1. Christian

1

CHRISTIAN

T he only thing better than living in a rent-controlled apartment in Manhattan is living rent-free. And the one thing better than that? Living rent-free on the Upper East Side. The secret is like with everything—it’s about who you know.

Gramercy Place is the third tallest apartment building on the UES. I occupy the basement apartment—a favor I’ve been taking advantage of for over a year now thanks to the building’s owner, my boss, who went to high school in Pennsylvania with my late father.

I got my own entrance last winter, which was thoughtful of Gibson. Though I never minded using the service entrance, the added privacy comes in handy.

“Nice place,” Beth— or is it Bella? —says as I open the door to my apartment and stand aside to let her in. I flip the switch that turns on the string lights. Sidewalk-level windows line the park side of my place, but what little light I get is obscured by the building’s landscaping.

It’s a big place for Manhattan, encompassing about half the building’s footprint. My entrance isn’t on Park Avenue, though, it’s around back. The door I usually use leads to a small basement hallway with a stairwell heading up. Next door to me is a storage room, I’m assuming. I guess it could be another apartment for temporarily homeless building employees, but I’ve never investigated.

Bella or Beth looks around as she walks toward the bed. I unbutton my shirt and follow. The black walls soak up the glow of the lights, creating the kind of atmosphere that works for one-night stands or ruminating, depending on my mood.

I hoped I’d find someone to bring home, so I straightened up before going out to meet my friends at a trivia night. My desk is in order. My laundry is neatly stashed in a clothes hamper. My bed is made with clean sheets—the only white in the room.

She scans the bulletin boards covered with poems and clippings, random photographs and bits of memorabilia from my life. I overtake her, putting my hands on her hips and dropping a kiss on her bare shoulder to divert any questions that might be headed my way about my decor. I didn’t bring her here to talk. She’s attractive and petite with thick, shoulder-length black hair. Her skin is satin to the eye and touch, a light shade of brown mixing Korea and Puerto Rico, according to the brief conversation we had at the bar. I asked because I always do. I can’t help myself.

My friend Jericho—who is also mixed race—says she wishes I wouldn’t, but it helps me make sense of people, and I’m naturally curious. “Mmm…” she sighs as I kiss her shoulder again, closer to her lemon-cream smelling neck. I’m not sure I’ve smelled anything I like this much in a while.

“How do you want me?” she asks.

“What do you like?”

She runs a hand through my hair and holds my mouth against her skin. “What are you good at?”

I’ve hooked up with enough strangers to know the right answer. “Why don’t you hike up this dress and show me how pretty you are.”

We ease into things, trading oral. It doesn’t take long to realize neither of us are bashful in the bedroom, and the night is young.

I wake up sore, satiated, and blissfully alone. She left her number on a notepad at my desk— Betty . Never would have remembered that.

I shower, strip the sheets, and throw them in the washing machine near my kitchenette. Gibson’s offered to put a full kitchen in, but I turned him down twice. A mini-fridge and microwave is all I need. I’m no cook. Half the time, I forget to eat anyway.

I’ll probably come home one day and have a full set-up, but for now, he’s respecting my boundaries. Maybe since he knew my father, he thinks of himself as a surrogate dad—he’s been more than generous since my prior living arrangements fell through, but one dad was all I could handle. Gibson’s given me a job, a place to live, and a private entrance, which is far more than my dad ever gave me, but I’m good with leaving things there. I owe him too much already. I don’t need him playing favorites just because we have that one tenuous connection. I have enough guilt to work through without adding excessive freeloading to my already full plate.

Dressing in sweats and a long-sleeved t-shirt, I take a seat at my desk, flip on the lamp, and pick up my favorite fountain pen.

Turning to a new page in my current journal, I begin a new poem for Trinity, atoning for my latest round of sins.

The Gramercy lobby has a nice set up compared to other buildings I’ve been in. The doormen have a desk that runs the length of the entryway, a private break room, and a bathroom. I have camera feeds of all the lobby elevators, including both penthouse elevators and the one at the service entrance. I’m rarely caught by surprise with any comings and goings. The entry doors are glass with wrought iron details, but I have a good view of the sidewalk and all the people coming in or passing by, trying to get a glimpse of the good life.

