Crossing the Threshold - 1. What Happens in Vegas

Gradually, I became aware of a presence in the bedroom with me. My brain was befuddled, both from the alcohol I consumed during and after the wake and from lack of sleep brought on by my life being turned upside-down four days ago.

The shocking return to reality made me shudder and brought a tear to my eye. Julia—my love, my life, my wife and soul-mate for 35 years—was gone. She died after a long and valiant battle with ALS. I would never see her smile again or hear her soft voice reminding me to keep my temper and listen before I speak.

A numbing chill gripped my body, paralyzing me with uncertainty—should I fight, flee, or freeze? Somehow, I mustered the strength to force myself to sit up, fearful of the unknown yet determined to face it.

I wondered to myself, Had she somehow returned to me? Was she with me again in this room where we had slept side-by-side for more than 30 years? Alive? A ghost? Shit! What the fuck is going on?

I was about to leap out of bed when my brain fog cleared and my eyes focused. It was not my beloved Julia who was in the room with me. The specter before me materialized into a small person—very much alive and very much someone I knew and loved.

“Karen?”

“Granddad, Mommy sent me to tell you breakfast will be ready soon.” The eight-year-old child smiled into my contorted face with concern and innocence.

How could she understand my grief, the loss that was tearing my heart out, the rage at God and the doctors and myself, the senseless anger over something that could not have been anticipated or stopped?

Swallowing hard, I forced a kindly, grandfatherly smile at the child. “Thank you, Karen. Please tell Mommy that I’m kind of tired today. I’ll come down for some coffee after I take a shower.”

The little girl bowed her head, clearly hesitant to say anything more. Summoning her courage, she peered up into my eyes with a mischievous grin. “Mommy said you’d say that, and I should tell you to drag your lazy ass down to the table right away.”

A loud guffaw escaped my lips, and my body jiggled with the unexpected and welcome hilarity. That my daughter Natalie had carefully instructed her daughter to use those exact words—words calculated to shock and amuse me and would have the result of bringing me back to reality with the kindness and compassion she had learned from her mother—had the desired effect.

Drawing my granddaughter into a loving hug, I laughed again. “Well, if that’s what Mommy said to do, I guess I’d better do it. Please tell her I’m on my way. Now, scoot so I can get out of bed.” I didn’t think she was aware that I always sleep in the nude, but I didn’t want to shock her either way.

As soon as the door closed, I sat the edge of my bed and stretched. I got to my feet and reached down, shaking my cock and balls into place. Barefoot, I stepped across the room into the ensuite bath and splashed cold water on my face to further shock myself into wakefulness.

With that, the pain and loss returned full force. For all the days since Julia’s passing, I had been balancing on the knife-sharp edge of sanity, with bottomless grief on one side and raging anger on the other. Keeping myself from slipping in either direction was a constant battle inside me.

I lifted a plush towel from the rack on the wall and wiped the residue of sleep from my eyes. As I regarded my reflection in the full-length mirror on the back of the door, I paused to take in my reality and compel myself to think of anything except my loss.

At six feet, six inches in height, I towered over lesser men, which was an asset in my role as Chairman and CEO of Hutton Electronics, the third largest defense contractor in the world, with operations in ten states and in eighteen countries that were U.S. allies.

My bulging biceps and ripped abs bespoke my attention to my health and care for my body. It hurt to remember the stark contrast between my strong, healthy body and Julia’s at the end, limp and powerless as she struggled to breathe.

I faced myself in the mirror, looking into my eyes for answers I knew I wouldn’t find. If such a thing were even conceivable, one benefit of Julia’s long illness and decline was that it forced me to pay attention to my own well-being. I became determined to be strong enough—at least physically, if not emotionally—to provide the care she required as her muscles and nervous system deserted her.

There had never been any doubt that she would live out her remaining days in our home, receiving the best care my money could buy. She had passed away in our bed, with me, our two children, and two grandchildren at her side.

Their tears flowed, but I withheld mine, waiting for a private moment. Later, alone in my study, I sobbed without making a sound, my body writhing with grief and pain. After allowing myself a few minutes of private grieving, I pulled myself together and redirected my caregiving to the family I still had. Surviving the loss was secondary to ensuring that my loved ones survived the trauma.

My eyes were drawn downward again. My soft cock was six inches long, eight when hard. The first time she had seen my equipment, Julia had expressed doubt that she could be enough for me. I smiled to myself, remembering how easily we consigned her suspicion to hell, and how we had learned over more than three decades of marriage to find new and exciting ways to share our bodies.

The tender memories of making love to her prompted the beginning of an erection, and I smiled at the irony. We had not had penetrative sex for the past five years, but up until her last six months, Julia and I had found loving, sensitive ways to pleasure each other.

Another tear formed in my eye and trickled down my cheek. Looking down, I noted that my penis had gone soft again—probably forever, I told myself with regret, shaking my head at the now all-but-useless appendage.

After I forced myself to eat a little at breakfast, my day lumbered on interminably. A few close friends stopped by to check on me. The funeral yesterday, with all its macabre customs, had passed like a trance. I had not intended to drink so much at the wake, but self-medication proved to be a panacea in the face of all the grim encouragement I received.

