The Therapist
Excerpt from Heights of Passion
A Silverfox is invited to referee squabbling young lovers in bed.
I met Matt Wynand at a
posh black-tie AIDS benefit in one of the city’s more fashionable small hotels.
We were seated diametrically opposite each other at one of those round tables
for ten, and we spent a good deal of the time exchanging glances since we were
too far away for conversation. After the speeches, when most couples got up to
dance, I lifted my brandy snifter in his direction and mouthed, “May I come
join you?”
He raised his glass in return while his lips
formed the words, “Please do.” I introduced myself, “Carl Young,” and he told
me his name. I continued with, “I’ve been admiring you all through dinner. Alone?”
“Yes,” he said. “Always alone. You weren’t the
only one admiring. Your silver hair and dark tan turn me on.”
He had taken the words out of my mouth, but for
me it was his mop of auburn hair, almost red, brushed carelessly in every
direction, giving him that boyish-beyond-my-years look that was so becoming.
Darker auburn on his chest, brown at his groin, I supposed. Not much longer
before I tested my hypothesis.
“I live in New Rochelle; it’s quite a haul from
here,” I offered.
“I live in a loft in TriBeCa; it’s around the
corner,” he graciously returned.
I smiled happily. “After you, Matt.” I stood and
made a flourishing gesture with my hand.
“Delighted, Carl. And please call me Wye…all my
friends do.”
The loft was just what a loft in trendy TriBeCa
was expected to be, according to the best magazines. The high-ceilinged rooms
with bare hardwood floors were strewn with pieces of broken columns, Doric and
Ionic; statuary, damaged pediments, Corinthian capitals; in all stages between
destruction and restoration. Everywhere tables were covered with issues of Architectural
Digest. Fabrics,
in swatches, half covered sofas of all periods. Some of the chairs were solid
looking, while others looked frail and too expensive to risk sitting in. The
windows were heavily draped in brocades and damasks.
“You’re a decorator,” I observed, not too
intelligently, as I stripped off his cummerbund and suspenders.
“No, an accountant.”
“Then explain this loft.” His tie went flying
and I removed his studs and cufflinks, spread his shirt wide over his
shoulders, and congratulated myself mentally on the auburn mat that greeted me.
“This is all stuff in transition to my house
near Buck’s County. I buy it, live with it, and what passes muster gets moved
there on the weekends.”
I had him backed up against the kitchen counter.
He was very attractive in the dim light from the hall. I opened his waistband
and zipper in an attempt to drop his trousers to the floor, but they hung
there, caught on the edge of the counter as I pressed his ass hard against it.
“Every weekend?” I queried.
“Every single weekend, without exception.” He
smiled. He knew he intrigued me.
I pulled his body forward in my arms to release
his trousers, and started to work his briefs down his thighs. Now he was
revealed—bingo! dark brown—just the way I wanted him, leaning back on the
counter, his legs immobilized in his own clothing. I moved in, licking,
sucking, nipping.
Wye reached out on the counter and picked up a
twelve-inch kitchen blade. He brought it to my face and said, “What would you
do if I told you to stop? Now!”
“I’d tell you to put the knife down because you
wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt me while I made love to you.”
“But I like knives.”
“Don’t be stupid. Put it down or I’m out of
here.”
“And if I use it?” he whispered.
I was amazingly calm. “Both our lives would be
ruined. All your work here would be for naught. You’re not a trick from the
street; you have a history. We have acquaintances in common, people saw us
leave together. So I trust you to put it down….Now!”
He did. “You’re right, of course. But it is
exciting, isn’t it?”
“No, just dumb. People can get hurt. May we
continue now?”
“Please do,” he said. “I like your cool. You’ve
passed the test.”
I wondered what that was all about as I returned
to lovemaking. We moved to the bed where, although he was very accommodating,
he seemed to hold back. He allowed me to do anything I liked, but he was only
lukewarm in his appreciation of me. He was exhibiting “pushme-pullyou” behavior
and acting antsy like a man with a Gothic secret concealed in the attic. We lay
back on the bed and, while he smoked, I questioned him about his house in
Pennsylvania.
“It’s magnificent. You’ll have to come with me
one weekend and see it. Words don’t do it justice. I’ve been working on it all
my life.”
“And when will you live in it?”
“Not for many years. My accountancy pays the
bills. I can’t earn the kind of money I need in the sticks.”
“And who watches over it, if it’s so valuable?”
“My lover. I’ve had a lover for ten years. I try
to be good, but then, every now and then, someone like you comes along, and I
can’t resist.”
“Why don’t you live together?” I asked, ignoring
the compliment, which sounded hollow in light of our mismatched lusts.
“Have you ever heard of the city mouse and the
country mouse? We’re like that, Doug and I. He can’t work here, and I can’t
work there. So, we see each other every weekend, no matter what.”
“Whatever works,” I said.
“It doesn’t. It never has. We’re wild in bed and
miss each other terribly. We argue all the time I’m there. He wants me to move
there and stay with him, and I can’t.”
“What holds him there?” I asked.
“He works in a coal mine, for God’s sake. Of all
things! The last operating mine in the state, and there’s no other employment
for him.”
“How can that be? He must have knowledge that
could get him a job related to coal in the city “
“He’s a fucking laborer—well, supervisor now.
Strictly redneck. He has no education; he’s as stuck as I am… Come with me this
weekend. You’ll see for yourself.”
That didn’t sound like a good idea to me. Wye
was obviously a little weird. At the very least his priorities needed revision.
And I certainly didn’t want to get between two lovers fighting over things I
didn’t believe were very important.
“I don’t think so, Wye. If you only see each
other on weekends, Doug wouldn’t want me around to get in the way.”
“On the contrary, you’d be of great assistance.
With you there, Doug would be on his best behavior. Please come. I’ll make sure
you enjoy yourself.”
“I don’t think so, really.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What now?”
“The reason I can’t leave Doug is that he has a
twelve-inch dick.”
“Nonsense. Nobody has a twelve-inch dick.”
“Doug does. And I’m a slave to it. Come with me.
See for yourself. Try it out.”
“Try it out? What the hell are you saying?” I
turned to look at the glow of his cigarette.
He stubbed it out. “I mean it. It’s not
something you can keep private. People ask if they can pay to use it. He’s used
to it; he won’t balk. And besides, you’ll like each other. Even in the dark, I
can tell you’re interested.”
I was. I’d heard of such things. I’d seen Johnny
Wadd on the big screen, and it had amazed me. The idea of seeing such a tool
firsthand, knowing the owner, and finding out the effect it had on his life was
mesmerizing. I was hooked. And besides, I wanted to see this wondrous house of
Wye....