The Therapist
A Silverfox is invited to referee squabbling young lovers in bed.
I met Matt Wynand at a posh black-tie AIDS benefit in one of the city’s more fashionable small hotels. We were seated diametrically opposite each other at one of those round tables for ten, and we spent a good deal of the time exchanging glances since we were too far away for conversation. After the speeches, when most couples got up to dance, I lifted my brandy snifter in his direction and mouthed, “May I come join you?”
He raised his glass in return while his lips formed the words, “Please do.” I introduced myself, “Carl Young,” and he told me his name. I continued with, “I’ve been admiring you all through dinner. Alone?”
“Yes,” he said. “Always alone. You weren’t the only one admiring. Your silver hair and dark tan turn me on.”
He had taken the words out of my mouth, but for me it was his mop of auburn hair, almost red, brushed carelessly in every direction, giving him that boyish-beyond-my-years look that was so becoming. Darker auburn on his chest, brown at his groin, I supposed. Not much longer before I tested my hypothesis.
“I live in New Rochelle; it’s quite a haul from here,” I offered.
“I live in a loft in TriBeCa; it’s around the corner,” he graciously returned.
I smiled happily. “After you, Matt.” I stood and made a flourishing gesture with my hand.
“Delighted, Carl. And please call me Wye…all my friends do.”
The loft was just what a loft in trendy TriBeCa was expected to be, according to the best magazines. The high-ceilinged rooms with bare hardwood floors were strewn with pieces of broken columns, Doric and Ionic; statuary, damaged pediments, Corinthian capitals; in all stages between destruction and restoration. Everywhere tables were covered with issues of Architectural Digest. Fabrics, in swatches, half covered sofas of all periods. Some of the chairs were solid looking, while others looked frail and too expensive to risk sitting in. The windows were heavily draped in brocades and damasks.
“You’re a decorator,” I observed, not too intelligently, as I stripped off his cummerbund and suspenders.
“No, an accountant.”
“Then explain this loft.” His tie went flying and I removed his studs and cufflinks, spread his shirt wide over his shoulders, and congratulated myself mentally on the auburn mat that greeted me.
“This is all stuff in transition to my house near Buck’s County. I buy it, live with it, and what passes muster gets moved there on the weekends.”
I had him backed up against the kitchen counter. He was very attractive in the dim light from the hall. I opened his waistband and zipper in an attempt to drop his trousers to the floor, but they hung there, caught on the edge of the counter as I pressed his ass hard against it.
“Every weekend?” I queried.
“Every single weekend, without exception.” He smiled. He knew he intrigued me.
I pulled his body forward in my arms to release his trousers, and started to work his briefs down his thighs. Now he was revealed—bingo! dark brown—just the way I wanted him, leaning back on the counter, his legs immobilized in his own clothing. I moved in, licking, sucking, nipping.
Wye reached out on the counter and picked up a twelve-inch kitchen blade. He brought it to my face and said, “What would you do if I told you to stop? Now!”
“I’d tell you to put the knife down because you wouldn’t want to accidentally hurt me while I made love to you.”
“But I like knives.”
“Don’t be stupid. Put it down or I’m out of here.”
“And if I use it?” he whispered.
I was amazingly calm. “Both our lives would be ruined. All your work here would be for naught. You’re not a trick from the street; you have a history. We have acquaintances in common, people saw us leave together. So I trust you to put it down….Now!”
He did. “You’re right, of course. But it is exciting, isn’t it?”
“No, just dumb. People can get hurt. May we continue now?”
“Please do,” he said. “I like your cool. You’ve passed the test.”
I wondered what that was all about as I returned to lovemaking. We moved to the bed where, although he was very accommodating, he seemed to hold back. He allowed me to do anything I liked, but he was only lukewarm in his appreciation of me. He was exhibiting “pushme-pullyou” behavior and acting antsy like a man with a Gothic secret concealed in the attic. We lay back on the bed and, while he smoked, I questioned him about his house in Pennsylvania.
“It’s magnificent. You’ll have to come with me one weekend and see it. Words don’t do it justice. I’ve been working on it all my life.”
“And when will you live in it?”
“Not for many years. My accountancy pays the bills. I can’t earn the kind of money I need in the sticks.”
“And who watches over it, if it’s so valuable?”
“My lover. I’ve had a lover for ten years. I try to be good, but then, every now and then, someone like you comes along, and I can’t resist.”
“Why don’t you live together?” I asked, ignoring the compliment, which sounded hollow in light of our mismatched lusts.
“Have you ever heard of the city mouse and the country mouse? We’re like that, Doug and I. He can’t work here, and I can’t work there. So, we see each other every weekend, no matter what.”
“Whatever works,” I said.
“It doesn’t. It never has. We’re wild in bed and miss each other terribly. We argue all the time I’m there. He wants me to move there and stay with him, and I can’t.”
“What holds him there?” I asked.
“He works in a coal mine, for God’s sake. Of all things! The last operating mine in the state, and there’s no other employment for him.”
“How can that be? He must have knowledge that could get him a job related to coal in the city “
“He’s a fucking laborer—well, supervisor now. Strictly redneck. He has no education; he’s as stuck as I am… Come with me this weekend. You’ll see for yourself.”
That didn’t sound like a good idea to me. Wye was obviously a little weird. At the very least his priorities needed revision. And I certainly didn’t want to get between two lovers fighting over things I didn’t believe were very important.
“I don’t think so, Wye. If you only see each other on weekends, Doug wouldn’t want me around to get in the way.”
“On the contrary, you’d be of great assistance. With you there, Doug would be on his best behavior. Please come. I’ll make sure you enjoy yourself.”
“I don’t think so, really.”
“There’s something I haven’t told you.”
“What now?”
“The reason I can’t leave Doug is that he has a twelve-inch dick.”
“Nonsense. Nobody has a twelve-inch dick.”
“Doug does. And I’m a slave to it. Come with me. See for yourself. Try it out.”
“Try it out? What the hell are you saying?” I turned to look at the glow of his cigarette.
He stubbed it out. “I mean it. It’s not something you can keep private. People ask if they can pay to use it. He’s used to it; he won’t balk. And besides, you’ll like each other. Even in the dark, I can tell you’re interested.”
I was. I’d heard of such things. I’d seen Johnny Wadd on the big screen, and it had amazed me. The idea of seeing such a tool firsthand, knowing the owner, and finding out the effect it had on his life was mesmerizing. I was hooked. And besides, I wanted to see this wondrous house of Wye….
Don Schecter 