Marianne Hayes has a list for me when she comes home from shopping. “Please, do note the times and tell Teddy I can’t have any overlap.”

I glance down the list of women’s names and time slots. I recognize Avery Lawther’s name right away. She’s up first at six, so I won’t have to see her. Teddy will be the one walking her to the Hayes’s private penthouse elevator. Gibson and Marianne’s residence is the 24 th floor. All of it.

The last name on the list raises my eyebrows. She’s a model famous for having an Academy Award-winning mother. She’s penciled in from midnight to nine, and she can’t be more than twenty-five. Marianne is in her mid-forties—though she doesn’t look it. She’s one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen in the category of bone-thin, full-breasted, Angelina Jolie types. She never smiles or expresses any emotion but bland indifference, but she’s polite, and she trusts me.

From the caramel highlights in her long dark hair, Botox, fillers, a seemingly pathological obsession with pilates and fashion, she’s Upper East Side society personified. As the wife of someone like Gibson Hayes, she has an image to maintain, and she’s damn good at it.

“Has he come in yet?” she asks.

“Unless he left before I clocked in, I assume he’s home.”

“Has he had anyone up?”

“No,” I tell her, placing her visitor list on my clipboard.

“And how’s business?” she asks as she takes out a compact and brushes the pad of her fingertip beneath her eye .

She’s referring to the other penthouse. The club on the 25 th floor.

“It was quiet this morning, but it’s picking up.”

“None of the deviants wanted to come out to play?”

I almost laugh. I’m not sure who she’s calling a deviant. For a woman who just handed me a list of five women she expects to entertain in some way this evening, it’s pretty rich. Although I shouldn’t assume. I have no idea what the hell goes on in her and Gibson’s home. But I do know a little about what happens at the club.

Leaving the desk, I walk her to the elevator, using my key card to open the door for her. She gives me a light pat on the arm before she steps inside. “Have a lovely evening, dear.”

“You as well,” I tell her.

Traffic in the lobby is picking up, and I get back to work, retrieving mail and packages, making small talk, and memorizing who all is coming and going. Being a doorman at Gramercy is busy—not only are there more than a hundred units in the building, but the club has its own clientele who aren’t residents. And the club never closes.

Gibson showed it to me once, years ago, so I’d get the idea. He wanted me to understand what I was signing up for since I originally worked deep nights. I let him give me a tour, remaining silent, keeping all my thoughts to myself.

It was shocking, though—the reality of a sex club. I’d never seen people fucking live and in public before. The real thing got me uncomfortably hard, embarrassingly fast. A woman being double penetrated lives rent free in my head to this day. Not that I’m judging.

Teddy arrives for his evening shift at four on the dot, and the first thing I show him is Marianne’s list of visitors. He and I share a questioning look, but don’t say a word.

“What was she wearing today?”

Admittedly, we all have some fantasy involving Marianne. Some of the doormen have bigger crushes than others, and I wouldn’t call my fascination with her a crush, but it’s not like I’ve never jerked off in the shower imagining what I could do with her tits. Not that I’m proud of this. “New dress,” I say. “Tight. Black. White trim. Four inch heels.”

“Damn.”

It’s not something we discuss at hand off, but there’s no doubt we all speculate about Gibson and Marianne—their sex life in particular. But you’d have to get me pretty drunk to convince me it’s not kinky.

Before I head down to my apartment, I step outside and grab some street cart Halal. It’s Friday night, so I expect someone will invite me somewhere. I’ve just polished off my food when an offer from one of my former roommates comes in. Drew Riley and his husband Olivier are on this side of the East River for the night and planning to go to a comedy club. I accept the offer because I haven’t seen Drew in a few weeks, and I’d love to know if he’s heard from Silas, who hasn’t returned my calls in a month.

I don’t even know where he’s working now—or if he’s working. Last I heard, he and his adulterous lover were still shacking up.

I was hard on him when I learned he was moving in with a married Republican senator, but it’s possible I misjudged the situation. I regret that our friendship suffered from how critical I was of him. It’s not like I’ve never led with my heart—it’s just that I learned my lesson and don’t plan on making that mistake again.