6. Graham
6
GRAHAM
M y father has never been so proud to show me off. He even complimented my hair before the party. “This is my son, Senator-elect Lawther,” he tells the Seventh Circuit judge as we move through the ballroom. “His wife, Avery.”
Avery beams at my side, the trauma of the move yesterday nowhere to be found on her lovely face tonight. She’s in a scarlet gown with a high thigh slit and elegantly placed sequins. Her long, platinum hair is loose, falling in perfectly formed waves down her back. When we stood together, posing in the mirror before we headed out tonight, we both agreed we made a stunning couple. “Of course we won,” she’d said.
My opponent in the election was the old incumbent who came with name recognition and a record of flip-flopping on various issues. As much as he may have paid lip service to New York’s purported values, he hasn’t gotten anything done in congress for eighteen years, and I won the race by a seven point margin, surprising a lot of people, including me. Being scandal-free helped, as did all my promises to work across the aisle for the good of New Yorkers .
Whether any of my campaign promises are realistic is yet to be seen. I won’t be sworn in until January, but I mean well, and I like to think it shows. In the idealized version of what politics should look like, I have a vision for who and how I’ll be as a senator, but the reality of DC is an unknown I’ve been told no one can prepare me for.
I look forward to the challenge, though, and tonight I’ve realized a dream. My father is glowing. I did that . I kept my head down, did the work, said all the right things, stayed perfect, and I put a smile on the old man’s face.
Paul Lawther is a powerful man, and everyone in attendance tonight knows it. Getting on his bad side typically means ruination. He sees himself as a kingmaker—backing winning candidates for office since I was in diapers, using his money and media influence to sway the world in a direction that enriches and continues to empower him.
Imagine any conservative win in America, and my father probably had something to do with it. Guns. School vouchers. Tax cuts for the wealthy—all powered by Dad and his deep pockets.
“Dance with me,” Avery murmurs when my father gets pulled into conversation with a Long Island congressman.
I follow my wife to the dance floor and take her in my arms, smiling down at her as we find the beat of the waltz. “How are you holding up?” she asks.
“If my face hasn’t cracked yet, I think fine.”
“Your smile is still intact. My feet are killing me, though.”
“I told you you’d regret those shoes.”
“I don’t. I love them. I only wished they loved me.”
Being married to Avery is like living with a full-time cheerleader. She’s upbeat, full of energy, and expensive. Keeping her happy requires an apartment on the Upper East Side, designer gowns, weekly spa appointments, and a ridiculous amount of Pilates. She says that’s where she’ll meet all the important people she wants to run around with while I’m being a lawmaker in Washington.
She plans our life while I pore over my constitutional law textbooks from my Harvard days. For the last few months, we’ve been staying with my parents while we waited for the UES apartment to become available. Now that we’re moved in, she’s excited to get to work on becoming a perfect public wife to me and a sought-after socialite.
So far, she hasn’t expressed any regret over what she’s had to give up to be in this marriage. I’m sure there will come a day when she realizes her needs go beyond facials and Dior gowns, where we’ll have to negotiate some sort of sex life for her, but this seems to be our honeymoon period where everything is turning out exactly like we planned a year ago.
She’s still in the mindset of “I’ve had enough sex to last me a lifetime.”
I wish I could say the same.
I think about that night at the Plaza with clockwork-style reliability. Nightly, it happens. No matter where I am or who I’m with, I’ll remember the clench of Silas’s hole around my cock—the scent between his thighs, the taste of his cum, and I’ll find myself hard and aching to touch myself.
I jerk off every day now. Before that night I needed to get off once a week at most, and even then it was more a way to entertain myself for a few boring minutes or an experiment to see if it would help when the stress of my life got too intense.
Now, it feels like survival depends on blowing my load at least once a day.
Turns out I’m a sexual person after all. What most boys go through in their teens—long showers, popping boners at inconvenient times—I’m going through now in my thirties. I binge porn like it’s a Netflix thriller .
Most of the men at the ball tonight are older, unattractive, and I wouldn’t touch them with a ten-foot pole, but there are a few—younger, built, good-looking men my age—a few of whom are serving drinks on platters—that have me averting my gaze in order not to get aroused while dancing with my wife.
My imagination has become my own worst enemy. Thank God for work and the need to maintain appearances. Otherwise, I doubt porn would save me from myself.
“I found a gym for you by the way,” Avery says because I told her to be on the lookout in the new neighborhood.
“Yeah?”
