Tales of the City 07 - Michael Tolliver Lives

got plenty of room at the condo.” He smiled luridly. “And plenty more weed.”
    By now Mr. Johnson was headed straight for the door.
    “You know what?” Ben said. “I’ve gotta catch our friend before he gets away.” He turned and gazed at me pointedly. “I’ll be right back, honey.” And he hurried toward the door, throwing me to the Christians.
    “Which one is your friend?” asked the tall one.
    “Uh…just that guy down there.”
    “The black one?”
    “Yeah.”
    Ben had caught up with Mr. Johnson and they were talking. Or rather Ben was talking while Mr. Johnson listened intently. I tried to focus on the Jesus queens, I really did—since I was about to decline their offer of a bacchanal at the condo—but my mind was full of the gripping silent movie across the way.
    “How do you know that guy?” the short one asked.
    “Uh…what?” They were leaving now, Ben and Mr. Johnson, heading out the door together.
    “That guy. How do you know him?”
    “Oh, just…from around. He’s an old friend.”
    “I thought you were from San Fran.”
    “Well, yeah, but—” I knew that Ben was just presenting our offer in a quieter place. I knew that, and I trusted him. I knew he wouldn’t be snogging Mr. Johnson until I was there snogging him, too. And I knew that if Mr. Johnson proposed sex with Ben without the participation of yours truly, Ben would politely decline—and probably never tell me what the deal breaker had been. I knew all of that about my amazingly thoughtful husband, and I was still a wreck.
    “So…does that sound like a plan?”
    The Jesus queens were both blinking at me expectantly, though the question had come from the shorter, brasher one.
    “Uh…I’m sorry…what?”
    “Coming to our place for a nightcap.”
    “The two of you,” added the taller one.
    This time their meaning was unavoidable. “Oh…right…thanks but…I think we’re gonna turn in early tonight. Jet lag.” The door was opening again. Ben stepped into a patch of light and beckoned me to join him.
    “Sorry,” I told the Jesus queens. “I think my honey’s ready to split.”
    “That’s too bad,” said the taller one.
    “Y’all take care, “I said, beating a hasty retreat.
    When I reached Ben, he was grinning in sheepish apology. “Sorry,” he said, pecking me on the mouth. “I figured we needed to act decisively.”
    “So what’s the deal?” I asked.
    “He’s meeting us at the B&B.”
    “Did you tell him I’m positive?”
    “Yep.”
    “And he’s cool about…both of us?”
    “More than cool. Said he wouldn’t dream of breaking up the set.”
    I smiled. “Did you grab his ass?”
    Ben turned Huckish on the spot. “Maybe just once.”
    “Hey…go for it.”
    “I grabbed it for both of us.”
    “Sure you did.”
    “I asked him not to come till eleven,” Ben added. “So your pill can kick in.”
    “What a husband.” I thought about that for a moment. “Is that what you told him?”
    “Of course not.”
    “I wouldn’t mind if you had,” I said. “I’m not Viagraphobic.”
    Ben squinched his eyes at me. “That’s not a word, is it?”
    “I hope not.”
    “It might be one back home,” Ben said. “We’ve been gone for almost a week.”
    “Yeah…by now there’s probably a Council on Viagraphobia.”
    “Stop.” Ben laughed. “You can’t dis the city when you’re abroad.”
    “Is that a rule?”
    “Yes. It’s like talking about her behind her back.”
    “Are we abroad? Is that where we are?”
    “We’re certainly not home,” said Ben.
    No, I thought. We certainly aren’t.

13
    The Chances of This
    F or some reason, Ben and I both felt compelled to tidy up for Mr. Johnson. We tore through the place like dervishes, fluffing pillows and flinging socks into suitcases and rearranging toiletries around the sink. We might have been a couple of nervous hotel maids confronted with a surprise inspection from Leona Helmsley.
    “You first in the shower,” I said as Ben helped me fold the polyester bed cover and stash it in the closet. So he grabbed a razor and the red rubber travel douche from his shaving kit and headed for the stall. He was in there for a while—shaving his balls, I figured—so I made a mental note to do the same. If you’re going to barber down there at all, you’d better be faithful about it. A little stubble may be forgivable in a marriage, but it’s downright inhospitable when you’re—how shall we put this?—receiving guests.
    When