy bun, harlequin glasses permanently perched on the tip of her patrician nose.

She took a sniff as I walked into the room.

“Let me guess,” she said in her hoarse rasp that proved that not everyone who smoked died young.

“That’s not juice.”

“It was at one point,” I offered.

Shirley gave a little shudder. “That is just
one
of the reasons I never had children. Filthy beasts.” She waved her hand as if shooing something away.

“Listen,” I said. “Cindy thought you might have something I could change into.”

Shirley got up slowly. Her bones creaked like a door that hadn’t been opened in years. I wanted to get her a can of oil.

“In here,” she said, taking me into a smal room behind her desk. Boxes were neatly stacked against the wal s. She walked over to one and pul ed out a white T-shirt that said “For Sale.”

I didn’t think Shirley knew what I did for a living, but the coincidence was bizarre.

“We used these for the mannequins at the church bazaar,” she explained. “But don’t worry, wearing it won’t make you look like a dummy.” She snorted at her joke.

I waited for her to leave, but she stood there and stared.

“Uh, I’m gonna get changed now,” I said.

“I’d imagine you would,” Shirley answered. “You smel like a urinal.”

“A little privacy?” I asked.

“Honey, look at me. If I were any older, they’d hang a plaque around my neck and declare me a historical site. It’s not that often I get to see a cute young thing like you get half naked. Why do you suppose I watch those insipid soap operas—for the plots? If you think I’m missing this, you’re crazy.” She crossed her arms and nodded.

I sighed and pul ed my damp hoodie over my head. Shirley whistled.

“Wel , look at you. Strong little thing, ain’t you?” It’s a reaction I often get. I’m a smal guy. Just five foot three and a buck twenty-five. But thanks to years of gymnastics and weight training, what little there is of me is pretty wel built.

Of course, for me, looking good is a job requirement. With my youthful features and blond unruly hair, I’m your typical boy next door. Assuming you live next door to an Abercrombie & Fitch.

I keep myself in the best shape I can—not too muscular, but slim, lean, and cut. In my clothing, I look like a skinny kid, but when I’m undressed, the results of my hard work are evident.

Shirley was getting a good show, as I had to struggle to get the T-shirt she’d given me over my head. I checked out the label. XXS.

“You have anything bigger?” I asked her.

“Sorry, that’s al we have left,” she rasped. “Keep working, it’l stretch.” She looked down at her flattened chest. “Trust me, sooner or later everything does.”

I continued to writhe. Eventual y, I squeezed into it.

If it were any tighter, I’d have died from strangulation.

It clung to me like a second skin, the sleeves only covering the top inch of my biceps, and the bottom stopping an inch and a half above my bel y button.

“Woo-eee, look at those abbydominals,” Shirley observed. “You should dress like that al the time.” She dropped her voice down to a whisper.

“Although, not in church, honey. It’s not real y appropriate.”

“Wel , it’s not as if I chose this. . . .” I began. “Oh, never mind.”

Shirley-in-the-office watched as I left the room.

“You should wear tighter pants, though,” she offered.

“Show off that cute butt of yours. Oh, yes, you’d fit right in on one of my shows.”

As I walked back into the classroom, Cindy looked at me, blinked twice, and went back to reading the kids a story. When she was done, she pul ed me out of earshot of the class and nodded toward my shirt.

“Didn’t they have anything in an adult size?” I grimaced. “Shirley said this was al they had left.”

“Wel ,” she said, “at least it’s better than walking around soaked in pee-pee.”

“I look ridiculous, don’t I?”

“Oh, no, you look fine,” she lied. “I mean, at least you have the figure for it. Just don’t walk past the middle school classes—those twelve-year-old girls wil eat you alive.”

2

New York State of Mind

After class was over, the parents came down to the classroom and picked up their kids. A few of them looked at me a little funny, but I tried not to make eye contact with anyone. My little talk with Wil em’s parents would probably go better when I wasn’t dressed like the Whore of Babylon. A slap on my butt, though, got my attention.

“Look at you,” said Nick, a darkly handsome guy in his late thirties who tended to be on the serious side.

“Where have you been hiding al those muscles?

And why bring them out to play today?”

“Hey,” I said, giving him a quick hug. “Usual story.

Changing a diaper, unexpected hose-down, had to grab whatever was handy.”

“Yeah,” Nick said. “Been there, hated that. Could have been worse, though. Getting painted with what comes out the other end’s a real bitch.” Nick’s partner, Paul, walked over with their son, Aaron, in his arms. He was a real y adorable kid they’d adopted through foster care.

Aaron left one arm around Paul’s neck while hooking the other around Nick. He pul ed the three of them as close together as his little arms could.