Although cushioned by the presence of my family around me, I had felt as though I were moving aimlessly among a crowd of strangers who somehow knew me and said kind things to me.

My beloved Natalie stepped into the role Julia had always occupied—hostess, shield, timekeeper, and guardian of my emotions. She sensed when I’d run out of things to say to a well-wisher and guided me to the next in line or sidestepped me into a quiet corner to rest and compose myself.

Bruce, my gay son, had loved Julia with all his heart, and he was having the worst time of anyone in the family. Sequestered alone in his childhood bedroom since his return to Denver for his mother’s final days, he had only been pried out by Natalie for the essential moments of the long ordeal.

Bruce was always his mother’s son, not that he was delicate or anything. He was a champion athlete and captain of his swimming team, and the cherry-red Z-28 Camaro we gave him for high school graduation made him popular with his male and female classmates.

Thinking back almost fifteen years, I smiled as I pictured Bruce and his best friend, Craig Johnston, a fine young man from a working-class family. I was glad I sent Bruce to an excellent private school but also pleased when my significant contributions to the school allowed them to offer scholarships to students who wouldn’t have otherwise been financially able to attend.

Craig had proved to be a devoted friend to Bruce. In retrospect, thanks to Julia’s gentle prompting, I realized that their relationship had gone beyond friendship into sexual experimentation.

Had I known then, I doubt I would have approved, but I am grateful now that my son found a willing partner who accepted him as he was and shared his orientation. I was not surprised that attending colleges on opposite coasts had weakened and ultimately ended their relationship.

Bruce studied aeronautical engineering at my alma mater, Stanford, and Craig went to Yale on a track and field scholarship. I supposed the distance sealed the demise of their friendship, although Bruce later learned that Craig had sought and found excitement with other men—in fact, many other men.

Julia and I remained friends with Craig’s parents, although we hardly ever saw or heard from their son for several years. Then Craig returned to his family home, and Julia informed me he had contracted HIV/AIDS and was dying.

When she phoned Bruce and told him, he returned home, and the two former friends were reunited for Craig’s last days. Now, Bruce was home again for another sad visit. I had never been close to my son, which made me regret that I was unable to console him. I resolved to work hard to strengthen our relationship, now that his mother was gone.

********

Three days after the funeral, at my office in downtown Denver, I shared coffee with my best friend, Keith Cartier (he was from Alabama and pronounced his name “car-TEER”).

Our friendship began as fraternity brothers and roommates at Stanford. It progressed over the years as Keith served as my attorney and accountant, all the while being my closest confidant. I had recently made him a member of the Board of Directors of my corporation.

“I’ve been thinking—” I began tentatively, unsure where my thoughts would lead.

“And?”

“I’ve lost interest in everything—this company, the big goddamn empty house, Denver society, you name it. I’m fucking tired of it all.”

“Tom, you have every right to feel that way. You’ve suffered the biggest loss of your life, and no one could say shit to you if you wanted to say ‘the hell with it’ and just walk away.”

My eyes widened, and I cocked my head at my friend’s shocking suggestion. “How can I do that?”

Keith reached across the table and rested a hand on top of mine. “Buddy, how long have we known each other? We can read each other like fucking books.” Taking a deep breath, he gazed into my deep blue eyes. “I can tell this has you in the dumps. What can I do to help?”

I sighed, leaned back, and stared up at the ceiling with conflicting emotions swirling around within me. A belief in my own invulnerability, a desire to keep control of my corporation, and a fear of disappointing Julia or dishonoring her memory all worked against seeking escape.

At the same time, mental fatigue after the years of watching her fade away, loss of interest in all the things I had previously considered important and self-defining, plus my desperate need to stop hurting all pulled me in the opposite direction. My interior struggle was visible to my old friend.

“You all right, Tom?” Keith inquired solicitously.

I looked him in the eyes. “Walk away from it all, huh?”

“It would be understandable.”

“What about my responsibilities?”

Ever the pragmatist, Keith patted my hand. “Let’s see. You’ve got five company presidents you wisely allow to run their parts of the business. You’ve got assistants out the wazoo to keep up with your correspondence and only bring you the things that require your personal attention. I’m willing to bet that even those few items could be handled for you, at least for a while.”

He paused to grin at the growing smile on my face. “And, of course, you’ve got me to fill in where necessary but also shake your tree when anything major comes around.”

“So you mean I could just...disappear...for a while—if I wanted to?”

“Hell, yes. So what’s stopping you?”

I searched my innermost being, wondering, Right. What the hell is stopping me?

I finally ventured, “I guess it’s my goddamn sense of responsibility.”

“Or your fear that if you step away for even a moment, everything will keep running fine without your hands-on attention?”

I grinned, “Fuck you.”

“So you’re saying I’m right.”

“Fuck you...but yes.”

********

Keith and I spent the next two days setting everything in place for me to take time off to rest and recuperate.

As I got into the cab to take me to the airport, I shook Keith’s hand and pulled my best friend into a hug. “I wish to hell I knew what the fuck I’m doing.”

“Don’t worry, Buddy. You’ll figure it out as you go. And if you get lost somewhere in Outer Fucking Mongolia, I’m only a phone call away.”

“If they even have fucking phones in Outer Mongolia!” We laughed and hugged goodbye.

