Edward's Boyfriend for Pay

East Village, August 1999

One afternoon shortly after I returned from my summer in France, I walked into my apartment on 13th Street in the East Village of New York to find a very attractive young man in a business suit on the couch.  His thick Kielbasa was out and fully aroused.  My housemate Edward was on his knees, his tongue working feverishly on the shaft.

I was shocked.  Edward was a fey art appraiser in his 60s, who rarely dated and never hooked up.  And his cardinal rule was: no nudity in the living room.

"Hi!" the very attractive young man said.

"Hi.  I'm Boomer, Edward's housemate."

Edward hastily stood, his pants tenting.  "Terribly sorry to break a house rule.  I lost control of myself.  Boomer, this is my new assistant, Andrew Marvell (accented on the second syllable, Mar - VELL).  I hired him while you were in France."

"How are ya?" Andrew said, holding out his hand to be shaken.  It was very big, almost drawing attention away from his still-aroused Kielbasa.

"Nice to meet you.  Not very coy, are you?"

"Huh?"

"You know, Andrew Marvell, the Metaphysical poet?  'To His Coy Mistress'?"

Metaphysical poetry was that obscure, metaphor-filled Restoration-era stuff from the English Restoration that you had to read in your Survey of English Literature class in college.  You were probably assigned "To His Coy Mistress," in which Andrew Marvell tries to convince a woman to have sex with him:

Had we but world enough and time, 
This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

Andrew stared blankly.

"Where are my manners?" Edward said.  "Would you like to go down on him?  Please be my guest."

My guest?  It was Andrew's penis!  "Is it ok, Andrew?"

"Sure, go for it."

This was weird,but I never turn down a Kielbasa.  I got on my knees.  Andrew responded perfectly, with just the right amount of groaning and shaking, erotic but not ostentatious.

He finished quickly with a gallon-sized spurt -- Edward must have been working on him for awhile.  Then Edward said "Won't we be more comfortable in the bedroom?"

We had never shared before, but ok.  We took Andrew into the bedroom, stripped him out of his clothes ("Be careful -- that's an Armani suit!"), and found a hundred more things to do with him.

Andrew had a firm, tight physique, with a smooth chest, thick biceps, and toned abs, pleasant but not spectacular.  But he had a face that would make you melt, and a magnificent Kielbasa that was always aroused.

Of course, I had to share him with Edward, who was thin, hairy, wore rings and a rather feminine cologne, and never took off his socks and garters.  But I could work around that, going down on Edward for thirty seconds and then returning my attention to Andrew.

He finished a second time while Edward was going down on him and he was going down on me.  Then he sprang to life again, lay on top of me, and finished a third time while kissing me and thrusting between my legs.  Edward finished by topping Andrew.

He sprang up again, ready for #4, but Edward said "I think we'd better call it a day.  We wouldn't want to get totally spent."

We all showered and dressed and returned to the living room.  Edward went out to the kitchen to make tea.

"So you're Edward's assistant," I said, to make conversation.

"Yep."  He grinned.

"That must be interesting, cataloging all those rare works of art."

"Yep.  Hard, though.  I get stuck on the titles sometimes, and Edward has to type them in for me."

"Did you major in Art History in college?"

"I just took General Humanities at Laguardia (Community College), but I had a job as a model for an art class once."


Um...ok.  So...what's your favorite period?  From your name, I'm going to guess the Baroque."

"My name?"

"Andrew Marvell was a poet who lived during the Baroque era."

"Oh, Edward named me -- I thought it was about Marvel comics.  My real name is Andrew Balboa."

"Italian Stallion, huh?"  (Rocky Balboa was the name of Sylvester Stallone's character in the Rocky series).

"No, I'm American."

Ok, this guy was as dumb as a post. I bet he couldn't even find Europe on the map.  Why would Edward hire him to catalog objects d'art and correspond with dealers in French, German, and Italian?

"Edward gave me this suit, too.  Do you like it?"  He took my hand and ran it over the material, then down to his crotch, where he was aroused again.

"Still ready for action, I see."

"I'm always ready.  I won a contest once, five times in an hour.  But then I didn't get aroused again for almost two hours!"

Ok, I figured it out.  Andrew was a Boyfriend for Pay, hired for his handsome face and ever-aroused Kielbasa, not for his administrative skills or knowledge of art history.

For the next few months, I saw Andrew around the apartment a lot, laboriously typing into Edward's computer, fetching reference books for him, or more often, watching Rocko's Modern Life on Nickelodeon while Edward did everything himself.  We didn't share again, but Edward often asked me to "entertain" Andrew while he was working.

Sometimes I went down on him right on the couch in the living room, while Edward was working on his computer nearby.

I didn't mind. I even invited my friend Yuri to help out.

Familiarity usually decreases the frequency and intensity of your arousal, but not with Andrew.  He was just as eager the 20th time as the first.

Then one day in December, Andrew came into my room.  He was shirtless, wearing a Santa Claus cap.

"What's up, Andrew?  Did you bring a package for me to open?"

"No.  I just came in to say goodbye.  Right after Christmas, Edward is going to Europe for two months, and he said he won't need an assistant anymore."

"I'm sorry to hear that.  But you can still come over and hang out, right?"  Translation:  We can still make out on the couch while watching Rocko's Modern Life.

He brightened.  "That'd be great.  I can be a big help with your classes.  I can type up your papers, check books out of the library, keep track of your appointments, all kinds of things.  I get $25 an hour, or $150 for the whole day.  That includes staying overnight."

Cheaper than a hustler.  "Well, I don't really need an assistant.  I was thinking more of friends hanging out."

