“Did you hear about this?!” Maddox says, raising the newspaper up high as if it gives him away.
Dana walks over from the refreshments table with her morning caffeine fix. The rest of the office is hustling at 7 am as if time means nothing. The 24/7 news cycle prohibits rest for journalists and staff. Cup in hand and amidst the commotion of the living, breathing, eukaryotic room, Dana takes the newspaper from him and examines the front page.
“Interstate 5 undergoing major closure
starting…” she reads.
“No, not that one!” He says. Again, as if Dana
would know. “12, Business Section: Real Estate.”
With meticulously manicured fingernails and
smooth hands, Dana proceeds to that section. “Yeah, Maddie, how would I know?”
Turning to the aforementioned page, she peruses. “Oh dear, God, Maddie,
seriously? Scientology? Again? Oi.” She reads from the black and white Times
New Roman text, “Scientology Church to Open up Low-Income Housing to Combat
Homelessness and Convert.”
Already
a pressure cooker containing himself, Maddie runs both hands through his bird's
nest of hair. “I hate them, Dana. I hate them.”
Semi-squinting,
and putting the paper down in front of him, she sits across from him in a
rolling wooden chair. In torn up jeans and a white button-up shirt, she crosses
both legs. “Maddie, what’s wrong? Who hurt you?”
“Nothing, no one, never mind, shut up!” He says,
taking his hands from his head and slapping them down on his matching,
disheveled desktop.
“Yeah, I believe you,” she says, sedate and
taking a sip from her coffee oversaturated with sugar and cream. The liquid’s
noticeable viscosity hugs the sides of the ceramic as she puts it back in her
lap.
Maddox interlocks his fingers and puts them down
in front of him, his receding hairline accentuated by how he exasperatedly
pulls back on his head when he is stressed out. Dana often wondered if his
pocked complexion on his forehead and widow’s peak were a cause of or a symptom
of his irked moods.
Working in a dying industry was like bailing a
sinking lifeboat, stressing the inhabitants keeping it afloat, akin to the oval
office in accelerated aging, though with much less thanks and status.
Dana was able to keep her youthful good looks by
having a steady diet of coffee, stimulants, nicotine patches and deep breaths
of air. She even kept a cot in an unused janitor’s closet. When days got
stressful, her parasympathetic nervous system involuntarily switched on. When
this happened, she retreated to the leaky, mildew-ridden closet for a cat nap,
woke up with a fresh mind and got back to the task at hand. These naps were
more like resets: her mind overwhelmed with too much, unable to come to a
solution, she would hit the off switch like a computer and then reboot with a
cooled system, RAM and Processing power freed up for answers and
strategies.
Then there was Maddox - or Maddie, as Dana
called him - who subsisted on the office’s free pastries. Maddie
navigated the crises and deadlines by riding the crest of one insulin spike or
another. He would crash, reup with another donut, chocolate or cheese croissant
and then get back to the controlled chaos of the office. Dana was convinced
that he had not had a decent home cooked meal during his tenure at the Times.
He had a wedding ring, though she never heard him talk about his spouse or
whoever.
As investigative journalists, they did not get
paid well. With the amount of time that Maddie worked, the hourly rate must
have been abysmal. Yet she knew he lived in a swank, downtown Condo. There were
so many different scenarios that could have explained Maddie’s place, though
with all of Dana’s keen sleuthing, how he sustained this passion pursuit of
journalism remained mysterious: external wealth from a previous field;
inherited wealth; spousal or ex-spousal support; or maybe he wasn’t married at
all and didn't really have a penthouse. Maybe somewhere in the Variety building
there was another hidden, derelict room that served as his sleeping quarters,
much like Dana’s. Two ships passing in the night, converging at the overcrowded
piers at random hours of the day to tackle the next big lead.
Maddie looks up at Dana, who continues to sip
her syrupy, sucrose-enriched elixir. After much delay, she finally takes the
bite.
“Okay, Maddie, why don’t you tell me what’s
bothering you. You don’t tell me much about yourself and we’ve been working
together - or at least - next to each other - for the past three years. You can
at least regale me with the details of why you hate Scientology so much. I
mean, we all make fun of it, but you seem to have a strident passion for
it.”
“Dana…”
“Purging time: right here, right now, Maddie.
Out with it, while I still care.”
“Okay, fine,” reluctance saturating his voice
like the sugar and insulin coursing through his veins. “I was a member of the
church.”
“Excuse me?!” Luckily Dana had swallowed the
coffee before she could do a spit take, instead spewing her surprise.
“Shhh!” Maddox lowers his head. “Yes, you heard
me. I was in the church. Dianetics, thetans, Xenu - all that shit. I was deep
in their administrative dealings. Sort of one of their executive CPAs, I guess
you could say.” Maddox leaned back, wiping the powdered sugar off of his baby
blue polo shirt, his mildly staunch gut shelving over his taut belt.
“What happened?” She says, leaning more intently
towards him as he rested behind the mounds of folders, loose paper, empty
coffee mugs and crumb-filled napkins of his desk. The idea of an actual,
functioning desk was somewhere buried in the disarray.
“How much do you follow the church?”
Dana thinks, not taking her
gaze off of Maddox as she searched through her internal hard drive, trying to dig
up as much as she could. All she could unearth was the ridiculous mythology, L.
Ron Hubbard’s legacy as one of the most successful con men of all time and the
process by which members were recruited, having to pay exorbitant fees to be
audited for whatever sins or negative energy they carried with them.