As I sat in the first-class cabin, I thought back over conversations of the previous few days. Sipping 20-year-old Scotch, Keith and I had labored over where my pilgrimage should start, ultimately settling on Las Vegas.

“What the fuck?” I had exclaimed at Keith’s suggestion.

“Hear me out. First of all, it’s so completely different from Denver that you’ll be totally out of your element.”

“And that’s a good thing?”

“Hell, yes. If your goal is to start some fresh thinking, you have to be somewhere that doesn’t remind you of—well, everything.”

I nodded, showing how much I appreciated the wisdom of my lifelong friend. With much reluctance, I agreed to head out to Sin City, but for no more than two or three days, and I wasn’t sure I’d make it even that long.

********

Throughout the two-hour flight from Denver to Harry Reid International Airport, my stomach did flip-flops, so I avoided drinking or eating anything. The flight attendant, a tall, good-looking, obviously gay man, had been solicitous and even friendly, but I assured him I was getting over a stomach bug and would be fine.

As soon as I was past the jetway and inside the terminal, I stopped and shuddered. What the hell am I doing here?

I turned and looked back at the boarding area. Fuck. I should just buy a ticket on the next plane home and forget this dumb-ass idea.

Shaking my head and with a deep breath, I straightened my shoulders, picked up my carry-on bag, and resigned myself to navigating the jostling throng, making their way to the baggage claim area.

Outside, the air was hot and dry—quite a change from the damp and chill of September in Denver. A line of cabs waited to pick up passengers, and a uniformed attendant beckoned me to the first in the line. As I climbed into the back seat, he deposited my bags into the trunk and returned to close my door.

He leaned in and grinned, “Welcome to our fair city, Sir. And remember—what happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.”

With a hearty laugh that surprised me, I handed him a $20 bill. It was an insane amount to tip, but something about me had changed massively—for the better, I hoped.

I had never been miserly, but considering my wife’s huge medical bills, our two children, and two grandchildren, I had always regarded my fortune as a trust I managed in all their names. My sense of responsibility for them was still the same, but, as Keith had pointed out, I was “fucking rich as Croesus,” and there was no reason not to spend a little—or a lot, if I felt like it.

“Where to, Señor?” the cabbie inquired in heavily-accented English.

My company had offices worldwide, including a major one in Peru, so I replied in flawless Spanish, “Las Cuatro Estaciones, por favor.”

With a grateful chuckle, he answered in his native language, “Your Spanish is excellent, Señor. The Four Seasons it is! By the way, my name is Claudio.”

“Tom Hutton, nice to meet you.”

“Is this your first visit to Las Vegas?”

“No. I’ve been here a few times, always on business.”

“And this time, it’s for pleasure?” He chuckled suggestively.

“That remains to be seen.” I sensed his disappointment, so I quickly added, “I’m still finding my way, but I’m open to almost anything legal.”

“You’ll have no trouble finding plenty of that,” he advised, “and also plenty of the not-legal stuff, if you decide you’d like to try it.” I laughed uncomfortably and cut off his banter by looking out the window.

The Four Seasons sat at the southern end of the famous Strip, adjacent to the gigantic Mandalay Bay Casino Hotel and a few blocks from Allegiant Stadium and the Convention Center.

I had stayed here on business trips and to attend conferences several times, and I liked that it was a small luxury hotel that didn’t offer gambling. On previous visits, I had intentionally confined my experience to the hotel and convention center, avoiding the notorious dens of iniquity to the north on “The Strip.”

I thought again of Keith’s advice. “This time, let yourself go, Tom. It won’t hurt you, and it might do you a world of good,” he had encouraged as he left me at the airport.

I sighed, unconvinced. “Maybe. Or maybe I’ll be so grossed out and overwhelmed by all the shit that goes on there that I’ll jump back on a plane and drag my sorry ass back home.”

“Call me before you do that, OK?”

I promised reluctantly, safe in the knowledge that my oldest friend, the man I had counted on for most of my adult life, had my back.

My ruminations ended when we completed the short trip to the hotel. My driver handed off my bags to the bellman, and I dispensed another $20 bill to thank him for getting me there so fast.

“Muchas gracias, Señor,” he smiled, handing me his business card. “I’m at your disposal, any time you need me.”

I thanked Claudio and followed my bags inside. Check-in was fast and efficient, and the person I assumed was the bellman conducted me to my king suite on the top floor.

When making the reservation, my admin asked if I preferred a view of the stadium or what they billed as “the sunrise view.” I’d been in Vegas often enough to recognize the euphemism for a view of the airport. I chose the stadium view, figuring that looking at the mountains beyond it would remind me of home.

I had been in a kind of daze throughout the whole business of flying, driving, and checking in, but when I stood in the center of my room and peered through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the magnificent Red Rock Canyon, I breathed a contented sigh. Maybe this isn’t such a fucking bad idea.

“It is truly beautiful, isn’t it, Señor?”

For the first time, I turned my attention to the man who had met me at the taxi and conveyed me through registration and up to this gorgeous room.

He was over six feet tall, so I met him at eye level. He was Hispanic but much more distinguished-looking than the cab driver had been. He had an air of something stately, almost aristocratic, about him. I recalled that some Latinos came from a Spanish heritage, while the majority appeared to have indigenous ancestry.

