by Joe Keenan
“Shit!” he hissed as Oscar hastily disengaged from his flustered recipient and jumped off the table.
“We need to talk! I know you’re in there. The woman at the desk said so.”
“I’m —having—a— massage! ” yelled Stephen, his voice choked with terror and frustration.
“You can’t give me one minute? What’s going on in there?” she added, suspicion darkening her tone.
This was not good. A refusal to open the door now would prompt the most dire conclusions and spell an end to Stephen’s freedom to frequent the spa with impunity.
“Nothing! Jeez!” he said indignantly. “Get out!” he whispered frantically, a needless command as Oscar had already hopped to the back exit and was madly twisting the knob on the locked door. He turned to Stephen, flinging his arms wide in panic. I could only imagine his face beneath the impassive mask but Stephen was in the grip of a complete stoned freak-out, his expression calling to mind the one Janet Leigh had worn in Psycho shortly after meeting Mrs. Bates. Beholding it, I knew at once what had to be done.
“Fear not,” I said, rolling out and springing gracefully to my feet. “Cavanaugh’s here!” I felt I’d executed this maneuver with the same manly élan the superheroes of my youth always displayed when swooping in for last-minute rescues. Glancing down, I saw that the effect might have been more suave had I remembered to do up my pants.
I addressed Oscar, my voice soft but commanding.
“Under the table!”
He hastily complied as I handed the stunned and speechless Stephen his boxers. “Put these on.”
“How did you...?” he began, then trailed off, just staring at me with a look some might have characterized as zonked but which I preferred to see as worshipful.
“Shh,” I said, boldly stroking his cheek. “All will be well. Lie down.”
He obeyed as I refastened my belt and opened the door.
“Gina!” I said, my tone brisk and assured. “Come in.”
“What are you doing here? I thought Stephen was getting a massage.”
“He is. From me.”
“But you’re not a masseur.”
“Ah,” I replied smoothly, “but Monty thinks I am. If I don’t follow through and massage a few people he’ll know I’m lying and then where are we?”
“But weren’t you giving Monty a massage?”
“There’s the rub, so to speak. I’m not, as you pointed out, an actual masseur, something I feared Monty would detect unless I got some practice in first. Stephen graciously volunteered to be my guinea pig. We’ve only been at it half an hour but I’m making great strides, wouldn’t you say, Stephen?”
“Uh . . . yeah?” came Stephen’s rapier reply. I saw that the cannabis had done little to enhance his improvisatory skills and that this would not be a good time to name a famous person, a household object, and a literary genre, then shout, “Go!”
“So, whassup?” he mumbled.
“Your mother is totally out of control! She’s going to get us kicked out of here!”
Gina explained that after Stephen had left for his massage Diana had withdrawn from the salon to the terrace.
“I went with her and right away she orders another martini. It’s what she always does when we’re alone—like she can’t endure my company unless she’s smashed. I think it’s a bad idea and I say so, very tactfully, but she has it anyway and then she wants a third so she calls the waiter. And this bizarre woman at the next table — she’s wearing this huge hat with, like, netting covering her face —”
“Lily!” I said, remembering her gardening hat from my first visit.
“Exactly! And she’s even more crocked than Diana! She starts making this huge stink about how she was there first and how the whole world doesn’t bow to Diana the Great. And by now we realize who it is and Diana lays into her, calling her a washed-up old drunk, and Lily’s all, ‘Wait till my book comes out! We’ll see who’s washed-up then!’ And you know me, Miss Peacemaker, I’m doing my best to —”
She paused abruptly and wrinkled her nose.
“Do I smell pot?”
Knowing Stephen to be hobbled in the quick-answer department, I jumped in.
“I smelled that too. Some sort of incense, I think, piped in through the air vents.”
“It’s pot,” said Gina, an accusing eye on Stephen. “You’re stoned, aren’t you?”
“I’m under a lot of stress, okay?” managed Stephen. “Monty showing up, now all this with my mother...”
Gina, in a rare display of lucidity, pointed out that Stephen had gotten stoned before she’d told him about Diana. Then, softening, she said, “It’s this whole Oscar business, isn’t it?”
