Chapter 2 – Chapter 2

He had just meant to see if there really was a Docks Club in Shockoe Bottom. He didn't really believe there could be—not being the type of bar he heard it was. That was illegal in Virginia. He had to look pretty hard for it and then only found it, in a basement walk down on a cobblestoned alley running up from the docks on the James, by following a couple of young male drunks staggering by arm in arm who had stopped in the shadows near Philip to kiss.

Once he'd seen where it was and the couple thump down the steps, bang on the door, and be let in, he still didn't really believe it was that kind of bar—more of a speakeasy—and he thought he'd probably been mistaken that it was two men he'd followed.

When he rapped on the door, a big bruiser of a guy who looked like he'd just walked off the docks gave him a close up-and-down scrutiny, smiled, and accorded him entrance.

"You be new offerings here," the doorkeep said.

"Just checking what's here," Philip mumbled.

"Well, the likes of you will be real welcome here now that you be here; there will be a lot ready to just check what you got," the man said, with a snort, gesturing in the direction Philip was to go.

The room was smoky and dimly lit. It was fairly crowded and noisy. All Philip could see were men, and snatches of racy conversation from a mix of deep and tenor voices cutting through the noise. He almost turned to leave, but the guy at entrance to the bar room said, "Haven't seen you here before. Guys are really gonna like you. Belly yourself up to the bar over there. I'll bet you won't have to pay for your drinks."

Such affirmation from the greeters were just making Philip more nervous about being here. He had assumed—and hoped—that he could just observe on the fringe.

Alcoholic drinks, free or otherwise, were as illegal as homosexuality in the States at the moment, although access to them flourished under the surface. The Prohibition Era had set in in the previous year. Philip wouldn't mind having a drink or two himself, despite the ban. Alcohol had been a staple on in the trenches he'd so recently escaped from. For that matter, so was men turning to men for affirmation, affection, and forget.

He moved in the direction the doorman indicated and found himself standing in a just-vacated space at the bar. The men on both sides of where he had landed turned and smiled to him. Both offered to buy him a drink. As nervous as he was, he suddenly felt freer than he'd felt in years. At least here maybe he could be unguarded and honest with himself. He didn't have to do more than just talk. He didn't have to do anything about his desires. One of the men, younger than he was, quite good looking, slender, and a bit limp wristed, placed a hand on his forearm, letting his fingers ruffle up the matting of hair there, and gave Philip a brilliant smile.

Philip felt a chill go up from his spine and his cock begin to harden.

Less than fifteen minutes later and after a beer, a whiskey chaser, and some very explicit talk from the young blond, who lisped a name of Chad, no doubt a false name, but receiving a false name and profession in response, Philip was in a back corridor of the club. His shoulder blades were pressed into a black-painted rock wall, his hips were angled out from the wall, his trousers and underdrawers were down around his ankles, his fingers were buried in blond curls, and he was receiving a divine blow job. It was the first such attention he had received since Ron had gone down on him in France the night before Ron was blown out of the trenches by a hand grenade.

Philip was left in the dark corridor, trousers still around his ankles, pelvis still jutting out, and now going soft after he'd ejaculated and the blond, having gotten what he'd come for, having evaporated. Mixed emotions were coursing through Philip's mind—disappointment in his resolve and weakness, euphoria of experiencing a long-denied pleasure, resignation that he was what he was, railing against what he was, frustration that it hadn't gone beyond a blow job. He didn't plan to fall into this ever again, and there was a disappointment that, if it was his last, he didn't get more.

As he pulled the trousers up and was buckling his belt, he rationalized that it was some sort of check on how well he was fighting his nature. It was only a blow job—and it had been performed on him. Perfectly straight soldiers had accepted blow jobs from other soldiers in the trenches during the war. It didn't mean they were queer. It was to receive a natural release. This didn't mean Philip had slipped—not really. It had only been a blow job, and it had been performed on him. He hadn't fucked the young blond. Sure, he'd thought about doing so, and he couldn't positively say he wouldn't have done so if it had been asked. But he didn't initiate it. That's what was important.

He could go back to The Madison and his new life now, and know that the thoughts that the sensual and assuming impresario hotel guest Jack Bell had sickened his mind with had been dissipated.

And then, while he was still buckling his trousers and coming through the beaded curtains from the dark corridor and into the not-much-lighter barroom, he heard a laugh separating itself from the crowd noise and his attention was drawn to a nearby table. The laugh had come from Jack Bell, who was sitting there with yet another young man—and who was staring, and smugly smiling, directly at Philip. Philip's mind went back to the encounter in the darkened corridor. A vague figure had appeared briefly at the other end of the corridor and the, with a laugh—a laugh very similar to Jack Bell's—had withdrawn.

