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Victor/Victoria thing—a gay man pretending to be a straight man pretending to be gay for pay?”
    “I’ve only been with girls,” Andrew said truthfully.
    “I knew my idea was too good to be true. Go home.” Digging in his upper shirt pocket, Wasserman withdrew a cigar. “I’ll call you this afternoon with the final details.”
    “You said pool boys.” Andrew preferred not to dwell on the second part, “party favors.” “Do I need to buy swim trunks?”
    “Depends. You a shower or a grower?” Lighting the cigar, Wasserman puffed smoke in Andrew’s direction.
    Andrew was too surprised by the question, particularly issued in that gravelly matter-of-fact tone, to go red right away. “I’m… uh… well. A shower.” He fervently hoped Wasserman wouldn’t ask him to drop his pants and prove it.
    “Perfect. In that case, no trunks needed. You’ll be naked.”
    * * *
    The afternoon passed in a blur. Andrew bought groceries and paid half the back rent he owed. Now eviction was no longer imminent. He even had Frosted Flakes and SpaghettiOs in the pantry again.
    Marie was officially having one of her bad days. It was a mantra of the cancer journey—there would be good days and bad days, with neither a guarantee that more of the same would follow. Andrew read to her again from that “mommy porn” paperback, still appalled by the prose but taking it a tad more seriously, given his new career. Suppose he found himself in a situation where he was expected to drop trou for a spanking every time he displeased a client? Could he submit to such a thing?
    Maybe the spanking, if it paid enough , Andrew decided, remembering his relief as he cleared the slate on half his back rent. But no baby oil massage after.
    When Marie fell asleep again, Andrew hurried back to his apartment, hoping to research Cormac before Wasserman called. Andrew’s Google-fu was nothing to brag about, but as usual the search engine did most of the heavy lifting.
    Cormac was a state senator from California. Andrew, not in the least political, ignored the party affiliation and platform statements in favor of personal details. He read them as quickly as possible, looking to confirm a suspicion.
    Cormac William Donovan. Age thirty-four. Born in Ireland to US citizens traveling abroad. Gave up his dual citizenship when his political career began. Earned a law degree from Pepperdine University but practiced only briefly. One house, no pets, no hobbies listed beyond football and beer.
    “Huh,” Andrew said aloud, startled into talking to himself. “I figured he was married with six kids.” Andrew’s heart pounded wildly, though he didn’t know why. Despite Andrew’s family history, a gay man could have reasons for being closeted other than a wife and kids.
    His phone chimed. He knew it was Wasserman. He was about to receive instructions on when and where he’d spend the evening nude in the company of gay men. For exactly that reason, Andrew hadn’t eaten dinner and had bummed one of Marie’s anti-nausea pills. He was going to get through this pool boy assignment without puking, so help him God.
    * * *
    None of twenty young men hired for the party, including Andrew, were required to strip naked right away. Instead they were given black swim trunks and flip-flops to wear as they roamed the house, serving champagne and sparkling water. All the guests were male, of course, between thirty-five and seventy. In the beginning, the guests were dressed in business casual at the very least—coats, ties, and pressed trousers. Then dinner was served, during which Andrew and the others were encouraged to try the house’s vast heated swimming pool. The party coordinator, a flamboyant type who called himself Mr. Manuel—despite the lack of any accent or visible drop of Latin blood—seemed to want all the “party favors,” as he insisted on calling them, as wet as possible. Andrew was the last one in the pool. He’d hardly swum a lap when Mr. Manuel