“Oh, it’s so much more than that!” Maddox’s
whispers were barely so. Like a banshee, even his lowered voice seems to shriek
and reverberate in the office. Luckily everyone else is hooked into their bluetooth
headphones, in a virtual meeting or deep in work. “The church practically lives
off of blackmail. Forget the old church schtick of taking gullible people’s
money for indulgences; the Scientologists get everyone’s secrets and use them
as leverage. Once you’ve been suckered in, there’s no backing out - you give up
all of your sacred information to them. If you try to leave, they threaten you
with divulging all of that surrendered information: sexual orientation,
encounters and infidelities, corruption, drug use and dealings. It’s a fact.
There are plenty of documentaries and investigative reports from credible
sources - not just entertainment sections or the Hollywood Reporter. We’re
talking New York Times, Washington Post, etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.”
“Okay, so why did you leave? How did you leave?”
“I had a good lawyer and enough accounting
information spanning over a decade that I could have ruined them with all the
extortion money they received and had to launder. Church and state separation
and tax-exemption made it possible. But we came to an impasse - they could have
ruined me. It was a stalemate. The agreement was my silence in exchange for a
cushy lifestyle for as long as I lived.”
“Holy Xenu.”
“Well, Xenu was actually the villain in the
texts, but, yeah, holy shit. Anyway, this approach isn’t anything new for the
church: coming to the sheltering, clothing and feeding of desperate people and
then, at their most vulnerable, trying to convert them when they’re on hands
and knees, begging for biological needs to be met.”
“So then what?”
“Glad you asked.” Maddox excavates through the
mess on his desk, finally reaching for an envelope that in no way looks any
more conspicuous than all the other papers on his desk. He pulls out a
handwritten letter, taking up several pages. “We have a new Deepthroat, here.
In a very literal sense: a male escort living in West Hollywood.”
“I beg your pardon?” Dana closes her eyes
briefly and shakes her head. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“In my spare time, on top of all of these other
deadlines that have been bludgeoning us - “
“You really don’t sleep, do you?”
“I managed to track down a specific call boy -
one who says that he had a transactional encounter with someone powerful and
prominent within the church.”
Silence billows between them.
“Come on Maddox, enough with the theatrics: just
tell me who.”
“Tom Cruise.”
“Seriously?”
“Yeah, seriously.” He comes off with more
insistence and conviction, holding up the letter, again, showcasing and giving
theatrics to what could just easily be a casual conversation.
Dana likes Maddox’s flair for the dramatic, even
though it always seemed pressured, like he was trying to draw attention to them
even when being low key and inconspicuous was a priority. Clearly the man had
watched too many movies - maybe even soap operas. Where certain politicians
imitated their favorite actors’ quirky, erratic pauses, Maddox was no better.
If only someone followed him around with a keyboard to inject dramatic tones
when he was about to reveal something. Sadly, that composer never showed
up.
“So what do you plan on doing with that
information? I mean, how do you even know it’s genuine and not just someone
trying to jerk your chain?”
“That’s the thing: I’m not doing anything with
this information - you are!”
Dana laughs with jitteriness. Maddox holds his
gaze, letter still in hand. “Wait, you’re serious?”
“Absolutely serious.”
“What do you expect me to do? You have more
information on this than I do. You’re the one with the vendetta.”
“There was a team of lawyers,
Dana, that created an airtight NDA for my silence. I could be hauled to court
for disseminating any kind of information. You, on the other hand, are removed
from this. You could be the one to get a stranglehold over the church with
interviews that compromise the Church’s biggest poster boy. Er, man, I guess.
“Hmm…” Hesitance downtunes her.
“Think about what kind of kickback we could get
if we had leverage over the Church. And if we did decide to run the article if
they didn’t play ball, this could be the biggest story in entertainment all
year. Proof that Tom Cruise is a closeted gay man; procuring services from a
West Hollywood call boy; the church having control over him and his finances if
his secret were to get out; having a decades-long leading man come out of the
closet would be revolutionary for the industry. There is no losing here.”
“All right, Maddox, in theory this is all great,
but we would need hard evidence - “
“Ha! Hard.”
“Yeah whatever… hard evidence that this escort
did in fact have relations with Hollywood’s most prominent leading man. Even if
we did, who’s to say that such a powerful entity as the Church of Scientology
won’t come for us? Remember what happened to The Boston Globe when word got
back to the church about the newspapers investigation into child sexual
abuse?”
“Yeah, they exposed them and the church hasn’t
really recovered their reputation since then.”
“Right,
and the staff got harassed and threatened by the church before they ran the
story.”
“Okay,
but the only people who know about this are us three: you, me and the escort.”
“Westfield
doesn’t know about this?”
“No,
Westfield is too busy covering all of the perfunctory bullshit awards shows
this season. Also, the Oscar race is on, it being the Fall going into Winter
and all. Besides, I know about the far-reaching influence and power of the
Church. Mum's the word if we really want to do this right and without
repercussion.”
Dana
looks up in the air, tapping the edge of the ceramic cup with her index
finger.
“Okay,
fine, I’m in. When will we meet this escort?”
“Glad
you asked. What time is it?”
“Are
you serious?”
“You keep asking me that -
yes, I’m serious. We’ll meet him today.”
“How
long have you been talking with this guy? And how did you know I’d be on
board?”
“You’re
too young not to be on board with this: you need a big break. This is it. Hook,
line and sink.”
“You
sly bastard. Where do we go?”
“We
meet him outside in one hour. I’ve secured a private meeting room in the
building - no cameras, audio equipment and a noise-canceling audio device. It’s
perfect.”
“We
have rooms like that here?”
“We
do now.” Maddox goes to his desk and opens up a drawer, presenting a series of
wires and a bolt cutter. More theatrics.
“Those
could have been from anything,” Dana says, rolling her eyes and finishing the
rest of her coffee.
Dana
and Maddox watch the traffic go by like a lazy river. Most commuters make their
way from Wilscher, the street in front of the Variety building, onto the 405 .