“It’s right beneath the Pilates studio. We could walk over together when you’re in town.”
“Perfect.”
“If you work with a trainer, you could learn what to do in DC, even if the gyms aren’t as nice.”
“Good point.” Didn’t Silas say he was a personal trainer?
“Now that you’ve been a few times, do you think you’ll get an apartment there?” she asks, meaning Washington. “Or stick with hotels?”
Neither is an option, given how expensive Avery’s Manhattan lifestyle is turning out to be. I’m planning to put a cot in my office in the Capitol. Maybe I can do push-ups in the Rotunda after hours.
Avery is the one who suggested working out as a way to relieve stress, and she suggested it might help sublimate some of my physical urges. Sometimes we have a little too much wine, and I overshare. In other words, she knows I’ve been horny.
I never told her about my night with the escort, but she’s noticed the long showers. She’s also familiar with the contents of my nightstand—lube and a box of strong tissues. We don’t share a bedroom, but packing and moving ended up being very revealing. And embarrassing. Not that I ever thought I was superhuman, but it was truly humbling to realize I don’t have an iron will—I’m only a very, very late bloomer.
She and I both know, however, that as long as I plan to remain in politics, my queerness can never become public. Not because gay people aren’t allowed to be in government—that’s a ridiculous notion—but because she’s involved in my lie now, and my family’s reputation now depends on me—ergo, so does my father’s blessing and my inheritance. It’s all tied up in the facade we’ve built. If I were to out myself, intentionally or unintentionally, it would all come crumbling down.
There’s a large part of me that wishes I’d done everything differently since I admitted to myself I was gay. My only excuse is that I hadn’t seen a need to upend my life at the time. In hindsight, that would have been the exact right time to do it—fresh out of law school, able to support myself—but…
But.
None of it matters. I thought I was a different kind of person, and it turns out I was wrong. And maybe, one day, I’ll change again—have another sexual awakening with Avery perhaps—and it will matter even less.
Avery’s feet make it another hour before she has to call it quits. We say our goodbyes, and one of my father’s drivers takes us to the new apartment. She steps onto the sidewalk barefoot, heels in hand as the door to our building opens, and I come face to face with the only man I’ve ever had sex with.
I freeze mid-step as our gazes lock.
“Graham, have you met my hero yet? This is Silas—the doorman who saved me yesterday from having to sleep on the floor.”
“You? I—Hello.” I put my hand out to shake, and when he takes it, I vividly remember the angle of his face when he arched his neck—the throaty whimper when I wrapped my mouth around his cock. His touch sends a bolt of need directly to my balls, and I’m instantly hard, swallowing around a gigantic lump in my throat.
“It was no problem, ma’am. Nice to meet you, Senator.”
Jesus fucking Christ, did he have to say it like that ? It has me wanting to say something like let me know when and how I can return the favor. I struggle to let go of his hand, wanting to do more with it like slide my fingers around his wrist and grasp his forearm, but he’s the one who lets go and stands aside for us to enter the building.
If he’s surprised to see me, he doesn’t show it. Meanwhile, I can’t form a coherent thought. My mind is full of pornographic images, both from my memories of that night, videos I’ve watched, and things I’ve only imagined.
He addresses Avery. “You’ve had a lot of deliveries…”
“I know, I know…Raphael told me. I’ll make a day of it tomorrow. Promise.”
“I was going to say I can bring them up at the end of my shift. If seven’s not too early.”
“Seven’s fine,” I tell him.
Our eyes meet again, and I’m aching .
“See you bright and early, then,” he tells me before walking us to the elevator. He makes small talk with Avery, complimenting her shoes and expressing concern about her feet while she soaks up the attention. I can’t stop staring at him.
Did I really think I’d never see him again? And does this make me lucky or unlucky? I enjoyed his company, didn’t I? Not only his body. We shared things with each other. All my nerves. My inexperience. The Lawther Catholic experience. I told him I could have been a priest.
Hilarious.
Suddenly, I need to know how his mother is—all the things he told me about her come back to me quick and hard like a slap to the senses. Is she still alive? Is he okay ?
He seems fine, and I certainly can’t ask, but maybe…in the morning…if Avery’s not up early…
The elevator opens, and I step inside with my wife. When I turn to say goodnight to Silas, he’s already gone.
“I love this building,” Avery sighs, leaning back for the short ride. “Everyone’s so nice.”
“Good,” I murmur, subtly adjusting myself in my pants, desperate for a very long, very hot shower. “I’m glad everything’s working out.”