Page 3 of Pages of My Heart

Thomas

As Thomas turns down the dimly lit alleyway, he almost changes his mind.

He’s in the most dangerous part of Chicago, late on a Saturday night, and his heart sprints wildly beneath his rib cage.

What if this is the wrong place, or he’s been tricked, or God forbid there’s a police raid?

His father would never bail him out, and it would bring unbearable shame upon his family.

Thomas stops and leans against the cool brick wall, pulling his cigarettes from his pocket.

The flame brings some welcome warmth as he lights up.

Inhaling deeply, he tries to calm his nerves.

Does he really need to do this? Maybe the thoughts that have plagued him these last years will soon pass, and he’ll be cured of this . . . illness.

He’s all but decided to give up the reckless idea that led him here when two older gentlemen enter the alley.

Thomas nervously turns to face the wall, not knowing what to do or where to go.

The sound of their footsteps grows louder, and dread rises inside him.

But then a voice calls out, amused and curious.

“Hello, young man. What brings you out on this fine evening?”

He turns to find the two men smiling at him, faces like greedy boys in a candy shop window.

He drops his cigarette and stomps it out with his foot, more certain now that he is in the right place.

The men must be in their late fifties or sixties, dressed in finely tailored suits and dripping with confidence.

Thomas becomes acutely aware of his hand-me-down suit and unpolished shoes.

“Hello, gentleman,” he says, tipping his hat while searching for his misplaced courage. “I was looking for an establishment that was . . . recommended to me,” he lies, thinking of the whispered conversation he wasn’t meant to overhear last week on the train.

They slowly turn to look at each other, then break into the laughter of men sharing a private joke.

“Well, I think you’ve come to the right place, Mr. . . .?”

“O’Reilly,” he says, reaching forward to grasp the outstretched hand in front of him. “Thomas O’Reilly. Nice to meet you . . .?”

“You can just call me Ned. And this here is my friend John.”

Thomas shakes hands with the other man, too. “Nice to meet you both. So do you . . . come here often?” he asks lamely.

Ned holds up his left hand, wiggling his fingers, the gold of a wedding band catching the light of a distant streetlamp. “Only occasionally, when the wife has taken too fondly to the sherry.”

Thomas’s eyes widen in surprise, but he chuckles along with the two men anyway.

A door opens suddenly at the end of the alley, and they all turn to watch an intoxicated couple emerge, staggering together arm in arm. As they get closer, Thomas realizes with shock that the one he assumed to be a lady is actually a man.

“Come on, young fella. Let’s go inside,” Ned says, patting Thomas on the shoulder.

Thomas follows behind Ned and John while his eyes track the couple as they pass.

The man he mistook for a woman is wearing a dress and stockings and teetering dangerously in high-heeled shoes.

His wig is fashionably coiffed, albeit a touch askew, and there is rouge on his cheeks, his lips painted red to match.

Thomas knows such people exist in the world.

He’s not a child. He turned eighteen this past spring!

It’s just that, while he’s heard stories, and even read some things, he’s never seen anything like it in real life.

At the end of the alleyway, they stop at the door where the couple made their exit.

Ned knocks three times, and they wait until a rhythmic series of knocks sounds from the other side.

Ned responds by knocking once, then twice in quick succession, then once more.

Thomas realizes his foolishness then: he wouldn’t have known this secret code and would likely have been left stranded outside if it weren’t for meeting these gentlemen.

The door swings open, and the trio heads inside, immediately descending a steep set of stairs, the lively sound of music steadily gaining in volume as they go.

When they arrive at the bottom, they enter through double doors into a surprisingly vast space filled with men and music and chatter.

Thomas stands stock-still for a moment, taking in his surroundings.

There are tables dotted around the edges of the room, little candles glowing orange on each, making the room feel warm and intimate.

At one end is a bar where men lean casually against the dark oak or sit chatting on the leather stools.

The center of the room is being used as a generous dance floor, and on the far side is a small makeshift stage where a group of jazzers are playing something Thomas doesn’t recognize.

Like the man outside, the band’s singer is also dressed as a woman, but Thomas clocks it straight away this time.

Despite the location, the underground club is glamorous, sophisticated, and alive with an alluring decadence.