Stephen stared at her in frozen horror before catching her drift and replying uneasily in the negative.
“Oh, please, ” she said, tousling his hair. “It’s all I’ve heard about for weeks. You’re going to be nominated, hon.” She turned to me. “He is obsessed with the Oscar. It’s this whole mother-son thing. Y’know, ‘Mom’s got an Oscar so I’ve gotta have one too.’ ”
“Gina . . .” he pleaded weakly.
“I tease him all the time. I say, ‘Oscar or me—if you could only have one which would it be?’ I hope he never has to choose though ’cause I think Oscar would win! Kidding! ”
I thought of shooting Stephen a wry look to comment on the irony but sensed he wasn’t ready to see the humor yet.
“Look,” he said, his voice quavering, “we came here to relax, which I am trying to do. Let me finish my massage and I’ll talk to Mom before dinner.”
He would in fact talk to Mom a good deal sooner for she was even now staggering indignantly into the room.
“There you are!” she declared with that majestic exasperation only a drunken thespian can summon. “Will you kindly inform your friend Moira that if she does not evict my sister immediately we’re leaving this place!”
“Maaaaaa!” wailed Stephen, now officially in hell. He shot me a look of aggrieved disbelief. You couldn’t blame him. Moira’s brochures, while stressing the advantages of a family friendly brothel, had mentioned none of its potential pitfalls, which clearly were numerous. “I am trying to have a massage here!”
“She struck me!” thundered Diana, then, registering my presence with a woozy double take, asked what I was doing there.
“Giving Stephen a massage.”
“You’re a masseur now?”
“I’m learning.”
“I see,” Diana said vaguely, then returned her attention to Stephen.
“Your aunt has gone quite mad! If you could see the hat she was wearing!”
Her harangue continued and Stephen listened in helpless misery. There is no overstating the dismay of a man who must mollify an irate wife and mother even as he contemplates the catastrophe that awaits should either of them peer beneath his massage table and notice the nude, gilded man there. It was a daunting dilemma for a man in peak form and more harrowing still for one on whom pot had conferred the mental acuity of a bivalve. I resolved to rescue him as swiftly as I could.
“Look,” I said, my tone calm and reassuring, “I’ve known Moira for years and I know how much she values your patronage. I’m sure if I explain the situation she’ll rectify it immediately.”
Stephen shot me a grateful look, which made me glad I’d spoken up. Then Claire walked in, which made me rather wish I hadn’t.
“I thought that was you, Philip. Or is it Glen still? Or perhaps some third identity I haven’t met, in which case hello, I’m Claire.”
Stephen, unable to believe yet a third female had invaded his sex den, blurted, “Jesus!” and buried his face in the doughnut. Diana imperiously informed Claire that they were having a private discussion and Claire sweetly replied that she hadn’t meant to intrude; she’d just grab me and be off.
“Sorry,” I said, “I haven’t finished Stephen’s massage.”
“Excuse me?” said Claire. Gina helpfully explained that
I was practicing and, by all reports, getting quite good.
It was at this unfortunate juncture that I chanced to notice that Oscar’s large golden sword was still sitting where he’d thrown it, leaning against the sofa. I gave a little gasp and my eyes ricocheted involuntarily to the base of the massage table, a serious blunder as the eagle-eyed Claire noticed it and began eyeing the same region with regrettably keen curiosity.
“Sorry about the whole Glen thing,” I said, babbling in a futile attempt to distract her. “I had to pretend, you see, because Monty —”
“Yes, I know,” said Claire. “Gina was kind enough to explain your extracurricular chores to me.”
“Does everyone need to know our business?” wailed Diana as Claire discreetly yanked a button from her blouse and let it drop to the floor by the table.
“Oops, lost a button!”
She knelt to retrieve it and, pretending it had gone under the table, lifted the sheet slightly and peered in as Stephen looked on in stoned agony. It was clear that the day’s events had done much to inure Claire to bizarre surprises and restore her native aplomb.