Even for a late November day, the air is crisp and comfortable with the right
amount of layering. By lunchtime, it will be comfortable to wear just a shirt
and slacks. The trademark LA haze has yet to make its ascension and meet-up
with the low-latitude sun.
“So
you don’t even know this guys’ phone number?”
“Very
analog and off the grid. Just like the old times.”
“How
did you find him?”
“Sometimes a man gets lonely.”
“Oh.”
“What
- you didn’t know?”
“Well,
I - “
“Yes,
Dana, I’m a gay man and I eat carbs. A lot of carbs. We don’t all come with
chiseled physiques.”
“But,
what about your wedding ring - I mean, yes, I know you can get married and all
- but why go to a call boy?”
“We’ve
been separated for a while now. Nothing is official. He’s on the East Coast and
I’m stuck here, living out of his penthouse. For many legal and convenience
reasons, we stay together. He does his thing, I do my thing. It’s a pretty
common arrangement.”
“Well,
I’m sorry it’s not ideal.”
“Are
you kidding? It’s totally ideal - I get an allowance, the penthouse and I get
to pursue my passion in spite of the terrible pay.”
A
nondescript yellow cab pulls up to the sidewalk while the two talk. A handsome,
chiseled-featured blonde gets out of the back seat and walks to the front
passenger-side window, handing the driver a wad full of cash. After the
transaction is complete, he turns towards the main entrance where Maddox and
Dana wait. He struts up to the two in his black high tops, fitted jeans, gray
form-fitting t-shirt and a black leather jacket. The sun is barely up yet he
sports Ray Ban Aviators, his hair combed to his right. Not a single fly-away
strand in his hairdo. He looks fresh, like he has already been awake for
hours.
“Hello,
Maddox. Nice to see you again in a non-business setting.” He says.
“Likewise.
Jordan, this is Dana, my friend and colleague.”
Dana
reaches out her hand to shake Jordan’s. He holds out his but at the last second
makes a fist and plants it in her palm.
“Paper
beats rock,” his smile beaming through his aviators.
“Right, paper beats rock,” the volume of her
voice softening before she has a chance to finish.
“Not quite what you expected, is it?” Jordan
says.
“No,
not at all,” Dana says.
“Well
aren’t all expectations just being shattered this morning?” Maddox looks at
Dana,
smirking slightly. “In either case, we have some
business to discuss. Jordan, Dana, follow me to the quiet room.”
Maddox
leads the two through the corridors of the Variety building. The halls are
alive and thriving with frenetic, pop-culture obsessed journalists, spouting
big names like “Bradley Cooper” and “Kate McKinnon”. Most of them are dressed
in nondescript business attire, walking mechanically but torrenting a million
words a minute. Others strut around in pop-art t-shirts with torn up jeans,
casually going about their day with vascularity in their eyes.
The three get to the quiet room. It looks like
any other conference room in the building: gray, carpeted floors, generic hotel
art on the walls, a massive round table surrounded by rolling chairs. This is
the first time Dana has ever been in this room, not even knowing its existence
until now. She looks around, noting there are no intercoms or phones. Wires
hang out of the wall where the speaker system had been removed.
The three take a seat, Dana and Maddox on one
side and Jordan on the other. Jordan keeps his aviators on despite the only
light source being the overhead fluorescent tubes.
“Bright in here?” Dana asks without any hint of
sarcasm.
“Oh right, the aviators. They’re prescription so
I have a tendency to keep them on. As my little sister asks, ‘is it bright in
Doucheville?’” He laughs.
Maddox laughs. Dana can tell it’s probably a
courtesy laugh, that her friend is flirting with their source. Jordan takes off
his aviators and hangs them on the neck of his shirt. He leans back in the
chair, crossing his legs and placing his folded hands on his knees.
“So, you have information for us?” Dana says,
hopefully interrupting the flirtation.
“Absolutely,” Jordan sits lax in his chair. “I
have been cleaning Tom Cruise's pipes for months now.”
Dana closes her eyes momentarily and shakes her
head. “Beg your pardon? I assume we’re not talking about actual plumbing here?”
“Oh absolutely not. The guy is into some kinky
stuff. I had to sign all kinds of NDA and privacy notices before I was able to
meet up with him. Usually he goes for guys in their 20’s. Says they’re more
virile and physically fit.”
“So why you, then?” Maddox finally speaks
up.
“He says he likes my discipline. I keep my body
clean: no alcohol; strict diet; rigorous exercise routine. He says I would make
a great addition to the Church. That’s the only thing he holds against me - not
being a follower. Well, never mind - it’s the only abstract thing he
holds against me. He says I could be ‘cleared’ if only I could start being
audited.”
“Great…” Dana rolls her eyes.
“Even more interesting, though, is that he says
that using such a clear receptacle as me to purge, I am osmotically in the
process of being cleared. Like his essence is so pure that I am inheriting his
‘clear’ parts. I guess he meant both the fluid and solid ‘clear parts’.” Jordan
laughs.
“Oh, God.” Dana says.
“Come on, Dana, don’t be such a prude.” Maddox
says.
“Anyway, I think he’s making all that shit up.
I’ve read a lot of Scientology texts and nowhere does it sound like one can
become free of engrams - your neuroses and toxic memories - simply by having
sex with someone as ‘clear’ as he.”
Jordan keeps surprising Dana; she did not expect
a blonde, West Hollywood, muscle-bound escort to be so clever and inquisitive.
She has seen many strange things in the realm of the Hollywood elite and has
grown jaded. A bit of relief sweeps over her that she could still be stupefied
from time to time.
“When you say ‘clear’,” Dana asks, “what do you
mean?”
