Monkey Suits Read Online Free PDF Page A

their communal living space.

    Ritchie Hurst stood in his corner, his hands coated in mud. He devoted his attention to a small swirling funnel on a spinning table. He wore his sculpting jeans, which he rarely washed, and a clay-smeared denim apron over his bare chest.

    “Didn’t you get booked for the party tonight?” Ed asked, distracting Ritchie.

    “Yeah, but I called off.” He glanced up briefly, then back to the rotating clay his hands worked to smooth into a pot.

    “Do you have a rent check? We’re a week late.” Although Ritchie’s name was on the lease, the responsibility of payment usually fell to Ed, the most efficient of the three.

    “Sure, I’ll get it to you tonight.”

    “Fine. See you later.” Ed returned to the kitchen, but Brian was gone. He heard running water and found him bent over the bathroom sink, brushing his teeth. Sometimes he felt like a mother, managing this thrown-together household.

    “C’mon. Let’s leave Miss Noguchi to her work.”

    “Mfmms,” Brian mumbled, toothpaste spilling from his mouth like minty fresh hydrophobia.

    After the door slammed behind them, Ritchie washed his hands and made a few phone calls. No, Magna Gallery was not accepting slides now, but he could make an appointment with the curator. No, she wasn’t in. He got more of the same runaround from a few other upscale SoHo galleries. He knew this wasn’t the way to do it. He’d seen the manipulators, the publicity-hungry artists and slick conversationalists at openings, gesturing smoothly with one hand, a glass of Chablis in the other. He wasn’t up for that game, at least not yet.

    Too restless to resume working, he walked over to his ten-speed bike, which hung from a few one-by-three boards nailed to the wall. He checked the tires for air. His usual means of transportation was also his main form of exercise. Gym workouts had begun to feel inane as well as annoying, what with all the cruising going on between gay men, who mistook him for one. It seemed so much more useful to get somewhere while seated. Peddling over the Brooklyn Bridge on late evenings after parties, he would peek over his shoulder as New York’s skyline shrank away, a glowing dark hive.

    He glanced at a map of New York City he’d tacked to the wall next to his bike. He’d methodically dabbed each spot in Manhattan where he’d worked a party with a yellow highlighter. The now familiar grid was dotted with little glowing spots.

    Ritchie Hurst considered himself a sculptor with a special hobby in catering. He was ninety-five per cent straight. The bisexual parts were located between his legs.

    He didn’t mind the constant company of gay men. They were always good for a compliment and a bit of harmless flirtation. Living with Brian and Ed was better than any situation with straight men or women of either disposition, he believed. Ed cooked occasionally and Brian was always good for a few games of hoop at the nearby playground. They were butch enough not to care about an occasional mess, but gay enough to eventually clean it up if he didn’t.

    The friendship with Brian, begun a year ago during Ritchie’s early Fabulous days, had gone over the line on occasion. He’d twice allowed a drunken Brian to blow him, despite his beliefs that it was a betrayal to Ed. Even if Brian and Ed were both men, they were sort of married, weren’t they?

    “It’s simple,” Brian had explained to him late that August night as they downed a six-pack of Rolling Rocks. Brian spilled admissions about a few of his indiscretions. “Ed’s monogamous and I’m not.” Ed was in Boston for the weekend with his parents. Brian was horny. Ritchie was drunk.

    With a slow back massage and some convincing words, Brian finally managed to coax Ritchie’s sizable serpent out, up to attention, and toward a gush of release into his mouth. To Ritchie, it was embarrassing and quick. Brian had thanked Ritchie profusely, buttoned his fly for him. The two made