“I’m sorry. I–I know you introduced yourself, but I didn’t catch your name,” I apologized in Spanish.

That brought a smile to his face, and he answered me in the same language. “I’m sorry, Señor. I am Sergio (he pronounced it SAIR-he-oh, rolling the R), and may I say your Spanish is perfect.”

I reached out and shook his hand. While that was something I didn’t usually do with hotel employees, it seemed to me that he was such a cut above that he deserved a formal greeting. He warmly returned my handshake and beamed at me.

“Would you like me to show you how everything works?” His tone shifted noticeably from formal detachment to a hint of intimacy, and for some reason, it occurred to me that an unspoken proposition might be embedded in the seemingly-innocent question. Then I reminded myself that it was likely he behaved this way with every guest.

“What did you have in mind?” I shocked myself a bit by playing along with his mildly suggestive offer.

“I’ll show you the lighting and other controls, and give you a tour of the bathroom. There are many luxuries.”

I wonder if you count yourself as one of them. With a grin and a nod, I replied, “I’m interested in anything you’d like to show me.”

Without a further hint of seductiveness, Sergio proceeded to instruct me on all the accoutrements of the opulent suite. They included a bedroom and a living room with a full-stocked bar, as well as the spacious bathroom, which boasted a double sink, variable lighting around the mirror, a bidet, and a shower that sprayed water from all sides and from above.

“This is quite impressive. Thank you for showing it all to me.”

“I am your personal concierge while you are staying here. To reach me at any time, dial eight on the house phone.

Surprised, I switched to English, “Don’t you ever go home?”

He chuckled, “Of course, but I live only a few blocks from here, and when I’m not in the hotel, my calls are forwarded to me. I can be here in five minutes, whenever you need me.”

“Do you live alone?” I immediately realized what a personal question I had asked, so I stammered, “I mean, won’t your...well, whoever you live with, be unhappy if you’re always running back here?”

Sergio gave me another of his beaming smiles. I wondered if he practiced in front of a mirror or just naturally had a demeanor that put people at ease and intimated at pleasant times together. “No, not at all. I share a house with three other hotel staffers, and we’re in and out at all hours of the day and night.”

He leaned in toward me with either a gesture of intimacy or a polite semi-bow. “So, is there anything else I can do for you?”

“I, uh...I guess not. Not for now.”

“Well, you know how you can reach me—for any reason.”

Sergio smiled, nodded, and went to the door. I followed and handed him a $20 bill. I was glad I had the foresight to carry a wad of them with me as I traveled. With a grateful smile, he was gone.

I found myself quite alone, and I wondered aloud, “What the fuck am I doing here? And what the fuck am I doing flirting with him, even though he started it?”

********

After a restless night, I ordered breakfast in my room and watched CNN news for a while.

Looking out at the mountains, I longed to be back at my home west of Denver—the house that Julia and I had designed and built, and where we had raised our son and daughter. Both had finished college and were on their own now. Natalie lived in Philadelphia with her husband, Richard Bronson, and their twins—Karen and Keiran—and Bruce worked in the aerospace industry outside Seattle.

With a tremble of sadness, I recalled that our house had felt strangely devoid of attraction and almost unwelcoming when I came home after the funeral. I supposed my outlook had shifted, and now all I saw was a big, empty shell where once had been love, life, joy—and eventually sickness and death.

The day passed sluggishly, and I watched the gradual progression of the shadows as the hot desert sun made its way across the southern sky. When evening arrived, I was looking out the imposing windows at the mountain peaks again.

Shit, I’ve wasted the entire day sitting in this goddamned room, doing fucking nothing. Why the hell did I come here? I toyed again with the idea of packing up and catching the first flight home.

My introspection was interrupted by a polite knock at the door. Having no interest in mingling with the other hotel guests, I had ordered room service for dinner.

I was pleasantly surprised to see it was Sergio who arrived with the rolling dinner cart. I guessed his duties as my personal concierge included delivering dinner, although the servers for breakfast and lunch had been regular waitstaff.

His presence reminded me I had at least one person I could count on in this strange, raucous city, even if he was paid to do it. He made a flourish of laying out the meal and all the implements on the small dining table in the sitting room.

When everything was in place, he asked, “Is there something else I can do for you, Señor?”

Once again, I thought I picked up an undertone in his question. Is he offering more than standard service? What the hell am I thinking?

Confused, I bumbled, “A-Anything else? Like what?”

“Oh, whatever you need—” He looked right at me, holding my gaze for a moment before his eyes raked up and down my body. “Or want.”

“And what would you suggest?” I wasn’t trying to be harsh, but something in my voice put him off.

“Oh, I wasn’t suggesting anything, Sir. I’m sorry. I’ll come back to clean up when you’re ready.” He beat a hasty retreat.

As I nibbled at my Caesar Salad with little interest, I reviewed the brief exchange in my mind. What the fuck was that all about? “Anything else I can do for you” covers a hell of a lot of territory!

I was most disturbed by how curious I was about what he might be offering.

What the fuck? I’m not interested in men. I’ve been straight my whole goddamn life. Shit, I was married for over 30 years to a real woman who met all my physical needs. Why does this man have such an effect on me? And, above all, what the fuck should I do about it?

My curiosity got the better of me, so I took out my cell phone and speed-dialed.