“Found it,” she said airily, then rose. “I’m off. I’m absolutely desperate for a drink. You look like you could use one too, Diana.”
“You know, ashually I could,” replied the star.
Claire then told Gina that when she had a moment she’d like to discuss the script, particularly several scenes that did not currently feature Gina’s character and which Claire felt suffered from the omission. Gina said there was no time like the present, then turned to us.
“You guys finish your massage.”
“That shoulder’s still tight,” I said, kneading it lightly, the thrill of my first touch of his bare torso shamefully undiminished by the presence of his wife.
“You’ll talk to Moira?” asked Diana.
“Soon as we’re done,” I vowed.
“Bye, hon,” said Gina to Stephen.
“See ya.”
Claire shepherded her charges out the door. The look she shot us as she closed it contained volumes, none of which I looked forward to reading.
Seventeen
THOUGH IT WOULD HAVE BEEN DIFFICULT to imagine a more shattering ordeal, there was no topping it as a bonding experience for Stephen and me. When the ladies had finally gone the look that passed between us was one such as two World War I doughboys might have exchanged after passing a long night in their foxhole, staring death in the face while dodging their less fortunate comrades’ flying viscera.
“Jeez,” said Stephen with a shudder.
“Yikes,” I concurred.
The door to the back hall opened and Ricky entered, clearly agog with curiosity.
“I was going to check on you but I heard all these voices! Was that your mom?”
Stephen nodded darkly.
“I thought so! What was she so pissed about?” asked Ricky, apparently laboring under the misapprehension that his brief residency in Stephen’s bottom entitled him to hear family secrets.
“Please,” sighed Stephen, “just go.”
“Okay,” he said, a bit stung. “I was just—” He paused and looked around, puzzled. “Where’d Oscar go?”
Oscar crawled sheepishly from his hiding place, his previous allure now dimmed by the flaccidity of his gilded cock and the charley horse he’d acquired while crouching down there.
“So,” inquired Ricky, “would you like to reschedule for maybe —”
“Just go,” repeated Stephen. Ricky nodded, chastened, then helped his limp and limping colleague from the room.
You might suppose that such a debacle, offering as it did the clearest possible warning on the dangers of extramarital spa nooky, would have banished all lewd thoughts from my head. You would, however, suppose wrong. The instant the door closed I became powerfully aware that Stephen and I were truly alone for the first time ever and that he was nude save for boxers. I also realized that although two skilled sex workers had escorted him briskly around the sexual bases, his cleats had yet to touch home. I scurried to the hall door to make sure it was locked, then returned to Stephen’s side. I perched subserviently on the edge of the table and eyed him with tender concern.
For a while he said nothing but just lay staring ahead with the air of a man waiting for the hearse. Then he turned to me, his eyes boring into mine.
“If you tell one single person what happened here —!”
“Stephen!” I said with a maidenly gasp. “Never! No one!” I touched his shoulder and gave him my most soulful gaze. “I’m on your side. Always. Don’t you know that by now?”
“I guess so,” he conceded with a sigh. “But what about Claire?”
“Oh, don’t worry about Claire,” I said lightly. I was eager to dismiss the whole topic of Claire, which I deemed dangerous and inconducive to erections. “She’s the soul of tact. I mean, you saw her peek under the table. Did she cry ‘Aha!’ or even bat an eye? No, she just stood up, realized this was no place for ladies, and hustled your mom and Gina out. You’ve nothing to fear from Claire. God, you’re so tense!” I observed, tentatively kneading his upper back. “Allow me.”
Holding my breath, I began to gently massage the area, fully expecting that any second he’d ask what the fuck I thought I was doing. His muscles were tight though and he accepted my ministrations without protest. Emboldened, I began kneading the area harder, concentrating on my technique even as I marveled that I was fondling the screen’s most legendary trapezius.
“So,” he asked dreamily, his eyes closed now, “where the hell’d you come from? What were you doing in here?”
Having just extolled Claire’s benevolence it seemed imprudent to admit I’d been running for my life from her. I said that, in order to avoid an unwelcome pass from Monty, I’d claimed to be double booked then taken refuge in here, hiding beneath the table when I’d heard footsteps approaching.