Ned and John have long gone, so Thomas stands alone, nervous and excited, as innocent as a young boy about to take his first roller-coaster ride.

Nothing could have prepared him for what is before him.

Men dance together, chests pressed to one another.

A couple kiss passionately in a corner. One man sits on another’s lap, their arms around each other and foreheads pressed together.

Everyone is relaxed and smiling, and there Thomas remains at the entrance, shaking and short of breath.

His eyes circle back to the nearest corner of the room, and he watches, too enthralled to be discreet.

The couple are lustful in their kisses, tongues visibly tangling, hands wandering tenderly through hair and down spines.

The one man squeezes possessively around his partner’s ample ass, and Thomas hardens at the sight.

Embarrassed, he moves toward the bar, willing his arousal down.

In part, he’d hoped that coming here would make him feel disgusted and uncomfortable.

But based upon this first reaction, he fears there is no changing who he is.

Maybe God will send him to hell. He doesn’t understand what made him this way and has often wondered if he has a sickness in his head like his mother.

Not the same as hers, of course, but a sickness nonetheless.

Does he even want to be cured? His head tells him he should, but his body yells far louder, begging for .

. . what? He isn’t even sure. But anything that might stop the endless yearning.

Finding an empty stool, he sits down, placing his hat on the bar top in front of him.

“What’ll it be, sugar?” the bartender asks, winking at him.

“Just a beer, thanks.” The bartender doesn’t seem to care about his age and pours him a pint. Thomas pays, then quickly gulps down some of the amber liquid. He needs the courage that only liquor can give him, and he wonders if he should have ordered something a little stronger.

“Your first time, huh?”

Thomas turns toward the voice to see a man taking a seat on the bar stool to his right.

He is rendered speechless at the sight of him—young, with coal-black hair swept back stylishly off his forehead.

His eyes are the palest blue Thomas has ever seen, and his face is finished with full lips that seem scandalous on a man.

“Cat got your tongue, Red?”

“Um, no, I just, uh—yes, it is my first time here,” he says, fumbling over his words. “I came here on my own.”

“We all do the first time. What’s your name, Red?

” The man’s eyes drift up and down Thomas’s body in a way that brings heat rushing to the surface of his skin.

“And how old are ya? You barely look grown enough to be in a place like this.” He raps his knuckles on the bar to signal for a drink.

“You’re gonna need to watch out for the older guys, unless you’re here looking for a daddy type? ”

“A da— what?” Thomas frowns, completely bewildered.

The handsome stranger chuckles. “You really are green, ain’t you? I’m Charles, by the way. But you can call me Charlie.”

He holds out his hand and Thomas shakes it.

The grasp is firm at first, then Charlie loosens his grip and keeps hold of Thomas’s hand much longer than is customary.

Thomas’s stomach flip-flops oddly at the lingering touch, at the way this Charlie is smirking at him, amusement dancing in his eyes.

Sure, Thomas knows the other man is laughing at his lack of worldly experience, but he tries not to care.

“I’m Thomas O’Reilly, and I’m eighteen. You can’t be much older than that yourself.”

“I’m twenty, but I’ve been here a few times before. I’m not wet behind the ears like you.” Charlie gives his hand a playful squeeze before finally letting go. “A daddy is a lover a young man takes when he wants to be showered with affection. And gifts. That what you looking for, Red? A daddy?”

“Is that what you come here for?” Thomas must know. He holds his breath, waiting for the answer.

“Hell no!” Charlie swivels on his bar stool to face Thomas square on, one of his knees knocking Thomas’s own on the way. “I kinda got a soft spot for redheads,” he says, eyes flitting up to the top of his head.

Thomas inhales sharply. Flustered, he doesn’t know whether to look at Charlie’s mouth or his eyes or . . . Thomas wills himself not to let his gaze drop lower.

A smile spreads across Charlie’s face. “You’re fuckin’ sweet, Thomas O’Reilly.”

“How are you so . . . so . . . okay with”—Thomas motions to the room—“all this?”

“You’re a fairy, ain’t you, Red? You like men?”

“I think so. I—” he sighs. “This is really embarrassing. I’ve never . . . done anything with a man before, but I think I . . . I want to.” Thomas’s face flushes hot, his back uncomfortably damp with sweat.