Mahu Vice Read Free Page A

bed, playing the air ukulele with Jake Shimabukuro on the sound system, while Gunter picked through my closet, most of which did not meet with his approval. “You need new clothes,” he said. “Actually, you need new taste first.”
    “Just pick something,” I said, strumming along with one of Jake’s killer riffs. “It’s a date, not a job interview.”
    “Honey, every date is a job interview,” he said, striking a pose. He’s an inch or two taller than I am, skinny as a coconut palm, with close-cropped blond hair. He’s a muscle queen, with bulging biceps and abs as taut as guitar strings. He likes to pretend to be some kind of Teutonic god, but I know he’s just a suburban boy from New Jersey. “You’re interviewing for a position. Husband, boyfriend, or just flat on your back with your legs up in the air.” He flipped through my shirts, pulling out a black T-shirt with a designer label, something Tatiana had given me for my birthday. “I may be looking for a new job myself,” he said.
    “Really? What’s up?” Gunter was a security guard at a fancy condo in Waikiki, a job that suited him because he got to wear a uniform and boss people around. He was good at that.
    “This new company took over the contract for services at the Kuhio Regent,” he said. “They’re subcontracting valet, security, and maintenance. We’ve all been hired by the new company—but who knows how long that will last. They may want to bring in all their own people.”
    The music gave us a nice vibe, and a couple of beers added to the mellowness of the evening. Gunter moved on to pants. “Have you ever heard of this thing called dry cleaners?” he asked, pulling one rumpled pair of khakis after another out of the closet and throwing them into a pile on the floor. “You take them dirty, smelly, wrinkled pants like these and they return them to you a few days later, all nice and clean and pressed.”
    “Who has time for that?”
    “You have time for surfing,” Gunter said. “And what did you do this morning? Rollerblade? Bike ride? Jogging?”
    “I ran through the park after I got done surfing.”
    “See? You could have dropped these pants off on your way, and picked them up the next time you go for a run.”
    “Save me the lectures. Just find a pair of pants I can wear.”
    “My new boss is hot, though,” Gunter said, inspecting a pair of black pants for stains. “He’s over fifty, but built like a brick shithouse. And he’s hung like a horse.”
    “Gunter. You haven’t seen his dick in person, have you?”
    “The man’s a wannabe cop. He wears these tight uniform pants stretched across his crotch, white shirts with epaulets. His nipples are pierced, too.”
    “Too much information. Those pants going to be okay?”
    He tossed the slacks to me. “They’ll do. But I am taking you shopping at the outlets in Waikele. As soon as I get my next paycheck.”
    I met Dr. Phil a little later outside Raimundo’s, an Italian restaurant on Kuhio Avenue. “You look handsome,” he said, scanning me up and down. “The night we met you were kind of ragged, but you clean up very nicely.”
    I wasn’t sure that was a compliment. “My friend Gunter picked out my outfit,” I said. “He’s always telling me I don’t sell myself enough.”
    “That’s a good friend to have.”
    It wasn’t until we were seated that I remembered Raimundo’s was a place where Mike and I had eaten when we’d dated. I wondered if I’d picked the place as a way of reclaiming it, banishing his memory.
    To a soundtrack of Frank Sinatra and Don Ho, Dr. Phil and I traded basic information, shared some sushi, and started on that long process of getting to know each other. “When did you know you were gay?” he asked, over the salad.
    “I knew there was something strange when I hit puberty. I’d always liked girls, been friends with girls, but the feelings I had for guys were…different.”
    “The locker room,” Phil said.
    I nodded.