Keith answered on the second ring. “Hey there, Tom. What’s up?”

“That’s what I’m wondering.” I related my two brief interactions with Sergio. When I finished, Keith laughed heartily.

“I do believe you’ve just been propositioned, Good Buddy!”

“What? Fuck! Why would he do that?”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never heard, ‘What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas.’ ”

“You’re the second person who’s told me that since I arrived here.”

“And?”

“So, the son of a bitch was offering...what?”

“Oh, I would imagine it was exactly what he said—anything you wanted.”

“You mean with him? Shit! I do not fucking swing that way!”

“Not necessarily. More likely, he has contacts all over the city and can ‘hook you up,’ as the kids say, with anything that suits your fancy.” He chuckled, adding, “Perhaps including himself.”

“Well, fuck that shit. I’m not interested in men.”

“You know that, and I know that, but Sergio must have picked up on something in you that you’re not aware of.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“I asked you this before, but how long have we known each other?”

“What?” I thought a moment. “More than forty years.”

“Exactly. And in all that time, do you think I never noticed how attracted people are to you—female and male? And don’t you think I’ve been so fucking jealous at the ease with which you could have had any of them you wanted?”

“I never wanted anyone but Julia.”

“And I stand in awe of that, Tom.”

There was a long silence as I mentally reviewed my long history of stalwart fidelity in the face of innumerable come-ons from women and even men. I admit I was aware of them but never the least bit interested—or was I?

Keith patiently waited for me to process the data. “Oh, I get it,” I said at last. “So you think I’m now free to pursue some of those interests I’ve always denied myself.”

“You took the words right out of my goddamn mouth.”

I swallowed hard. “I don’t think I can do that—”

“I didn’t say you could, or you would, or that it would be easy for you. I’m simply laying out the facts you seem to be so blissfully unaware of.”

Insistently, I sputtered, “There’s no fucking way I want to be with another woman—not after 35 years with the one who loved me her whole life.”

Keith waited in silence, waiting for the other shoe to drop.

I suddenly got it, and it both shocked and pissed me off. “Bullshit! You’re telling me it’s okay to hook up with a guy. No fucking way!”

A roar of laughter came through the phone. “All I’m saying is the opportunity might present itself, and if it should, you might want to consider trying it.”

“Have you ever done that shit?”

“Come on, Tom, I never kiss and tell.”

“Tell me, goddammit! Right now.”

“Here’s another old expression I’m sure you’ve heard: ‘A hole is a hole, and your dick can’t tell the difference.’ ”

“Shit! Why the fuck are you telling me all this?”

Keith’s voice took on a compassionate tone. “Tom, you are hurting, deep inside. You loved one person for your entire adult life, and now you’re trying to give yourself permission to loosen up that exclusivity a tiny bit. I don’t give a shit whether it’s with a chorus girl, a prostitute, or a boy-toy.”

I gasped involuntarily.

With a chuckle, he went on, “I’m only saying you shouldn’t automatically reject every opportunity out of loyalty to Julia. Don’t you think she would want you to be happy again, have pleasure in your life, and open yourself to whatever you feel like trying?”

I listened in sullen silence as Keith explained, “Listen, Tom, I’m not saying you need to do anything, just that you shouldn’t stifle yourself if you get the feeling you want to try something.”

“Including fucking the waiter?”

A loud guffaw came from Keith. “Who said he wanted you to fuck him? Maybe he wants to fuck you!”

“Goddammit, Keith! No fucking way in hell!”

More laughter. “No, surely not. But maybe he’s more of a go-between. Hell, maybe he makes a commission for hooking you up with somebody else.”

“You mean he’s a goddamn pimp.”

“Let’s not throw around negative labels. Everybody has a way of making money, and you know full well that sometimes you and I have done things that skated right up to the edge of what was ethical.”

Grudgingly, I agreed, “Yeah, I guess so. But it never included using sex to get anything.”

“You’re right, but that’s apples and oranges in this situation. You aren’t wrangling to buy out a company or win a government contract. You’re a man all alone in a strange city, and a little companionship might be what you need right now.”

“And by ‘companionship,’ you mean sex?”

“I mean whatever the hell you think you need. The whole wide world is your goddamn oyster, Tom. Stop and smell the roses.”

“I wish you’d quit with the fucking memes, Keith.” We both laughed.

“OK. But you called me to ask for advice, and I’ve given you the best I’ve got. It’s up to you what you do with it.”

I had to agree. “You’ve always given it to me straight, Keith, and I get it that you’ve got my best interests at heart, even when you suggest shit like this.

“Just go with the flow—and call me after it happens.” He guffawed.

“Fuck you.”

“As long as you fuck somebody.”

********

Around 9 PM, a soft, polite knock came on my door again. I opened it eagerly but was surprised to find it was a “regular” waiter instead of Sergio.

“Sorry to disturb you, Sir. If you’re finished, I’m here to remove your dinner cart.”

I stood, mouth agape, long enough for the man to become visibly uncomfortable. “I can come back later, or someone can pick it up in the morning—”

I pulled myself together. “No. Not at all. It’s fine. Please come in.”

Warily, the waiter hurried around, gathering plates, silverware, and glasses. When he had it all together and was ready to leave, I held the door open for him.