“I can field this one,” Maddox turns to her,
“being ‘cleared’ is the objective of any living thetan - or person - who enters
into the church. By auditing, one is essentially having therapy and trying to
rid themselves of their toxic memories, whether they be from their alien
ancestors or even traumas in their own lifespan. To be ‘cleared’ is to ascend
pure in the afterlife as a thetan, or spirit.”
“That’s stupid.” Dana says.
“Well, aren’t all religions if that’s the case?”
Jordan asks.
“Not all of them?”
“Why, because they’re older, therefore make more
sense?” Jordan says, slightly intensified.
“Um…” Dana stumbles, trying to find a proper
response. She had been in the hot seat before with a subject but there is
something a little more intimidating about Jordan that she can’t
identify.
“Sorry - I’m a bit irritable today,” Jordan
says, noticing her discomfort, “and I have a bit of a chip on my shoulder about
religion in general. As a gay man, Christianity wasn’t too kind to me so I look
disparagingly on everything that elicits cultish behavior.”
“In either case,” Maddox steps in as the
mediator, “we need something that can bring the church down a peg or two.
Namely with Mr. Cruise. We were thinking…”
“You’re not going to take the church down. It’s
too powerful. Especially not with a gay scandal and its top, prominent member
and his members. But…”
Dana rolls her eyes, sensing the flair for the
dramatic in Jordan as she does in Maddox.
“But what?” Both Dana and Maddox ask in unison.
“I can get you what you need. But it’s not going
to be what you expect.”
“We’re all ears.” Maddox leans in. Taking out
her notebook and pen, Dana puts her empty coffee mug on the table and listens
intently.
Jordan enter’s Doan’s Bakery. He walks across
the large-tiled, tan floor, aviators still on, black denim jacket with punk
rock pins festooned to it. The staff has been hard at work for the morning
rush, having been there since 5 am prepping croissants, muffins, cupcakes and
other tantalizing treats. Taking steps between the sparse seating and the
counter up against the left wall, this highly-intelligent, pop-cultured hipster
approaches the main counter.
At the cash register, he takes a menu. His inquiring
mind heightened at this time of morning after too much pre-workout, he begins
reading in detail the history of Doan’s. He has never been here before and he
could see why: the walls are adorned with corny, Kinkade-ish art. Potted and
obviously fake flowers dot in strategic places throughout the room. Tacky, to
say the least. And, of course, delectables too taboo for his strict diet and
regimented lifestyle, commensurate to his client’s ways.
He reads the brochure: Established in 1984, this
hidden gem on Ventura Boulevard in Hollywood Hills, CA is home to the white
chocolate coconut bundt cake.
‘The Bundt Cake!’ Jordan squeals in his head,
his eyes widening as if to stand on a motherlode and yell ‘Eureka!’ ‘This is
it! I’m actually here!’ Neurons fire and sense is made. The establishment
dwelled in the Hollywood Hills inconspicuously. The reasons become clear as to
why Jordan’s client would frequent here: no one would suspect an A-lister to be
stepping foot into this quaint bakery. Barely seating a few dozen people - at
the most - this place must have been a culinary secret up until its noteworthy
mention on James Corden’s show in 2018.
Looking into the display case embedded within
the light green counter, Jordan peruses the other delectable items on display
that his paramour - for lack of better words - restraints from on a yearly
basis. This paramour visits not for himself but for friends, family, employees
and coworkers. The shelves display such delicacies as white chocolate raspberry
cake, pecan shortbread, lemon bars and -
“Oh my fucking god,” unable to contain his inner
thoughts any longer. There it is - the holy grail of decadence and refined
sugar: the white chocolate coconut bundt cake. As described in the brochure, ‘a moist, soft, porous, torus perfection with
hearty chunks of white chocolate, clothed righteously in a silky layer of cream
cheese frosting and then flurried with a mountain of shredded coconut.’
‘Forget the cherry on the cake,’ Jordan thinks
to himself, ‘the coconut needs to usurp grandeur.’
“I’ll take one of those,” Jordan says,
pointing at the perfect, angelic cinquecento tire-sized dessert behind the
glass. Always a dream to point out the puppy behind the window, this would do
him satisfaction for today. Though the intentions were malicious, his
schadenfreude was much like the topping on the cake of his wanton submission.
More baked today than just pastries and muffins in Doan’s.
“That’ll be $150,” says the gentleman behind
the counter. His name tag reads ‘Eric.’
Many thoughts rush through our highly alert
escort’s brainwaves.
“150?! Why - does it come with a complementary
blowjob?”
Eric blushes. “No, sir, it does not.”
“What about a handjob? I could settle for one
- even a so-so one.”
“No, sir, there are no sexual favors included
with the purchase of this bundt cake.”
“Then why the astronomical price tag?”
“You see, sir, the bundt cake is the most
expensive item in our bakery because…”
Eric is cut off as the door slams open, the
bell ringing as if to signal the hounds of hell to dinner time. An older
gentleman, wizened and in attire suggestive of a custodian - baseball cap, gray
jacket and all - bellows:
“I’ll cover the cost of the boy’s bundt cake!”
He yells with a fervor of a fiending sugar junkie. Surprising poise and an
aggressive gait, he controls his motions to the counter, as if about to break
into a sprint. In one swift movement, he extracts two hundred dollar bills from
his Dickies pockets, slamming them down onto the counter. “Keep the change!
Also, is there a restroom in this joint?!”
“Uh, yeah,” Eric says, abashed, “It’s outside.
You’ll need a key…”
“Then hand it over - I’m a paying customer!
Cough it up, boy - chop-chop! That liter of water I chugged earlier has come to
pass like a riptide!”
