Paul went down to Mexico the next day after our glorious tryst. I thought of him incessantly and was eager for an instinct replay, but he had been back for two days and I still hadn’t heard from him. I had enough strength to refrain from calling all but once, but when no one answered and there was no machine, I hung up.

I was back at work elbow deep in suds, impatient for my break because it was dinner time and I knew Paul would be at home with his family-- mother, brothers, nieces and nephews. That would be the time to call. There was no clock on the wall or watch on my wrist so I beleaguered my buddy Bernard for the time. “Screw you,” he said, “It’s ten minutes since the last time you asked and if you ask me one more time, I’m gonna keep you in that sink cleaning the sewer grates, nice boy.”

“Captain, if you could tell me when my break is.”

Sarcasm easily confused Bernard, “Just go take your goddamn break, nice boy.”

“Yes Captain,” I said, hoping Paul would be home.

The kids screamed in the background from the phone receiver as Paul told them to shut up in Spanish. “You haven’t called,” I stated.

“I just got back.”

“Today?” I knew I was sounding more and more desperate.

“No, two days ago.”

“That’s not ‘Just’.”

“Are you mad?”

Of course I was, but I wanted what I wanted. “No. I was just wondering…if you could come see me tonight?”

“Are you demanding that I come?”

I knew the game in his voice so I played my hand. “Absolutely.”

“Well, then I guess I’ll have to oblige you.”

That night Paul led me to the Renaissance Furniture Room in the Getty’s South Wing and my skin crawled with sexuality. He knew the janitorial security codes and we found ourselves in our own unique sex room. Ornate fireplaces leaned against the walls, painted chairs with ivory cushions were scattered across flowery carpets. Paul took off his clothes and sat naked on a love seat and asked silently for me to join him. I kneeled in front of him and began pleasing him. He moaned in pleasure and then motioned for us to trade places.

As he continued to stroke me with his mouth and hand, I moved closer to orgasm. When I finally did come, I heard screaming that was not my own and suddenly I forced my eyes open. Paul was already halfway out one of the doors and standing in front of me was Bernard, looking like he was about to either kill me or puke. I tried to move, but couldn’t. Then it began to occur to me what was happening. I was naked on a 14th century couch, having exploded across my legs, and Bernard was watching.

“Get your ugly ass out of here, you sick queer.”

“Oh, well are you sure.”

“Sure?”

“Sure you don’t want to join me?” I didn’t quite understand where I got the gumption, but it felt good.

“Where’d your queer-bate buddy go? Who was it!?”

I was up and dressing. “It was your son, Captain.” Where was I getting this strength to verbally abuse a man of such size?

“Are you looking to get the shit kicked out of you?”

“Go to hell, fat man. I’m out of here.” With that I zipped up my pants and headed down the hill on foot.

No light shone through the crack at the bottom of Fran’s door. I knocked. No answer. I went in and sat at the end of the bed by her feet. She mumbled, “Greg?”

“Yes, it is me.”

“What’s up? Everything okay?”

“I was getting a blow job from Paul on the a 14th Century love seat in the Renaissance Room in the South Building and got busted. Needless to say, I’m fired. So, I probably won’t make enough money for rent.” Without a word from Fran, I went to my yellow bean bag and rested my weary head.