He frowned.  "Then how would I pay my rent?"

See also: Edward Tries to "Make" My Boyfriend

My Date with the Most Conservative Professor on Campus

West Hollywood, May 1986

The University of Southern California in the 1980s was extremely elitist, stuffy, and conservative, and Charles Bertan was the most elitist, stuffy, and conservative of the faculty.  A little shorter than me, slim, with an oval, slightly irregular face and a crooked smile.

He had stuffy degrees from Harvard and Princeton, always wore a suit, carried a briefcase, and spoke with super-correct grammar.

This isn't him -- I couldn't find a picture that did the conservatism justice, and also showed some muscle.

He was only a few years older than me, but he had already published a dozen books and articles on Restoration and Augustan literature: John Donne, Henry Fielding, Alexander Pope, 18th century pastoral...

His classroom skills weren't great: he called students "Mr." and "Miss", never joked, rarely smiled, and called out mistakes tactlessly.  When asked a pleasant question like "How was your weekend?" he fumbled and stammered.

Other students disliked him; I was fascinated.

What kind of life did this guy have?  What did he do at night? Who did he go home to?  Did he watch tv, collect antiques, volunteer at a homeless shelter, go camping at Yosemite?  Or were Tom Jones and An Essay on Man life enough? 

I could not imagine Dr. Bertan taking off his shirt, getting naked, lying in bed, kissing someone, having sex.  Not that he wasn't attractive. He just wasn't a sexual being.

Or was he?  Maybe I could find out.

If I cruised him, he would probably rush off in horror, like a squirrel when you get too close.  I had to be subtle, make him think that he was cruising me.

1. Setting the ground work.

I began working out just before class, so I would still be pumped, and came in with the tightest t-shirt I could find  to show off my chest -- 50", my best feature.  Dr. Bertan kept trying not to look.

We met in a conference room, around a rectangular table, with Dr. Bertan at the head.  I started sitting adjacent to him, so occasionally our legs would brush together "by accident."  Once he got flustered and scooted his chair to the far end, but the next class session, he was in the middle of the table again.

When he passed me a batch of papers to hand out, I made sure that our hands touched "by accident."  He quickly moved away -- I just smiled.  

2. Piquing his interest.

His reactions suggested that he was gay, but just to make sure, one day I said, "I know we skipped over John Wilmont, Earl of Rochester in our anthology, but I read him anyway.  One line has me puzzled.  What does he mean by There's a sweet soft page of mine, does the trick worth forty wenches."

"Oh, well...." Dr. Bertan blushed a little.  "No doubt Rochester is suggesting his preference for...um...homosexuality."

"Right, right!"  I pretended it had just now dawned on me.  "I know all about that trick."

The class laughed. "Pages or wenches?" someone asked.

I just smiled.  Dr. Bertan stared at me for a moment, as if expecting a response, and then moved on.

Definitely gay.

3. The seduction.

I waited until final grades were posted, in case he had scruples against hooking up with a student, and then went to his office.  It was small but elegant: walnut desk, two chairs, small couch, Persian rug, floor-to-ceiling bookcases.

"I just wanted to thank you for a very interesting semester," I  began," "accidentally" slamming the door behind me.  "Wow, I wish I had a library like this.  A copy of The Rape of the Lock, illustrated by Aubrey Beardsley!"  I pointed to an old book on the top shelf.  "I love Beardsley!  Can I take a look at it?"

He beamed at my interest.  "Why, of course.  That's a beautiful edition.  I picked it up at a bookstall in Paris."  

It was too far up to reach, so I had to stand on a chair.

"Wait -- it's rickety -- let me support you.  There's a stepladder in the main office, if...."  Dr. Bertan's hands were pressing on my sides.  I tried to steady myself with a hand on his shoulder.  I grabbed the book -- and the chair slid out from under me.  I collapsed onto the floor,

Dr. Bertan knelt beside me.  "Are you...are you all right?" he stammered.

I just planned to leaf through a book, but this was much better!  "Fine.  A little shaken. Maybe I better sit down."

"Of course, of course."  He helped me onto the couch, and sat beside me. "Do you want to go to the Student Health Center?"

"Oh, no,  I'm fine.  Except I think I hit the chair on the way down.  Could you check for bruises?"

"Um...ok."  I raised my t-shirt.  He reached out and gingerly ran his hand over my chest.  "Anything tender?"

"No."  I put my hand over his and squeezed.  "You have a soft touch."

"Um...thanks."  He was staring in deer-in-headlight terror.  I had to make my next move carefully.

I retrieved the book, sat down beside him again, and put my arm around his shoulders, squeezing hard so he could feel my bicep rise. His hand moved to my lap.

"So, ready to look at those Beardsley illustrations?  Or did you have something else in mind?"

Dr. Bertan blushed red, and drew his hand away.  "I don't...I don't...I mean, I've never...."

"Well, isn't it about time you did?  We're the same age, and I'm not your student anymore, so what's stopping you?"

"Um...well...um...I suppose we could have dinner."

 So I didn't get a hookup, but I did get a date: very nice dinner at the Cafe Etoille  -- he was a little nervous, but warmed up quickly -- followed by a walk through West Hollywood, a stop at the Different Light Bookstore, then back to my apartment to spend the night.

We dated once or twice more, but then I flew off to Australia and Japan for the summer, and he went to London to research Alexander Pope, and by the time we returned, the moment had passed.

Besides, I kept calling him Dr. Bertan instead of Charlie.

See also: Cruised by a Young Republican; 8 Harvard Yard Hookups