Eric reaches under the counter, pulling out a
spatula with an attached key. Before he can even fully extend his arm, the
hyper old man snatches it and darts out the door with equal haste with which he
entered. His gray, ear-length hair blows behind from under his cap as if unable
to keep up with the swift, almost mechanical movements. Grabbing one of the
unoccupied chairs from the outside dining area, he disappears out of
sight.
“Is he a regular?” Jordan asks.
“Dah - I’ve never seen him before in my life.
Weird that he paid for your bundt cake. Also, I guess, nice of him?”
“If you’ll excuse me…” Jordan squints.
Grabbing the bundt cake within the plastic container, he makes his exit,
following the steps of the old man. Outdoors is nothing but strip malls and
suburbia. A concrete purgatory. He goes under the archway, into the parking lot
and then the dumpster area. The bathroom door is situated to the right of the
back entrance. Behind the wiry door the staff labors and toils with tools and
ingredients.
Jordan’s face squints slightly at the thought
of how well this bathroom may be kept. Neither Dana nor Maddox told him the
conditions of the lavatory. Sighing, Jordan knocks on the brown door. It
immediately flings open with just enough space for a hand to reach out, grab
him by the jacket collar and pull him in. Forcefully.
Unphased, he looks around, examining the
sterility of the space, not too concerned with the grizzled old man sitting on
the confiscated chair. Somewhere in this room is a hidden camera and
microphone, courtesy of Jordan’s inside people at Variety.
“So, what are we getting into today?” Jordan
asks. He puts the cake box onto the air dryer hanging from the wall and goes
over to the sink, avoiding eye contact with the codger. Turning on the faucet,
he scrubs his hands thoroughly.
“Are you clean?” The old man asks.
“Thoroughly. Douche and everything.” Jordan
says, rinsing off his hands and then wiping them on his denim. “Also, can I
request that we not do this with the mask on? It’s weird; even I have my
stipulations. I’m top shelf price for a reason.”
“Fine,” the old man says, taking off his hat
and placing it on the spotless floor. Reaching into the collar of his Guns N’
Roses shirt, he grabs a hold of something and then pulls back, revealing skin
underneath the wrinkled latex. Some of the natural skin underneath hangs on as
the mask is pulled back though eventually lets go. Underneath reveals a much
more taut, handsome middle-aged man. Though not a young heartthrob as he was in
Top Gun or Born on the 4th of July, Tom is the apotheosis of aging like fine
wine. His salt and pepper hair hangs thick and full. Where most men his age
fail with the more unkempt look, he is able to make it his own brand of
distinguished pulchritude. A unique beauty, like the oranges, browns and reds
in the Northeastern Seaboard’s Autumn. Though in the autumn of his life, Tom
maintains a solid, thick and hearty physicality. Sinewy, limber, agile: all the
things that most men - even those decades younger - would kill to have.
“Speaking of the top shelf,” he continues, still in the chair. He drops the
rubbery mask to the floor. “I’m going to tap that taut ass like a keg but drink
it like the smooth, top shelf spirit it is.”
“Oh my,” Jordan takes off his jacket and
places it on the coat hanger within the stall. The urinals gleam bright white,
reflecting the full spectrum from the overhead fluorescence. “What do you want
me to do, Mr. Hunt?”
“Call me The Firm, you grimy manwhore.”
“Oh, so we’re The Firm today, huh? How do you
want me, Firm?”
Tom stands up, removing his
gray jacket first and then his t-shirt, flinging both on the ground, its
cleanliness disregarded. His cut, defined body never loses its effect on
Jordan, whose skin turns to gooseflesh upon gazing upon its glory. With
uncharacteristic patience, The Firm steps towards him, coming within inches of
his nose. He looks up at our escort, who stands 5 inches taller than he. “Say.
The. Whole. Thing. The Firm.”
“Okay, The Firm. How do you want me?”
In silence, The Firm aggressively turns our
escort boy around. “Grab the cake.” He says with an intensity to match his sculpted
physique. Jordan reaches for the cake. “Slowly. And place it on the ground at
your toes.”
Jordan obeys. “Do you want me to…”
“Shut up.” He commands. “Open the container.”
Again, Jordan obliges. He gets down on his
knees and opens the clear, plastic lid. Two popping noises are made from where
the two, pronged seals come undone. Like the satisfying sound of opening
leftovers from last night’s takeout. “Get on all fours. Above the cake.”
Jordan assumes his doggy style position, face
over the cake. He can smell the sweet aromas strongly. Normally unable to smell
anything, there is a moment of delight in being able to intake the aromas of
this culinary masterpiece.
“Yes,” The Firm says, “inhale its fresh
fragrances. How does it smell?”
Jordan remains silent.
“It’s okay. You can talk. Tell me. How does it
smell?”
“It smells like bliss.”
“That’s right,” The Firm says. Unable to see
what he is doing, Jordan hears what can only be the sound of an unbuckling
belt. Followed closely is a light popping and then a zipper. Pants and
accouterments hit the tiles. “Bliss,” he repeats. “Now taste it.”
“But it’s got sugar in it.” Protests the
escort.
“You will eat it! The Firm
commands it!”
Still on all four, the escort dips his finger
into the thick, succulent frosting. He inspects it. White, creamy, sweet and
all too familiar. He leads the frosting into his apprehensive lips.
“That’s it. Lick your finger clean. Then do it
again.”
Jordan does as he is told: slowly scooping one
fingerful of frosting into his mouth. Delicately, slowly, as if handling a
snowflake one at a time, lest it melt in his warm hand.
“What does it taste like?”
“It tastes like cheesecake filling.”
“No. Describe it abstractly.”