“By the way, where is Sergio this evening?”

The young man blushed. “Uh, I think he’s busy, um—doing something.”

“What? I thought he was my personal concierge here.”

The man was almost quivering in his boots. “I dunno, Sir. Can I go now?” He dropped the super-proper Four Seasons manner of speaking with guests, which showed me how panicked he was.

“Fine. And thank you.” I reached into my pocket and took out another $20 bill. He fled my room and high-tailed it down the hall to the service elevator.

I closed the door and leaned back against it. What was all that about? Had I somehow offended Sergio or pissed him off? I thought he said he was here for me, all the time. What the hell is going on?

I strode purposefully over to the house phone next to the couch. Sitting down, I picked up the receiver and dialed eight. It rang several times before it clicked over and rang a different way.

“Hotel operator. How may I help you, Mr Hutton?”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I thought I dialed Sergio, my concierge.”

“You did, but when he doesn’t answer, the call is transferred to me. How may we help you? Is there something you need?”

I fucking need to talk to Sergio, I told myself silently, but all I said to the operator was, “No. Just please leave him a message to call me when he can.”

“I’ll say ‘at his earliest convenience,’ if it’s all right with you, Sir.” Apparently, I had just gotten Sergio in trouble in some way.

“Yes. That’s fine, but it’s not urgent.”

I hung up and decided to take a shower. The water coming at me from all sides was a bit hard to get used to, but in the end, I found it invigorating.

I was drying off when another knock came at the door. I wrapped my towel around my waist and grabbed the lush full-length bathrobe provided by the hotel.

Arriving at the entrance to my suite, I peeked through the peephole and saw Sergio. He must have been aware I was watching because he adopted a contrite pose. I opened the door several inches but didn’t let him in. I waited for him to speak.

“Sir, I’m sorry. I have no excuse for my behavior. I’ll arrange for another concierge to take care of you.”

I pulled the door open so abruptly he practically fell into the room with me. I steadied him, closing the door behind us.

“Sit down, please, Sergio.” He complied, looking like a child who was about to be disciplined. “Wait here, please. I’ll be right with you.”

I ducked into my bedroom and threw on jeans and a tee-shirt. I thought about starting with clean underwear, but something mischievous in me told me not to bother. Barefoot, I returned to my sitting room and sat across from him.

Clearing my throat, I began. “Sergio, I think we may have gotten off on the wrong foot. I hope we can straighten things out and get back to the point where you are taking care of me, and I make sure you realize how grateful I am for it.”

He nodded and squirmed in his seat without speaking. I continued, “So, I’m not sure where we went wrong. I thought you were doing an outstanding job, and I was enjoying your company—until everything changed somehow, and it appears you want to drop me.”

“Oh, no, Señor. That’s not it at all.”

“Then what is it? What’s wrong?”

Sergio swallowed hard, and his face turned a little red. “I’m...that is...I don’t know how to say this.”

“Please try,” I said in Spanish.

He took a deep breath and replied in the same language, “I think I may have offended you.”

“I don’t think so. What makes you say that?”

“It’s kind of hard to explain.”

I switched back to English to clarify things. “Do you mean hard—as in difficult to find the right words, or hard—as in you find it difficult to tell me the truth?”

“A little of both, actually.”

“So, let’s make a deal. You can say anything you want to, using whatever words or language you choose, and I promise I will listen until you’re finished and then do my best to respond honestly and respectfully. Will you do that?”

He nodded, relieved. “Yes. Thank you.” He swallowed hard again and looked down at the floor. “It’s just...oh, I fucked up, OK?” He raised his head, embarrassed by his choice of words. “Uh, sorry about that.”

“I told you, you can say anything. That doesn’t bother me at all. I use the word frequently myself.”

He relaxed. “I mean, I did something—said something—that I’m sure came out wrong, and I want to apologize for it.”

“I don’t recall anything wrong that you said. What are you talking about?”

His eyes widened in panic, and he sat forward on the couch, as though he were about to run for the door.

I realized what he was thinking, so I helped him out. “Oh, wait. I see. You said—a couple of times—words to the effect that you would do anything I wanted you to do. Is that it?”

He lowered his head again and nodded, embarrassed.

“Did you mean that?”

His head shot up. “I, uh—”

“You don’t have to answer, but I’d like to understand why you said those things. Did I say or do something that prompted you?”

His shoulders drooped, and he looked as miserable as possible. I studied him closely and concluded that he was sincerely embarrassed, unhappy, and perhaps scared shitless that I’d report him or something. I had no intention of doing any such thing. On the contrary, I was interested in seeing how far he was willing to go to take care of me.

I took charge. “I’ll take a guess, and you tell me if I’m right.” I locked eyes with him, and he nodded. “This is Vegas, and a lot of people come here hoping to do things they can’t or don’t dare do where they come from—is that right?”

He blushed and nodded.

“So, this hotel, and I suppose every other one in the whole area, is fixated on satisfying their guests, including offering to help them do ‘naughty’ things. Still right?”

Another nod, but he was now looking intently at me. My desire to put him at ease was working out.

“And you have been trained, or ordered, or whatever, to drop subtle hints that you, acting on behalf of the hotel, are willing to help me find anything I might want, even if it might be a bit off the beaten path.”