The next evening Philip looked up from his station at the reception desk of The Madison and into the eyes of Jack Bell. Mr. Stewart was standing a few steps away, turned to observe the entrance of the hotel, but Philip had no question that the head porter was tuned into everything going on in the hotel's lobby. Bell was as handsome as ever and was elegantly dressed, in white shirt, vest, and matching trousers, his eyes sparkling and an amused smile on his face.

"I will be staying in this evening, room 140," he said to Philip, maintaining his smile.

"Yes, sir. Very good, sir," Philip answered, quite properly but a bit stiffly. He was determined to act like the man knew nothing, had seen nothing. But Jack Bell wasn't going to let him go.

"I don't think I've caught your name. I want to remember you for giving good service."

"Thank you, sir. My name if Philip, sir." He dare not give a false name. Mr. Stewart was standing just there, listening to everything. The staff had been told to be extra solicitous of Jack Bell to win his future business. But Mr. Stewart surely had no idea at all what this dance at the desk was about. Philip knew, though, and Jack Bell most assuredly knew.

"That's room 140."

"The Jackson Suite, yes, sir. Room 140."

"I'll be there, alone, all evening."

"Yes sir, I'll see that you're not disturbed."

"It could be that I want to be disturbed," Jack Bell said. And then he gave that laugh Philip remembered from the gay bar, turned, and floated up the grand staircase.

Of course Philip had no intention of going to room 140—not tonight. Not any night that Jack Bell was booked into this hotel.

The last thing he had to do when he was on shift was to walk the halls of the top two guest room stories of the hotel to ensure that all was quiet and in order.

"I'll take your floor as well tonight, Bernie," he told the porter who shared his room in the attic. "You look beat. Go to bed."

"I'm fine," Bernie said, giving Philip a searching look—a knowing look, in Philip's estimation. And a false assumption, Philip said. Bernie's hall check assignment was for the two lower floors. Philip's view, though, was that he only was offering because Bernie looked worn out. He was doing it as a favor. It was no big deal.

But Bernie had been behind the desk when Jack Bell had come by, and Bernie was more aware of what was oppressing the atmosphere than Mr. Stewart was—or that Philip would admit, even to himself.

Philip did the upper floors first and worked his way down, until, without really intending to, he was standing at the door of the Jackson Suite, room 140, with his hand raised.

He would not knock. He would come this far to show himself that he could resist.

He didn't have to knock. Jack Bell had sensed that he was at the door—or had been watching for him through the eyehole—because the door opened of its own volition, and Bell was standing on the other side, in a silk dressing gown, but unsashed, so that it parted down his sternum and belly, and was parted at his belly by a hard, jutting, upcurved cock.

No words were spoken. No words needed to be spoken, and there was no question who was in charge. Maintaining the half-amused smile that the theater impresario had turned to Philip the day Bell had arrived at The Madison, that he'd shown to Philip in the Docks Club encounter, and that he had flashed that very evening at the reception desk, Bell merely took hold of one of Philip's arms, pulled him into the room, reached beyond him to close the door, and pressed down on Philip's shoulders, guiding Philip down to his knees in front of him. Philip took the hard cock in his mouth and made slow love to it.

Bell fucked Philip on the bed, with Philip's wrists bound to the headboard above his head with his own leather belt. Philip started on his knees, his chest flat on the surface of the bed, and Bell's face plastered between his butt cheeks. Bell fucked him doggy style then. Philip had always been the top with Ron, but he made no effort to resist Bell doing whatever he wanted with him. The younger man came fairly quickly and collapsed flat onto the bed after ejaculating, with Bell riding him down and continuing to pump to his own climax.

There was nothing tender and passionate about it—just Jack Bell putting another notch on his own belt. Still, for Philip, it was as if all the barriers of suppressed need and desire were being exploded and he was being born again into the life he was meant to have. He ached for more—for Bell to suck him off as the young blond had hurriedly done in the dark corridor behind the Docks Club, or for the two of them to explore each other's bodies with their hands and tongues, or for Philip to be inside Bell.

But it didn't go that far. After Bell had come, he withdrew from Philip's ass, rolled off the bed, and padded toward the bathroom. "There's a ten-spot on the nightstand," he called out over his shoulder. "The service is good, very good indeed. You may leave while I am in the shower."

Bell stayed at the hotel for two more nights. The next evening, the first time after having been in his room that Philip came face to face with him, Bell returned to the hotel in the late evening with another young man in tow.

When he came to the desk for his room key, he moved to the side of the desk where Bernie was standing and asked him for the key to room 140. He gave Bernie the amused smile he'd once given Philip. He didn't look at Philip at all.