The 37 year-old thinks to himself. Pausing, he
peers at the round perfection. The cake sits there placidly, its art, science,
craft, and history buried within centuries of secrets passed down from
German-Jewish chefs. Confectioners’ artisan skill was the foundation of the
pyramid, building one augmentation at time, coalescing to the apex, yielding
the masterpiece within the St. Louis Park, Minnesota’s Hasidic community. The
Bundt Cake carries with it a history of clashing cultures: that of the Germans,
French and the Jewish people. The product of the Gugelhupf, a round and
hollowed, traditional cake indigenous to Germany; the brioche, a French
creation; and the mastery of a Jewish chef in a 1950’s American Midwest;
brought to prominence by two Swedish brothers acting as both businessmen and
chemists. A testimony to collaboration and synergy and contrast to the violence
and brutality that was World War II. When forces come together in spite of a
taboos and social mores, beautiful things are made.
“It smells like everything that could be pure
and blissful in this world,” Jordan says, “if only we could all put our
differences aside.”
“Yes. Food. It is that which brings us
together. But even then, we go to war over food. Pastries even. Take a big bite
of that cake. I want you to chew it thoroughly and then spit it into your
hand.”
Jordan is about to take a bite out of the cake
when The Firm’s forceful hand shoves his face into chef Doan’s triumph. He
nearly chokes but manages to take a large mouthful. Putting up no resistance,
he starts chewing the delectable, though barely, as he has quite literally
bites off more than he can chew.
“Pastries. The war of 1838-1839 when France
first intervened with the adolescent country of Mexico was over a pastry shop being
looted by Mexican soldiers.”
Jordan munches. His arms are stiff but the
rest of his body is relaxed and malleable. The Firm tears the callboy’s pants
and underwear down to his knees as the object is down on all fours. Reaching
his hand down to the quadruped’s face, he says “spit the cake into my hand.” He
does so.
“A French pastry chef, known only as Monsieur
Remontel, files a complaint to the King Louis-Phillippe, demanding compensation
of 60,000 pesos. Have some more cake,” The Firm says, as he continues to exert
the submitting boy’s face into the cake, practically choking the reluctantly
consenting object. Though as The Firm has asserted many times over his escort,
‘reluctant consent is still consent.’ “In answering to Remontel’s complaint,”
continues The Firm, “the French Prime Minister demands 600,000 pesos in damages
to all the businesses that were looted around the time of Remontel’s
violation.” He takes the chewed up cake and paints it on his nether regions.
“When no payment was made from Mexico, France sent a fleet to blockade any and
all imports and exports to and from Mexico.” Slathered in the cake, The Firm
orders the boy to “say the lines” that they rehearsed.
More connections are made. The lines that his
client sent him makes sense in context now. “I won’t!” He protests through a
mouth over occupied with the treat.
“Say it!”
“Okay fine,” he muffles, “give it to me in the
bundt!”
He thrusts into the boy aggressively. In spite
of how many times The Firm gives it to him, the object never gets acclimated to
it - The Firm is too large. Jordan often harkens back to what his
brother-in-law says about Afghani torture of making the captives sit on a coke
bottle. Except this is repeated again and again over the course of each tryst.
At least the client has the decency to use whatever makeshift substance as a
lubricant.
“Even though the blockade is strong and
holding, the Mexicans are crafty; able to circumnavigate it and find ways to
smuggle via Corpus Christi.”
While Jordan is being thrust into and then
backed out, he wonders in that moment what was better; The Firm’s colossal…
firmness, or the reciting of French-Mexican history. He wonders if The Firm had
really read up on the esoteric event and had it fully memorized beforehand. Or
if this was a special script for this particular encounter. In either case,
Jordan is impressed. His demi- and sapiosexuality elicits in him his own
bloodflow. The discipline and commitment that The Firm had for his films and
projects, he brings to their encounters.
Despite the initial discomfort, he warms up -
figuratively and literally - to the inexorable thrusting. He pulls his shirt
off, showing his bare backside to his dominant partner. The dom slaps his bare
skin, leaving a handprint. Jordan becomes more excited, continuing to eat
the cake as best he can. With his body rocking to and fro with repetitive
entering-exiting, it’s challenging though he manages. He takes handfuls from
the cake, and puts them in his mouth. His partner abstains from the sweet
decadence as he continues ravaging.
“Now say the other line!”
Jordan swallows the cake, “You can ride my
tail anytime.”
“Am I your wingman?!”
“You’re my wingman! You can ride my tail
anyday” The boy wonders how much more of the script he is going to have to
bellow. He also ponders the caloric density of the cake and how much cardio
work he’ll have to do in order to break even for the day. He projects around
125 calories per ounce. But this cake is especially rich, so probably
175/oz.
“Get up and on your knees with the cake and
face me!” The Firm pulls out.
Jordan follows suit, the half eaten cake in
hand, shirtless, pants around his ankles and the cake on his face and rear.
“What do you want me to do?” He says, looking
up at him from the floor. He imagines this may be another camera angle that a
director could use to make the subject look bigger to the audience - both in
endowment and stature.
“Put more cake on me.” The boy does as he’s
told, completing covering the endowment until it looks like its own delectable
pastry pegged onto a carved, man’s body. “Lick it off… Now how does it taste?”
“Savory
and sweet.”
“Tell
me it’s delicious. Better than the cake by itself.”
“Mmm
mmph mmph…”
“Idiot
- take your mouth off of it and tell me.”
“It
tastes better than the cake alone. The cake was already the best thing I had
ever
put into my mouth. Now it’s you and the cake.
The combination is unparalleled.”
“Beautiful,” he says, pushing Jordan’s face
onto him and gagging him. “That’s it, enjoy every inch of it.” He grabs his
hair, pulling it and then pushing his face onto it, forcing his mouth to take
all 10 inches of it, down the gullet with bits of crumbs, frosting, white
chocolate chunks and coconut. At every chance he has, Jordan swallows, reveling
in the soft sucrose and hard flesh, admiring the juxtaposition and collaboration
of both working in his throat and mouth.
