Dress rehearsal for
Defiance
was exhausting—for me, at least, since I had to dance in it. But I'm sure it was nerve-wracking for Masters and Handelsman, too, because this was their last crack at making it right before the drama critics descended on them. They were so pumped up on reviewing and celebrating and agonizing over minutia on the production that they went straight to Handelsman's yacht, the
Boxoffice
, in the yacht basin near the theater. And Masters told me I had to come along.
Before we left the theater, I called the Gangplank restaurant, which was close to closing time, and cajoled them into preparing a late supper to send over to the yacht for the two men. I myself wasn't hungry. I was just exhausted. And after I'd accepted the meals at the gangplank and taken them into the salon, where the two men barely noticed they were even there they were so animated and excited, I first, sat back into the cushions of the curved bench lining the fan tail of the yacht and then I brought my legs up onto the cushion, stretched out, and gave myself up to sleep.
I couldn't go to sleep, though. I was exhausted beyond sleep. I shut my eyes tightly and tried controlled breathing, but it just didn't happen. It was both a bad thing and a good thing that I couldn't go to sleep. First came the bad thing.
Masters and Handelsman must have assumed I'd gone to sleep, because they made no attempt to moderate their discussion.
"So, you've done it, have you?" Handelsman said.
"Yes, the apartment's sold and I'm having the clothes sent up to your place in Connecticut," Masters said.
My ears perked up. I hadn't heard anything about this—I'd found he was trying to sell his apartment—no, our apartment. I lived there too.
"And you're sure you're done with it?" Handelsman said.
"Yes," I heard Masters speak. "I didn't much care for it anyway. As long as I had Lawrence for those earlier plays—and Sean now—the attention was pleasant, but those empty years between the time Lawrence died and I took on Sean were frustrating. I'm happy done with it. Your invitation to come live out my days with you couldn't have come at a better time."
"And to think that no one in the theater ever knew who was writing your plays."
"That was part of the pleasant part," Masters said. And then he laughed. "Such a joke on all those pompous theater people."
"Including me," Handelsman said.
"Oh, no, never including you, Lenny. You were special. There's never been anyone like you."
"And Sean?" Handelsman said, followed by his own life. "What will we do with sweet young Sean up in Connecticut?"
"Oh, I'm sure we'll think of something," Masters answered. His voice suddenly sounded husky, though, and I opened my eyes, lifted my head, and peered into the salon through the window. The two were sitting close together and Handelsman had one hand inserted in Masters's shirt front and the other was stroking Masters's cock.
"Shall we retire to the cabin?" Handelsman said in a hoarse voice.
"Yes, I think so," Handelsman answered.
"And Sean, shall we wake him and take him with us?"
"Later," Masters answered. And then they both rose and, laughing and joking, embraced and entered the corridor leading back to the cabins.
I could hardly wait for them to be gone. I was suddenly alert and believed if I didn't get off the yacht and away instantly, I would begin to hyperventilate. My whole world was shattering. What a complete bastard Masters was.
I slipped off the yacht and loped blindly up the grassy embankment. I had to find Gil. I needed Gil—now more than ever before. Where could he be. One place was a good bet—adding to his escape fund. I started walking briskly toward the elevated Southwest Freeway, both what I had just heard and the brisk evening breeze making so much clear to me now.
* * * *
"Am I interrupting anything?"
I turned and was surprised to see Sean standing next to me at the bar in the Bachelor Pad gay club. He looked more like his favorite uncle had just died than that he been part of an almost-flawless dress rehearsal for a production we had all been slaving on for months.
"What's the matter, Sean?" I asked. "You look sorta like shit."
"I said, am I interrupting anything, Gil," he repeated. His eyes were flashing and his nostrils were flaring and he looked like he was thinking of picking a fight with me.
"Just a drink, Sean," I answered. "I haven't been in here for any other purpose since before we took that car ride up to Great Falls. I wouldn't do that to you." I reached out and put my hand on his forearm. He was trembling like a high-strung race horse.
"Sorry, Gill," he whispered and he just short of collapsed on the stool next to me. "I've just . . . I can't . . . oh, shit."
"Come, let's go back to the townhouse," I said. "We'll have privacy there and you can tell me what the matter is."
But when we got back to the townhouse, Sean didn't speak. He was at me like a bitch in heat, crawling up my leg and rubbing his chest against mine, and unzipping my jeans and digging for my cock.
I decided, without any trouble, that talk could come later, and I picked him up in my arms and mounted the stairs and gently laid him on the bed. He moaned as I undressed him and cried out as I knelt between his legs and started making love to his cock and balls and hole and not stopping, not letting up, until he had given me what I wanted. Then I stood and held his legs out wide by the ankles and mounted him and rode him hard and deep to my own ejaculation.
We were stretched out on the bed, in an embrace, when he broke down and started to cry.
"What is it, Sean," I whispered. "What has you worked up. The play is great. Your dancing was great. It made me harden right up. I'm glad you came looking for me to fix that."
This didn't brighten him up a bit. I never was much of a comedian.
