Dear David,
It has come to my attention that this Thursday is Thanksgiving. I will be out of town visiting my mother. I regret that we will miss a session and wondered if you would like to have dinner sometime this week to make up for it. I can make bacon.
Sincerely,
D
Dear D,
I have a better idea if you’ll be around the day after T-Give. My friends and I have a tradition known as Black Friday: The Revenge. Because we can’t all eat together on Thanksgiving due to family, etc., we pool our accumulated leftovers the next day for a feast like no other. Would you like to join us? I know it would involve a lot of talking, but . . . my friends are pretty cool.
—d
I held my breath for forty minutes straight until he replied.
Yes, I accept.
—D
D,
I am starting to think you really like me.
—d
I am starting to think so too.
—D
D,
OMG.
—d
d,
Perhaps we could meet Tuesday night instead for our session.
—D
D,
Just don’t be too mean, please, Sir. It’s the holidays.
—d
Cool it, Tiny Tim. I’m gonna push.
—D
I met with Ricky at Mel’s Sandwich Shop on Sunday to talk to him about how we could improve site security to avoid people like GK and Kel getting ahold of the information on it, and to prevent users like Anonymous from being able to post.
“There are ways we could make the site more private,” Ricky said as we walked down the street with our milkshakes. “But it’s the internet. You can’t totally stop the wrong people from seeing it.”
“It’s frustrating.” I sucked until I dislodged a cookie piece from my straw. “I don’t want to hide what we’re doing. But . . .”
I noticed a stringy-haired woman in a ragged coat and holey Skechers staggering toward us. She looked like she could be anywhere from thirty to fifty, and she clutched a Folgers can. As she neared us, she held it out. “I’m a vet!” she shouted. “You got money for a veteran of the U-nited States Army?”
I fished in my pocket for some change and tossed it in the can. “There you go.”
The woman was staring at Ricky. “Hey, Duck Soup. Back to the rice paddies for ya?”
I stared at her, shocked.
Ricky shook his head. “Fuck off,” he said to the woman.
Dear God. There went my impression of Ricky as a charming innocent.
“Whaddya think, can I get my nails done at your salon?” The woman held out a hand brown with sun damage, the nails yellow and ragged.
I gaped.
Ricky rolled his eyes. “Yeah, every Tuesday and Friday, ten percent discount. Fuck-wad!”
He strode forward and I followed. Behind us, the woman shook the can and yelled, “I’m a vet!”
I jogged up beside Ricky. “What a racist bitch.”
He shrugged. “Eh, it’s all right. I’ve given her money before, and we’ve talked. She’s not really a veteran.”
“Why didn’t you tell me? I wouldn’t have given her money.”
“Seriously, it’s fine. Maybe she’ll actually come to the salon.”
“Wait. You don’t really work in a nail salon, right?”
“No, Dave, I was just fucking with her. God, you’re as racist as she is.”
“I’m sorry! I was just asking.”
Ricky slurped the last of his milkshake. “Part-time. I work in my mom’s salon part-time.”
I glanced at him. “Stop fucking with me!”
“What? I love nails. My mom’s place is on Wendell. Stop by sometime.”
“Are there really discount days?” I thought about this for a moment. “And what’s your confidentiality policy?”
“Confidentiality?”
“If the guy I’m seeing knew I liked manicures, it would kill him. I trust you would be . . . discreet?”
“You care what he thinks about you getting manicures?”
“No, not at all. But I’ve already introduced him to the idea of men conditioning their hair. And to the existence of manties. I have to proceed slowly.”
Ricky nodded. “We actually have a special manicure for men where we use bigger clippers and we don’t ask what kind of polish you want.”
I high-fived him.
Ricky tossed his cup into a trash can. “I didn’t know you were seeing someone.”
“It’s pretty recent. It’s like a play-partner thing except I also sort of want to marry him.”
He stuffed his hands into his pockets and looked at the ground. “That’s cool. I’ve actually been playing with someone too.”
“You are just blowing my mind today.”
“Yeah. It’s been going pretty well.”
“So,” I pressed. “Who is he?”
“Uh, he’s just some guy I met online.”
“Do I know him?” I asked.
Ricky didn’t answer.
“I do know him! Are you embarrassed to tell me?”
“I just want to see where it goes before I tell anyone.”
“Ricky. Ricky, Ricky, Ricky. You can tell me. I promise I won’t tell anyone else.”
He didn’t answer. He seemed genuinely uncomfortable, which surprised me.
“Is he older?” I asked.
Ricky nodded, smiling a little.
“Where’d you meet?”
“At Cobalt.” Ricky’s grin broadened suddenly. “He treated me like a prince. I didn’t want to play in front of people, so he took me home.”
My tone immediately sharpened. “He could have been a killer.”
Ricky flinched.
I took a deep breath. “It’s okay. Sorry. You’re alive; clearly he wasn’t a killer.”
Ricky nodded, but kept his head down. “I was so nervous, and I kept, uh . . . uh, you know.” He scratched his nose. “I had bad gas. Which is, like, the least sexy thing, I know. But he was really good at making me feel okay about it. He, like, held my wrists above my head. And he tied them with his belt. And then he made me hold a position with my knees up while he touched me. And he said I wasn’t allowed to come.”
“How’d that go?” I asked.
“Great! For a few seconds. Then I came.”
I grinned. “I would have turned you over and whipped your ass so hard . . .”
“Well he didn’t.” Ricky sounded a little indignant. “He said this was my warning. But next time he’d put me in a cock cage to make sure I didn’t come.”
“So there’ll be a next time?”
“I hope!”
“Awww.” I slung my arm around him. “You’re growing up so fast.”
“Shut up,” he said.
But he sounded pleased.