Tonsils massaged with The Firm’s glans,
eventually Jordan relaxes, able to take it all in without so much as a shudder.
Sitting on the floor, cake in one hand, taut, bare cheek in the other. Every so
often, The Firm pulls out, orders more cake on him and then recommences once
he’s re-frosted.
Jordan goes to take care of himself, but The
Firm does not allow it. The former is forbidden to have any kind of release,
allowing it only for The Firm in these rendezvous. The Firm was never an easy
client to take in in any way, but Jordan was always up for the challenge, the
former favoring his agony with ecstasy. He always got left full and incomplete,
needing to release after The Firm had his way with him. The escort liked the
control, the domination. Sometimes his celebrity lover wouldn’t even allow
Jordan to touch himself at all in between meetings, making him save it for
occasional moments of bliss in which The Firm would give him what he called
“The Reacher-Round.” Today would be different.
“Give me a handful of cake.” The Firm
commands. “I’m going to go in your mouth. Take care of yourself. We’re going to
go at the same time.”
Jordan had his oral skills down solid. He had
done this for The Firm so many times that he could time it just right. He also
hadn’t released himself in weeks since his last encounter with The Firm. This
would be simple. The subject had the cake in his hand, standing over Jordan,
who began moving his head more quickly over his hardness. He takes his own in
hand and starts brandishing it.
“Yeah, just like that.” He affirms while
Jordan takes him in. “Keep going. Nearly there.”
‘Oh, I know,’ Jordan thinks to himself slyly,
working his mouth and his hands in enviable dexterity and balancing the two
body parts’ motions.
“Say the line!”
Jordan takes his mouth off The Firm, cake
burdening his speech. “I want the juice!”
“You can’t handle the juice!” The Firm’s body
spasms and hunches over, again shoving into his receiver’s mouth. Jordan
doesn’t feel it amongst all the warm cake bolus but he recognizes his liege’s
familiar climax movements. Clutching himself even tighter, the underling
follows suite. As always: Master first, subservient second. Even if The Firm
didn’t want it this way, this still matched Jordan’s predilections.
The Firm staggers back, sitting into the
chair, his pants around his ankles. Breathing heavily with his head against the
wall, he looks at Jordan who is still on his knees. Their eyes meet.
“Don’t you fucking look at me.” He
exhales.
“Yes, The Firm.” Jordan looks down.
Standing on both feet from the chair, he walks
over to what little bit of the cake is still on the floor in the container.
With good squatting form, he crouches down and takes a chunk out of the dessert
with a pinch of his middle and index fingers and thumb. He stands and holds it
up to the light. Cake is still slathered and slurried all over his nether
regions. Pieces of crumb occasionally fall. He tastes the cake in his
grasp.
“Wow,” he chews, “forget that perfect ass of
yours. It’s secondary to this delicacy.” Closing his eyes, he patiently
masticates, as if its clarified essence is seducing him, massaging his
gustatory nerves all the way to his sensory cortex. The fingers are licked
clean.
‘Son of a bitch,’ Jordan thinks to
himself.
The Firm puts his rubber mask back on followed
by his shirt and jacket. Reaching into the inner pocket of his custodial coat,
he presents a thick, manila envelope and throws it at his object’s knees. Still
kneeling, he begins to wipe the frosting and crumbs off his face.
“Leave it there.” He commands. Jordan drops
his hands. “You were good today. Not great - but good.” The mesh hat replaced,
he goes to the sink and washes his hands thoroughly, even taking a small bottle
of antibacterial ointment out followed by a bottle of scope. Gargling for a
minute, he spits out the alcohol-based solution into the sink, rinses the
receptacle and doffs his hat to Jordan.
“Call me in a day however you need to.” He
says and then exits. For a brief second, the outside light slices through the
room, compounding the brightness. The slamming door quickly blunts it.
Getting up off his knees and wiping off his
cheeks and lips, Jordan pulls up his pants and re-secures the belt. Walking
over to the sink, he looks at the drunken, sloppy expression on his face and
sighs with incommensurable satisfaction. He opens up his mouth and sticks his
tongue out, looking at the crumbs and remnants of frosting and The Firm’s
essence. He washes his and uses paper towels to clean up the mess on the floor
as best he can. Jordan is not sure if this destination is a one-time thing. In
either case, he worked retail before and does not want to leave the wanton mess
for the staff. After all, the bundt cake was, in fact, delicious. Jordan may
have been focused on other more pressing things but actually did enjoy the
creation.
Picking up the envelope, he looks inside and
sees the neatly folded and tied wads of cash. $10,000 for a combined hour and a
half of driving and work. In his line of work and payment method, Jordan has
become adept at looking at the thickness of bills and estimating the grand
total.
Jordan exits the room and walks back to the
storefront and returns the key to Eric.
“Where did your cake go?” Eric asks, replacing
the key under the counter.
“It was delicious.” Jordan says.
“You ate it all?! Already? Usually that thing
is shared between four people.”
Jordan
pats his stomach with his hand. “What can I say - I was insatiable. As I said:
delicious cake. Compliments to the chef.”
“Thank
you!” Eric exclaims, standing up straight and smiling. “It’s been in the family
recipe book for decades.”
“Well,
keep up the good work. If you’ll excuse me, I have a date with the stationary
bike. Punishment for my thetans.”
“Beg
your pardon - thetans?”
“Oh
never mind. You wouldn’t understand. Ta-ta!” He salutes with the envelope to
Eric and walks back to his car.
“Well, you sly weasel - you did it,” Maddie
says, freeze-framing the video. “It’s almost too perfect.”
“The frosting on the cake,” Jordan says,
sipping coffee.