He swallowed hard. “That’s about it.”

“So when you said you’d provide me with ‘anything I want,’ and offered to ‘show me everything,’ and all the other bullshit you said, you were just doing your job as you’re expected to do it?”

He bowed his head again, his voice filling with regret, “I’m supposed to say that shit, and I always do, and a lot of guests are eager for me to set them up with—” he choked on the last few words.

“It’s all right. I figured that part out already.”

“But it’s not all right. I mean, sure, it’s fine to get hookers for guests, or drugs, or all kinds of shit, but when I said it to you, I–I meant it.”

I sat back, not knowing whether to be shocked or pleased. He looked up and made eye contact with me.

“Why?” was all I could think of to say.

He answered in the same soft voice, “Because I can tell you’re different. You don’t want to do naughty things. You are for real, and I felt like shit saying all that to you. And I was right. You’re mad at me, pissed off that I would offer that to you, and you’re right to feel that way.”

I got up, crossed to the couch where he was sitting, and lowered myself onto the cushion next to him. I didn’t want to make him any more uncomfortable, so I sat looking straight ahead.

“Sergio. First of all, you didn’t offend me. I realize you were only doing what you’re told to do, and I’m sure a lot of your guests appreciate your doing it.”

“Really?”

“Yes.” I stood up to break him loose from the funk he was in. “I’m going to have a glass of wine. Are you allowed to join me?”

“Surprisingly, yes, I am.” He blushed again. Then he grinned, “You’d be astonished at what I’m allowed to do with you.”

I chuckled, pleased that he had relaxed enough to joke with me. “Not astonished—”I smiled and winked, “But I am interested.” He sat in shocked silence as I poured two glasses.

“Here’s to restoring our relationship, such as it is,” I toasted, raising my glass of Pinot Noir.

“I’ll drink to that.” He smiled brightly, and the atmosphere in the room seemed lighter and more intimate. We began to chat about nothing in particular—just two guys having a drink together.

We were seated side-by-side on the couch in my suite’s living room. The floor-to-ceiling drapes were open, and the view of the city by night was striking. There was an event going on in the Allegiant Stadium, and in the distance, tiny lights twinkled on Red Rock Canyon roads.

We had kept a polite distance between us at first, but as we talked, we became more animated, which led to us unintentionally inching closer. Our shoulders or knees occasionally brushed briefly, but we paid no attention.

I reached for the remains of the bottle of wine on the coffee table in front of us and divided it between our glasses. “So where does that leave us?”

Thoughtfully, Sergio replied, “I admit I was...interested in you, and I thought I picked up hints that you were interested in me.”

I paused to consider his remark and decided to hold back, at least for the moment. “Well, you’re an attractive young man. Who wouldn’t be interested in you?”

“I’m so glad you understand,” Sergio said, his tone reflecting his relief. “I hope you weren’t offended.”

“Not at all, and I understand perfectly,” I said mysteriously, then decided to tell him. “After you dropped off my dinner this evening, I spoke with an old friend on the phone. He explained a few things to me.”

Sergio turned and raised his eyebrows, showing a mixture of interest and concern.

Smiling and nodding, I lowered my voice as if to let him in on a secret. “He told me I had just been propositioned.” I looked him in the eyes to gauge his reaction.

Shocked and embarrassed, he blurted, “No! Not at all. I didn’t mean...that is, I just—”

With a wave of my hand, I told him, “You already explained. You don’t need to say any more.” I gave him an encouraging smile and patted him lightly on the shoulder. With a grateful smile, he reached up and rested his hand on mine. After a moment, I withdrew my hand.

“But—” I went on. His head jerked up, and he looked at me in alarm. “My friend also told me something about myself I never thought was possible.” I paused for effect. “Would you like to hear what it was?”

“Uh, I guess so.”

“He told me I may have been hoping it was a proposition.”

He turned to face me with an uncertain expression. “You were?”

I nodded. “Yes, and that’s not all.” He leaned toward me, intent on learning what Keith said to me. “He said I might also be open to a proposition from a man...like you.” I winked. “If that doesn’t offend you.”

Our eyes met, and I felt like I was looking into his soul. We both stopped breathing, and it was as if the room around us melted into a blur. Sergio swallowed, and I felt my heart pounding. We were frozen in time.

After a while, he got to his feet without a word and walked over to the windows, gazing out over the city lights.

I fell back onto the sofa cushions, shocked, embarrassed, hurt, angry, and a dozen other emotions.

My voice cracked as I groaned, “What the fuck, man?”

He kept his back to me. His voice was less friendly. “Tell me something, Sir.”

“Tom, please.”

“OK. Tell me, Tom. Have you ever been with a man?”

I rose to my feet and took up a position a few feet to his side. Now, both of us studiously focused our eyes out the window.

Speaking to my reflection in the glass, I told him, “No. I haven’t. I met my wife at a young age, and we were married while in college. I had sex a few times before I met her, but since our first date, I’ve never had sex with anyone but her.”

“That is the honorable thing to do.” He let his words sink in. “And have you ever thought about or wanted to have sex with anyone else, man or woman?”

I swallowed hard. It would be easy to lie to him and put up a front of respectability, but I went with the truth for some reason. “Yeah. I’ve come close a few times, but only with women, never men.” I hastened to add, “That’s a bridge I’ve never crossed.”