In frustration and anger, that night, in the room Philip and Bernie shared, Philip slipped into Bernie's bed and fucked Bernie half the night away, roughly and with as much passion as Philip could muster. In the morning, as they both drifted back into awareness, Bernie made Philip fuck him again.

This coupling became a near nightly ritual. Neither man made a single complaint about what he was receiving from the other.

Jack Bell checked out a day later, during the dayshift when Philip was still pumping Bernie in their attic bedroom. To Philip's knowledge, Bell never booked in The Madison again.

But as unsatisfying as sex with Bell had, in retrospect, been for Philip, the part of bringing him to accept who and what he was was something Philip was grateful for. It did complicate his life, however. He and Bernie had to be very discreet about their relationship. It was still against the law, not to mention against the code of decorum for The Madison staff. And there was Mr. Stewart's attitude on top of that. Philip wouldn't be at the hotel, wouldn't have had a job to come home from the war to, if it weren't for Mr. Stewart. And now, if it weren't for the loyalty he felt he owed to Mr. Stewart, Philip would move away from the memories of The Madison, if he could.

This all put him in a dangerously balanced sense of limbo.

* * * *

The days and weeks went on, and both Philip and Bernie became adjusted to their life and their secret. Although there had been whispers among the staff of their new relationship, nothing concrete had been said. Normally, Philip's rise to Mr. Stewart's de facto assistant, the head porter's favoritism evident and marked by all on staff, would merit him a private bedroom of his own in the attic. But neither Philip nor Bernie welcomed a change that would make their liaison more dangerous. They became adept at hiding the relationship when working the reception desk, but having to creep around in the staff area at night would not have gone unnoticed for long. They were in luck here, though, at least for now.

"I'm sorry, I tried to replan the staff rooms, but I just can't free a single bedroom for you yet," Stewart told Philip one afternoon.

Trying to look at least a little disappointment, Philip answered, "That's fine. It's probably best, even, as I already hear mumblings about favoritism toward me. Bernie doesn't snore too badly."

Bernie didn't have much of a chance to snore at all, with Philip fucking him through most of the night. The problem that was slowly creeping up on them was to get enough sleep to be able to function in their jobs at all.

The delicate balance was destroyed one evening, though, when a middle-aged guest entered the hotel lobby, walked up to the desk, and asked for Philip. He was a salesman for the type of construction material that went into stage set designs, and he was quick to declare that The Madison had been recommended to him by the stage impresario, Jack Bell.

"Mr. Bell tells me that you, in particular, give very good service, Philip." He was giving Philip a hard look and a cold smile and held Philip's hand for a moment longer than was necessary when he took his room key. He took a look at the key and noted the room number aloud in a very deliberate tone, "Room 328. You may wish to take note of that room number, Philip. I don't plan to go out this evening. I expect the same good service Mr. Bell told me that you provide."

"I'm sorry, but—" Philip answered. He had no intention of doing this again. The city regulations on hotels were very strict—it didn't take much to get a hotel shut down as a business of ill repute. For that reason, unaccompanied women were not permitted in the hotel bar and were closely attended in all public areas. It would be far worse on a hotel if a staff member were found providing the sorts of services Philip knew this Preston Alexander was suggesting. And if it were males only involved—well, Philip thought the five-story dome over the lobby area would come crashing down.

"It would be very sorry indeed for the hotel if it became known . . . but there's no reason it should become known, should it, Philip? Perhaps you could show me to my room."

Philip looked around in panic for Mr. Stewart, to try to turn the trip to the room over to him, which would be natural and would be enough of a privilege to a guest like Alexander that he couldn't deny accepting the honor. But the head usher was standing over near the entrance to the dining room, conversing with a truly important couple.

In resignation, Philip turned the desk over to Bernie. "I'll be showing Mr. Alexander to his room," he said. Then he added, his eyes on Alexander, who gave Philip a slight smile, "Then, if you can handle the desk alone, I believe I'll take my evening break. I shouldn't be more than a half hour."

At this, Alexander's head inclined and his smile broadened.

Alexander stood in the middle of room 328, while the junior porter brought the suitcase in and placed it on the luggage rack and Philip slowly made the transit of the room, adjusting the drapes and checking the bathroom to ensure it was properly stocked.

As the door to the room closed behind the porter, Alexander was unbuttoning his trouser fly and Philip was kneeling in front of him.

The salesman was quick about it, putting Philip on all fours on the carpet in the center of the room; covering the young man's body from above, Philip's trousers and undergarments down around his ankles; mounting Philip; and fucking him to a quick ejaculation. A ten-dollar bill floated to the carpet next to Philip when the salesman was done. The full import of the business Philip was now end was sealed.

