Monkey Suits Read Online Free PDF

a pact to keep it all a secret and never do it again.

    At least they kept the secret.

    In this three-person household, sex or not, constant games of two against one prevailed, with Brian the apex of any argument. Brian was comfortable in this position, having been raised with two older brothers. But here he had Ed to manipulate like the patient lover he was, and Ritchie to threaten with what he secretly called his “blow job glare.”

    In addition to their tenuous roommate relationship, each had their share of “serious career management problems.” Brian had unlimited potential, if only he could figure out what to do with his beauty. Ed was improving with his body work technique, a combination of Pilates, Shiatsu, Swedish massage and general ego building. He was slowly building a clientele willing to be worked over by a non-certified masseur. Most of his clients were poor and exhausted dancers, offering complimentary tickets to their latest multimedia beach performance in lieu of payment.

    Ritchie sat back on a beaten sofa he’d bought years ago at a flea market. He scanned the walls, a dull white. He’d often thought of painting a mural. The sketches were somewhere. The inspiration was nowhere to be found.

    He did find inspiration in his ceramics. He had good hands. His work had begun to take on an inexplicable Egyptian motif. His new pottery works were dubbed “beautiful” and “fantastic” by admiring friends, like Ed’s, each too impoverished to make a purchase. Gallery people viewed Ritchie’s work in slides and prints. A few had come to see his pieces in the loft and at the kiln three blocks from the loft. The owner of a tiny East Village gallery had made two commissions and an offer to exhibit his work.

    He thought of escaping back to college, getting a Masters. “Think of the young freshmen girls and intense lady professors,” Brian had teased him. But he needed New York, even if it didn’t need him. The museums, each a gold mine of inspiration, were what originally pulled him from his home in Youngstown. During a high school trip to New York, he had toured the Met Museum for two days. He didn’t know he’d end up spending so much time near the great works, serving food instead of making sketches. At least he could still gaze at an Etruscan bust every now and then.

    He flipped through his small phone book and dialed another number.

    “Hi. This is Therese. Speak.” Beeeep.

    Daunted by the curt message, he stuttered a greeting.

    “Um, Therese, Ritchie Hurst. You mentioned a movie, um, Film Forum’s showing that Bertolucci you talked about. Gimme a call.” As he set down the phone, he noticed the clay fingerprints, but didn’t wipe them off.

    Jesus, you have to be a radio announcer or give phone sex just to get a date , he thought. He returned to his pottery, trying not to think of Therese or the general state of his romantic life.

    New York women constituted a sea Ritchie could rarely fathom. Like his gay friends, the wild sexual days from college had definitely taken a nosedive, and AIDS wasn’t the only thing to blame.

    Ritchie hadn’t had a date in two months. The last was a nice, smart assistant-assistant to Leo Castelli. A good conversationalist, even after two dates, she never invited him in. A few weeks of lingering phone tag assured Ritchie that their schedules were working very hard to prohibit anything more.

    He saw her again at Ear Bar one night, with another man. He was with Ed, Brian, and a blind date Ed introduced him to. He wanted to leave the three of them, ask her to dump her date and go off with him, just like in a perfume commercial or The Graduate . He didn’t, but remained polite throughout the evening, and upon getting his date into a cab, pointed a finger at Ed. “Never do that again. Never set me up again.” The boys obeyed.

    After that recent ordeal, Ritchie consigned himself to the fact that his hands were better equipped for handling forms of clay