There were two Christophers (neither of which ate much). One was the laid back art student that dressed in baggy t-shirts and jeans and spent his time either sketching in a patch of sunlight on the living room floor, or hanging out with us and chatting animatedly about pretty much anything. The other was the prostitute that grew serious when it was time to go out on an assignment, donning his tight, revealing ‘work clothes’ with studied indifference, double-checking his pockets for condoms and then leaving with a smile that looked real, but that never reached his big blue eyes.
He didn’t talk about his job, and I didn’t ask. I tried to be ok with what he did for a living, even though I feared for his safety, and worried about what this was doing to his sense of self-worth. And on days when he came home and went straight into the bathroom without a word and soaked in a tub of hot water for over an hour, my heart broke for him.
I talked to Dante about it. He wanted to pay for Christopher’s schooling so he could quit working, but when we introduced the subject to Christopher, he got really angry and told us he refused to accept charity. Later on he apologized. And still refused to take the money.
Dante wasn’t done trying to intervene though, and on a random Thursday night he announced that he was going have a friend over for dinner, and asked Christopher to join us. The visit was preceded by a caterer. He prepared a lavish meal for us while Peaches went full Cujo, hackles raised, growling menacingly and trying to bust out of his pen the entire time the man was preparing the meal. By the time the caterer left, all the Peaches trauma had resulted in a pronounced facial tic. Dante paid him double.
And when Christopher went to open the door for our guest, he gasped and stammered, southern accent as thick as I’d ever heard it, “Oh ma gawd, it’s Ian Tremont! If this is a dream, nobody pinch me!”
Turned out, Ian Tremont owned the most famous art gallery in all of San Francisco, and was an old poker buddy of Dante’s. Christopher’s paintings dotted our apartment, and Tremont was instantly captivated by them. Within minutes, he gave Christopher his business card and asked him to be a part of his gallery’s annual new artists show in January. Over dinner, the two of them went on and on about art, Christopher hanging on Ian’s every word and vice versa.
I began to get the impression that Tremont was as interested in the artist as his art, and I took a long look at the gallery owner. He was a handsome man of about thirty, with grey eyes that crinkled at the corners when he smiled, and tidy light brown hair and impeccable clothes. Christopher was completely focused on him, almost mesmerized. There seemed to be a little something between them, a spark that went beyond mutual admiration, which for some reason surprised me.
After dinner Dante feigned exhaustion, and he and I retired to our bedroom while Ian and Christopher moved to the couch and kept talking. I kissed my boyfriend on the cheek and said, “That was really nice of you.”
“Christopher deserves an opportunity like this, and it was easy enough to introduce them.” Dante exhaled slowly and settled against the pillows.
“Are you in pain? Do you want your meds?” I asked as I sat beside him and took his hand.
“No thanks, I’m fine.”
I curled up beside him, and he brushed back my dark brown hair from my forehead. It was getting kind of shaggy, since I hadn’t done much for myself over the last five weeks, including trips to the barber. He was studying me closely, something he did often, a little smile on his gorgeous lips as he said, “When I’m fully recovered, I want to take you someplace wonderful as a thank you for all you’ve been doing for me. Maybe Fiji, someplace warm and tropical.”
“Sounds nice,” I murmured, and kissed his fingertips as he lightly traced my lips. He more or less had the use of his right hand, the cast beginning at the base of his fingers. He’d found he could feed himself and take care of most basic needs with that hand, the other completely useless in a big cast to his fingertips.
He leaned in and kissed me, slowly, deeply. Over the last month, Dante and I had spent countless hours talking, and in later weeks, when he felt a bit better, countless more hours making out like teenagers. Our time together had been sweet and tender and romantic, and it had been wonderful to really get to know him.
Of course, since he’d been so badly hurt, we’d steered clear of anything sexual whatsoever. Dante had been in no condition to mess around, obviously. My only outlet was the time I spent in the shower every morning, twenty four hours worth of sexual tension spelled out across the tile wall.