“Can we please stop watching it?” Dana says.
Had she an appetite she probably would have lost it even upon first viewing of
the tape.
“The crazy thing is,” Maddox continues, “is
that no one else even needs to see this. Looks like Tom has two extortionists
now: us and the church. And good ‘ol Tom paid handsomely for our silence. The
man gave over enough to pay for Variety’s rent for the next couple years.” He
turns to the escort. “Congratulations. An OT-8 eating refined sugar
became a bigger scandal than outing him. You got some weird trivia and
inquisitions, Jordan.” Jordan shrugs with a smug expression.
“You did your homework,” Dana says, crossing
her arms, ever more impressed with their literal deepthroat. Integrity goes out
the window. Her moral compass spins out of control. As much as she wanted
ethics, black and white journalism - particularly in the entertainment niche -
is slowly dying. That janitor’s closet she slept in is a testament to the
sacrifices she has made for Variety. Declining paychecks, layoffs and
downsizing had already sacked the company’s esprit de corp. At least now they
wouldn’t have to worry about losing their facility. ‘The moral quandaries of
hopeless idealists,’ Dana thinks to herself, making sure she doesn’t manifest
her ponderings aloud.
“The budget for Variety is robust for the next
couple of months. It’s unethical to give compensation to a source, but we can
make an exception this time,” Maddox says to the call boy.
“That won’t be necessary,” he responds as he
sits on the edge of the war room-like table, feet up on a chair. “We’ve already
broken a bunch of moral and ethical codes and maybe even a few laws. Let’s not
sprinkle more coconut on the cake or spread more frosting on the dick,” he giggles,
as if he only speaks for the sake of amusing himself, present company’s comfort
be damned.
“Right.” Maddox makes an uncomfortable
expression.
“Oh, come on, you prudes - you already saw the
video. I think we’re way past formalities at this point,” he drinks the rest of
his coffee and puts the cup on the table. “Anyway, I used to be a freelance
writer.”
“You did?!” Dana exclaims.
“Yeah, why else do you think I’m a male
prostitute? The pay was shit as a writer. A person has to subsist on things
other than his parents’ charity and spare bedroom.” He puts the coffee cup down
on the table. “Consider this a bit of community service - or donation - to the
newspaper. I admire the work you do and don’t know how you do it at the
intensity and consistency you do. But keep up the good work.” He looks at his
watch. “If you’ll excuse me - my Uber is almost about to get here. Gotta hit
the iron before my date tonight.”
“Anyone famous?” Maddox asks. Jordan taps his
nose and then shakes his head.
“NDA, yo.” Jordan waves and then finds his way
out.
“Are you going to get a new cot for that
janitor’s closet?” Maddox says, biting into an eclair.
“Oh no! They’re actually going to let some
more employees work from home so that clears up office space for a siesta
room.” Dana rubs the nicotine patch hiding underneath her shirt.
“No way! That means I can get out of that
boiler room area and onto a nice recliner. At least I’m hoping it’s a recliner.
I wonder if they’ll do that or have sleeping pods? Those would be nice too!
Noise canceling ones so that snoring won’t be an issue.”
“Don’t count on it - we got a lot of money but
not that much money to make a mini Japanese pod hotel.”
“Well, a man can dream. Even if it’s just cots
it’s better than where I’m napping now.”
“Same. It’s a good thing I don’t smoke anymore
- God knows what kind of mildew I’m inhaling whenever I nap in that closet.”
Elsewhere on Dana’s mind was the possibility of having a better work-life
balance and not even needing the siesta room. That last disclosure of Jordan’s
experience as a writer made her a bit envious: here she was doing work that was
not necessarily the acme of journalism. She had hoped the aspirations would
lead her to the Times.
As she sips her coffee, she imagines Jordan
waking up in lavish hotel rooms next to whatever closeted Hollywood dreamboat
hired him. Oddly, Jordan’s niche is in a stereotypically female-dominated
profession that lands him the big gigs. Yet here’s Dana, in a typically
male-dominated field, struggling to climb the ladder. Both she and Jordan have
college degrees but leverage them in completely different ways. Opposite sides
of the same coin.
“Maddox, how much do you think I could charge
for someone to have sex with me?”
“What a ridiculous question.”
“I mean, do you think I would be a
street-walking ho or would I be elegant, call girl-type status?”
Maddie
ponders for a bit. “I think you have enough brains, talent and good looks to be
anything you want to be.”
“Oh
geez, never mind.”
“What?!”
Maddox laughs exasperatedly, confronted with what he sees as
implacability.
“Nothing.
Let it go.” Dana sighs.
Once
he is back at his home in the West Hollywood neighborhood, Jordan finds one of
the last surviving payphones. Going through his satchel, he pulls out his
contacts booklet. Looking through the pages, he finds “Jerry M.” He puts loose
change into the slot and then dials the number. 213 first: Beverly Hills. The
phone rings and eventually the other end answers.
“Hey,
Maverick, it’s me.” Jordan’s voice is sultry and beckoning.
“Hello,
smelly goat-boy.” Maverick is on the other end. Jordan loves all the demeaning
nicknames Maverick gives him right on the spot. “I’m feeling a little bummed. I
need to be around people. We’re doing something saturday.”
“What
were you thinking?”
“A
party. Be waiting at your house in two days time at 8 pm. Wear a black cloak,
mask, tuxedo and a nice pair of shoes. Sequined thong underneath all of that.
You’ll get further instructions this afternoon. Be waiting for the courier to
arrive with the specifics .”
“Sounds
good, Maverick.”
“And
don’t call me Maverick for the time being. Call me Dr. Bill Harford. Understand
me.” He doesn’t ask.
“Yes,
Dr. Harford.”
“See
you soon.”
Both
lines hang up.