The kicker came when the salesman demanded that Philip return for a couple of hours that night. Philip had to manufacture the need to make a night deposit for the hotel at the hotel's somewhat distant bank before the morning to explain an absence from his room to Bernie. Such was Stewart's reliance on and favoritism toward Philip that Bernie had no reason to question that an important errand like this had been assigned to Philip. And, if nothing else, it gave Bernie a couple of extra hours of needed sleep.

Alexander took Philip more slowly and completely in his hotel room bed that night, not giving Philip a chance to leave until the salesman had dozed off to sleep. Philip quickly cleaned himself up in the bathroom, trying to make sure that there would be no hint to the maid the next day that more than one man had been in the room, and looked both ways to the ends of the corridors when he left. He was in luck that there were no lurking staff members to see him leave Alexander's room at the hour of the morning.

Philip tried to tell himself that this was a one-time happening. The salesman admitted that he'd given Bell a deep discount on stage supplies for information on how he could get his itch scratched in Richmond. Surely, Philip thought, it would be just that one time.

But of course it wasn't. There was the Broadway actor taking the lead in one of Bell's plays and a financier from Charleston who Bell needed to back one of his productions. And, although, it didn't happen often, what Philip was now blackmailed into providing constituted running a male brothel—no matter how high class it was—and could get the hotel closed down. Philip was part of the hotel's receptive staff and the extent of his receptiveness was undeniably illegal.

As the only out Philip could think of, he started to explore where he could get a similar job far away from Richmond—one where he could avoid the extra services. He started to discuss his desire to leave with Bernie, without telling him the real reason why he would do this. Bernie expressed the desire to go with him, and such was their relationship—the only stable and satisfactory aspect to the life Philip had fallen into—that Philip started looking for both of them.

The kicker, of course, was Mr. Stewart. Philip was a surrogate son for the head porter, and Stewart was grooming Philip to take over from him at The Madison. He even told Philip that the reason why he was training Philip so hard and was ignoring the mumblings of the rest of the staff about favoritism was that his doctor had warned him that he needed to slow down with his work and turn much of the responsibility over to someone else.

If Philip just cut and left, it was quite possible that it would kill Mr. Stewart. Certainly it would crush him. Philip couldn't bring himself to do this.

But then that was taken out of his hands. One morning Mr. Stewart didn't appear in the lobby. He had died in his bed in the night.

The staff started to buzz loudly and to give Philip dirty looks when they thought he wasn't looking. But Bernie could see them doing that, of course, and reported it all to Philip.

"They have a right to resent me," Philip said. "I have risen too fast and been moved by too many men who had more right to the training for the job."

When he was called into the hotel manager's office, he knew what he was being summoned for, but he was prepared.

"I thank you, Mr. Taylor, but I'm afraid it would be disruptive to the staff. If you think about it, I'm sure you'll realize that the disgruntlement will disrupt the service the hotel has been known for and will put it at a disadvantage to The Jefferson. Randolph Peyton is your man for the job. He's been here for many years and is respected by the staff. They will accept him where they won't me."

"Yes, I can see your point. But I respect Mr. Stewart's judgment and I must honor his memory. Perhaps the position of head waiter in the main dining room so that everyone's dignity is maintained."

I'm trying to save the dignity of the hotel here, Philip thought in frustration. I'm trying to save The Madison from being judged to be a male brothel. I could as easily be called on to provide the extra services in the position of dining room head waiter as at reception. What he said, though, was, "I don't see how it would save Andre's dignity. He is nowhere close to retiring from that position. No, I have seen this coming. I don't wish to take a position that is in competition with The Madison. If you will give me a good letter of recommendation, I have found another position a good distance from here—at The Homestead, up in Hot Springs, in the mountains. I ask only one thing."

"Yes, what is that?"

"I ask that the staff be instructed not to tell any guest who asks where I have gone. I don't wish anywhere I go to be put into comparison with The Madison."

As Philip left the hotel manager's office, secure in the belief that he had shut down on Jack Bell's recommendation service on his own terms, he knew there was another stipulation for his leaving The Madison. Bernie would be going with him. He'd already bought a cottage in Hot Springs from the inheritance Mr. Stewart was leaving him, and he'd found a position for Bernie in an inn that was separate from The Homestead resort. Neither the hotel nor the inn need know that Philip and Bernie were living together—and living in the way they chose to.

He almost laughed out loud. He had seen a reservation for Jack Bell registered for three weeks hence. By then he and Bernie would be gone, and Jack Bell would have to start all over again if he wanted to compromise the reputation of The Madison.