“So, you have never had any desire to have sex with a man.” His voice was flat, and I couldn’t tell if he was relieved or disappointed.

I stood in silence, looking off into the distance, delving deep into my own soul. “I-I guess not. At least, not that I was aware of.”

“Have you ever found another man attractive?”

“Oh, sure. I can appreciate a handsome man, like everyone does.”

He challenged me, “Define handsome.” I was stymied again. How far should I allow this banter to go? What’s the point, if I don’t intend to do anything with him?

“Well, for starters, he’d have to be tall, well-built but not muscle-bound, and have a nice smile.” Sergio chuckled, and I saw his bright smile reflected in the window. “And he’d have to be healthy, intelligent, and, and—”

He kept his voice level. “Sexy?”

It was my turn. “Define sexy.”

He turned to face me, and I did the same. He made eye contact and spoke with self-assurance. “For me, a man is sexy if he knows who he is and what he wants. He carries himself with confidence and gives off a vibe that says he could have anyone, but he’s only interested in me—for the moment, at least.”

I grinned in encouragement. “So how does this handsome, sexy man proceed? Does he make titillating suggestions or sweep you off your feet? Wink or blow kisses?”

Sergio laughed hard. “No, not in the least. In fact, quite the opposite. Our handsome, sexy man doesn’t have to do anything except be himself. His honest words and behavior tell everyone what he wants them to know. He has a kind of animal magnetism, and even people who think they would never do anything with him find themselves wondering if they just might.”

Our conversation had turned serious. Trying to keep my voice steady, I wondered, “And how many handsome, sexy men have you met?”

“A few.”

“And what happened when you met them, if I’m not being too nosy?”

Sergio took a step toward me, reached out, and rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’ll show you if you want me to.”

I stood still, gazing into his beautiful eyes. The heat of his sensuous body radiated mere inches from my own. The touch of his hand sent a thrill of fear and excitement up and down my spine.

What the fuck is happening? Is this for real? Am I gay, or bisexual, or something in between? Should I stop him? Do I want to? What would Keith suggest? What would Julia say if she could see me now?

I struggled to calm my interior dialogue and answer my own doubts. Yes, this is the real goddamn thing. I don’t know if I’m gay or bisexual, and it doesn’t make any difference—labels mean nothing. If I want to stop, I can do so easily. Keith would tell me to fucking go with whatever seems right, and I know Julia would say she wants me to be happy, just as she had told our son, Bruce. Can I really do this—cross the line, become someone totally new and different from whom I've always been?

The bullshit was over, and the time had come to do something or let him walk away. I was surprised that I wasn’t afraid or repulsed by his offer. I had no idea why, but I was utterly calm and committed to letting this take us wherever it was going to. I thought, what the fuck and decided to take the plunge.

“I think I’d like that very much.”

He used the hand on my shoulder to draw me closer. When we were mere inches apart, he placed his other hand on the back of my neck and gently guided my face toward his.

It felt like we were in slow motion. Our lips touched so delicately that I almost wasn’t sure it was happening. Then they pressed together firmly before parting.

His mouth was soft and inviting. I had been standing like a mannequin, arms at my side, letting the power of our first kiss energize me. I reached up and placed both hands on the sides of his head, pulling his face into mine.

I felt the tip of his tongue meet mine. He tasted like fine wine, but sweeter than the one we had been drinking. Losing control, he pulled me into a passionate hug. I threw caution to the wind.

We began twisting and turning our heads as if we were trying to devour each other. I lowered my hands and grasped his shoulders. My chest heaved as my lungs tried to draw in air, and my heart thumped against my ribs. I pressed my body against his and realized we were both hard. Wide-eyed, I froze.

“What’s the matter, Tom? Are you all right?”

I took a step back and waited until my breathing slowed to something resembling normal. With a trembling smile, I took his hand and led him back to the couch, guiding him to sit next to me with our bodies touching from shoulders to knees. I relaxed my grip on his hand, instead softly massaging his fingers and palm.

“Oh, yes, I’m all right. In fact, I’m more than all right. I’m—” I shrugged my shoulders. “To tell you the truth, I don’t know what the hell I am, but I like it. I really fucking like it.”

He smiled. “I like it, too.”

“Good. Kiss me again.”

Our seated embrace was less frantic and more heartfelt. The kisses were gentle and tender. We took our time, now that the ice had been broken. My mind was blank. All I thought was how wonderful this man was, and how much I was attracted to him—how I was willing to do whatever he wanted, and how surprised I was to realize this. I had somehow gone over a line, and yet I wasn’t worried about it.

We continued kissing for a few minutes, until Sergio sat back and grinned at me. “So, my handsome, sexy man, what do you say now about being attracted to another man?”

“Well, my gorgeous young personal concierge, it’s a first for me, but I’m enjoying the hell out of it.”

He turned his head to one side, dropped his chin, and looked at me sideways. “And where do you want ‘it’ to go from here?”

I didn’t even have to think. “How about the bedroom?” His delighted laugh told me I had said the right thing.

As I led him from the living room, my whole body was flooded with a mix of desire, joy, and relief. I had crossed a threshold and was now free to explore my new reality. And something told me I was not going to regret it.