Free The Home For Wayward Ladies by Jeremy Blaustein Page B

the way Danny fills out the front of his expensive designer jeans. He is as well manicured as he is well endowed. I think he wears his age well too. I wouldn’t peg him for a day over twenty-eight, which is a sensible match when combatting Nick’s frequent immaturity. It seems our Lady requires someone older and wiser telling him what to do. Even though I hear the shower sprinkling my name, I find time to pry a little further. “Danny,” I say, “what line of work are you in?”
     
     
    “I’m a producer,” he replies humbly. “Some Broadway, some off-Broadway. And, if Nick plays his cards right,” he wraps his arm around my Lady’s neck, “maybe even some cabaret.” Nick’s nostrils flare as if he could smell doubloons.
     
    “What an exciting life you must lead,” I say. Meanwhile, it’s a blessing for Nick that my sex drive has been in park, otherwise I would divert him by throwing a dildo out the window so Danny and I could privately discuss my résumé . “How ever did you two meet?”
     
    Danny brandishes a brilliantine smile. “Nick is on the team that works for my show at TKTS. Have you seen Nautical Woman on Broadway?“
     
    “I’m afraid I’ve not yet had the pleasure. But that title is so familiar. Why, isn’t that the show our Eli ushers for?”
     
    “The one and only,” Danny laughs. When he slaps me on the back, I wheeze. Dear God, I think , don’t let me be getting sick . Danny continues, “The funny thing is I’ve only met Eli tonight, albeit in passing, when he came home. He was dragging with him another one of our show’s ushers. Oh, I’m so bad with names. What was that boy called, darling?”
     
    “Jason,” Nick says. “Unassuming, weasely looking thing, too, which I suppose makes him Eli’s type.”
     
    “Don’t you start, Lady,” I chastise him, “I haven’t got the strength. May God grant Eli the happiness that he swears he’ll never know.” It has been some time since Eli chased aimlessly after my affection, but I do remember his libido well. I try not to appear jealous as I recall how indiscernibly his seed can be sown. I steer the conversation back toward less spiteful ground. Or so I think. “And how is your show doing, Danny?”
     
    “It’s, uh… very well, thank you.” In the short time I have been in this confident man’s company, this is the first time he’s faltered. “We’re still working to secure an audience to keep the seats filled. The critics had us drawn and quartered, but the crowds seem to leave happy.”
     
    From what I’ve been told, the crowds are more happy to leave. I take his perspective with a grain of salt. I know better than to ever trust a producer, especially one with his hands all over Nick. “Well, I hope y’all call make a go of it. After all, you’re keeping our dear Eli on payroll, so you’re already a hit with me.”
     
    My throat chokes closed like I forgot to swallow half of a cracker I never ate. Sadly, the feeling is nothing new to me. Rather, it’s another manifestation of a condition that I’d considered quashed since childhood. Since our move to Manhattan, however, the symptoms have reappeared. They are now more recurring than one of the three melodies they bothered to write for the musical Blood Brothers .
     
    I try desperately to expunge the thought that the germs are invading. I am too weak. They begin to grow and multiply. I feel them crawl up my arm like a spider and into my mouth and nose where they are certain to infect. I try to swallow the tangy-tasting spit that signals the onset of nausea. It’s time I ask to be excused. Watching Nick lube this guy up and squeeze him is surely no antiseptic for my pending regurgitation.  
     
    “Well, chickens, as they say in How to Succeed , ‘It’s been a long day.’ So, I’ll have to beg your pardon. You two have fun and,” I wink, “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” Trying to make it to the bathroom before I hurl makes me walk in a