“There’s your Christmas-card photo right there,” I said.

“Hey, Kevin,” Paul said, giving me a peck on the cheek. Paul was about ten years younger than Nick, fairer, too, with a shy smile and cute, floppy hair.

“You stil have to come over for dinner one night.

Aaron is dying to show you his action figure col ection.”

“I have Supahman and Ba-Man and Wonna Woman and ’Pider Man and . . .”

Paul bounced him in his arms. “Whoa, big man, save the whole list for later, OK? We want Kevin to be surprised.”

“OK,” Aaron whined.

“But real y,” Paul said, “you have to let Nick cook for you. He makes stuffed chicken breast to die for.”

“Speaking of,” Nick said, “check out those pecs on little Kevin, huh?”

Paul blushed, which was not unusual. He was definitely the sensitive type. He was also a pretty terrific painter. He was discovered by a gal ery in LA a few years ago.

I knew their move to New York was paid for by his sales. I wasn’t quite sure what Nick did, but I think he was in some kind of law enforcement. Maybe he’d get along with my semi-boyfriend, Tony. He was certainly butch enough—Tony wasn’t comfortable around anyone too flamboyant, and Nick was definitely a man’s man. He practical y leaked testosterone.

Nick pul ed Paul closer. “Don’t worry, baby, you know I only have eyes for you.”

“It’s not your eyes I’m worried about.” Nick tousled Paul’s shaggy hair.

“Wil you cal ?” Paul asked me. “We real y do owe you for taking such great care of Aaron.”

“I wil ,” I promised. “I’d love to come over

sometime.”

I meant it. They were a terrific family and I looked forward to getting to know them better.

“And wear that shirt,” Nick cal ed out, earning him a smack on the head from Paul.

“Don’t hit, Papa,” Aaron admonished.

“That’s my boy,” Nick said, pul ing Aaron from Paul’s arms and throwing him in the air. Aaron laughed with glee and Paul sighed the sigh of put-upon housewives the world over.

When class was over, I threw on my leather jacket and hurried out the door. Although it was unseasonably mild weather for mid-November, there was enough of a chil in the air that I wished I could have worn the sodden sweatshirt I carried in a plastic bag.

I kept myself warm by walking quickly through the streets of the West Vil age to the coffee shop where I was meeting my best friend, Freddy.

It was a lazy Sunday, with just a handful of people walking around and even fewer cars on the road. I love Manhattan when it’s quiet and sleepy like this.

I’ve known Freddy since my freshman days at New York University, when I was an inexperienced freshman and he was the charismatic and dead-sexy student-president of the school’s Gay/Straight Al iance. Thankful y, he fel into the first category of the group’s name, and we quickly entered into a fast and thril ing affair. The sex was great—Freddy’s one of the most sensual partners I’ve ever had—but it quickly became clear we made better friends than we did lovers.

Wel , to be honest, it only became clear when I found out that he had slept with twelve of the fifteen guys who had joined the group that year, including two of the three straight ones. Freddy had the most voracious sexual appetite I’ve ever encountered, and when you consider my profession, that’s saying a lot.

Luckily for him, he’s fantastical y good-looking and has a body to die for, so getting laid is never a problem.

Relationships, however, don’t come as easily.

Freddy laughs off any suggestion that he might actual y want to settle down with anyone—or any three or four, for that matter. It’s a subject that’s kind of awkward for me to pursue, because, despite the fact that we both act as if we’re uninterested, there’s an undeniably strong attraction between us. Which we’ve both been denying, that is.

I was pretty sure it could never work between us.

We’re better off as friends.

Freddy rose to greet me as I walked through the door. “Sweet-heart!” he cal ed.

The coffee shop where we met had just opened a few weeks before. It was cal ed Drip. With its drop-dead gorgeous baristas and posters of sexy shirtless boys, it attracted a mostly male crowd. It was pretty packed on this Sunday morning, and the few diners in the shop who hadn’t already noticed Freddy turned to look. As usual, the quick glances became gazes as they drank in Freddy’s lusciousness.

“Hi,” I said. We exchanged air kisses and I noticed a few patrons continued to stare. Some at me, I hoped.

Freddy had just come from the gym—his church—

and he was wearing a snug long-sleeved Under Armor workout shirt and sweatpants. The white shirt hugged and accentuated every curve of his rounded biceps and prodigious chest, contrasting nicely with his chocolate brown skin. I could see why eyes bulged at the sight of him.

Forgetting that I was wearing the “For Sale” Tshirt, I slipped off my leather jacket. Freddy’s mouth dropped.

Although I think it kind of titil ated him, Freddy never real y approved of my job. I winced, anticipating the drubbing about to come my way.