“Once I realized it was you I was going to come out but . . . well, things had kinda heated up by then. One hates to kill the mood.”
“Liar,” he said with a stoned smirk. “You just wanted to listen in.”
“And watch,” I conceded boldly.
“You could see?” he asked, more intrigued than offended.
“A little. In the mirror.”
“Slut,” he said companionably. “Played with yourself too, I’ll bet.”
“Oh,” I deadpanned, “like that was the dirtiest thing going on in here.”
He laughed softly. Silence fell. It lengthened and I grew concerned. Had I overstepped? Or worse, put him to sleep? But then he gave a little sigh and without opening his eyes asked, “So, wudja think?”
A part of me couldn’t help thinking “Actors! Can’t they do anything without wanting a review?” But a far shrewder part of me realized that there’s nothing like boffo press to raise an actor’s spirits and in this case perhaps more. So I launched into a rhapsodic appraisal of Stephen’s performance, leaning heavily on words like “stunning” and “godlike” plus several metaphors drawn equally from the worlds of ballet and rodeo. I hoped my lascivious praise joined with my increasingly visible excitement would reignite Stephen’s libido. He shifted onto his side and I stole a glance at his boxers.
Success!
Rubbing his neck now, I lowered my face to his ear.
“You,” I growled huskily, “are the sexiest man of all time.” This phrase proved the sexual equivalent of open sesame. He grabbed the back of my head and gave me a kiss so electrifying it damn near finished the job it was meant to begin. When our lips parted I squatted there, nose to nose with him. I gazed into those perfect eyes, waiting breathlessly to hear the words that had echoed in my fantasies since the moment we’d met. And though I’d been hoping for “I want you, Philip, I always have!” or “Take me, my love!” I settled quite happily for “Get busy. You’re batting cleanup.”
WHEN THE DAY COMES that I lay wizened on my deathbed, preparing to breathe my last, should those in attend
ance note that I am smiling more lewdly than is quite decorous during extreme unction, they may confidently assume that I’m recalling the eight and a half minutes that followed Stephen’s invitation. It is a memory I’ve revisited times without number and one that has never, even in the darkest hours, failed to divert.
The question most often put to us members of the Fucked-a-Megastar Club by the frustrated applicants who crowd its waiting list is, “Was it all you dreamed it would be?” In strict honesty I must say not entirely, if only because my dreams were more romantic in nature and ran toward sleigh beds, roaring fires, and perhaps dinner. But these are mere quibbles. When you’re making love and the face you’re gazing down upon (or, by midpoint, up at) is that of Stephen Donato, matters of venue pale into insignificance.
True, if I wanted to cavil, I might have preferred it if he’d have spent as much time gazing raptly at me as he did at the mirror, this previously mentioned predilection of his having reasserted itself rather vigorously. Again, some might have seen this as narcissism. I preferred to think it was his scrupulous devotion to craft and that he watched his performance much as he might the dailies of a new film, searching for ways to better his technique. How thrilling for me though to gaze into, or at least at, those beautiful azure eyes. How much more gratifying still to see them widen in ecstasy at the jubilant finish. Hey, Stevie fans! Think you’ve seen all his major releases? I can name one you missed!
When it was over we lay there panting. Then Stephen pecked me lightly on the cheek (this being, after all, our first date) and said, “Thanks, I needed that.”
“Oh, anytime.”
He sat on the edge of the table, still a bit foggy. He remarked on the unusual strength of the pot and said he’d need some coffee in his room before dinner. I offered to walk him out.
As we promenaded past the unsuspecting guests in the spa foyer and main salon, a wave of euphoria stole over me as I savored the delicious secret we now shared. It was something I hadn’t felt since Gilbert and I, at the age of fifteen, lost our virginity to each other, then proceeded directly to a rehearsal of You’re a Good Man, Charlie Brown. Our covertly exchanged smiles flooded my heart with happiness, erasing the pique I felt over playing the thankless role of Schroeder.
