Triple X

By A.Y. Caluen

An age-gap, cross-culture M/M romance novella.

 

Reggie Galant was a successful businessman: he ran a gay porn site called At Your Service, and it served him very well indeed. It supported his vocation as a painter, it bought his flat in London, and for a long time that was enough.

 

Ro Gallo wasn't getting anywhere in L.A. It was his home city, but it didn't feel like home: nothing there was his. One of his jobs paid the rent, the other one paid for his health insurance, and between them there was just enough left over to live.

 

They met by what might have been chance, at a party hosted by a mutual acquaintance. Two days later, Reggie asked Ro to visit him in London. Ro said he would. 

They'd never been on a date, never touched beyond a handshake, never kissed. Maybe both of them were crazy. On the other hand, maybe neither of them were.

 

Content alert: this story is set in the real world of 2020.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Alexandra Caluen
• Release date: Sep 10, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223214472

A.Y. Caluen

A.Y. Caluen lives in a small purple house with her husband, a bottle of Laphroaig, a lot of books, and nine pairs of ballroom shoes. She is the author of over fifty contemporary romance novels and novellas featuring creative, diverse characters.

Book preview

Chapter 1

November 2019

Ro Gallo was not expecting any more customers that afternoon, was fairly invested in the Facebook fight he was having with his roommates over the latest season of ‘Drag Race,’ and therefore was slightly annoyed to hear the back-door bell. He suppressed a sigh, set his phone on the shelf under the register, slid down from his stool, and checked himself out in the mirror. Sales Diva On: chin up, hair smooth, makeup as good as it was going to get. Two voices, two pairs of feet. The voices seemed familiar for some reason. Then the customers stepped out of the hall and Ro almost said ‘holy shit’ out loud.

After a brief processing delay – very brief, he really was proud of himself for that – he said, Good afternoon, welcome to Molest. How can I help you today? So polite, perfectly enunciated in his smooth Rowena voice, not squealing at all despite the fact that there was an actual motherfucking movie star in front of him. With his four-inch heels on, he was eye to eye with five-foot-ten Victor Garcia. Had to raise his chin a little to make eye contact with Victor’s husband Andy Martin. Oh fuck did I just sigh? Please tell me they did not hear that. Oh holy balls of Jesus, he’s SO FUCKING HOT.

Victor was saying, This is going to sound crazy.

Ro focused. Oh no honey. Trust. Nothing you could say would sound crazier than what I hear Every. Damn. Day. Flutter the eyelashes, tip the head. Be right back. He sashayed over to the front door, flipped the sign over to CLOSED, and turned the deadbolt. I’m all yours.

Thirty minutes later, Victor was out in the showroom letting his feet adjust to the ankle boots with the one-inch platform and five-inch spike heels. Ro was in the dressing room with Andy. Holding his jeans and watching him work the hidden zipper on the thigh-high lace-ups. You definitely have the legs for those.

Andy snickered. I used to be a Broadway dancer. Way before ‘Kinky Boots’ though. He indicated the posters, set his foot down, and stood up. Ro noticed that he didn’t have any trouble with the heels at all. Well, he did say he was in drag for this dance routine. He stared at himself in the mirror.

Ro took advantage of the moment to stare at him too. That long-sleeved thermal just barely covered his crotch, and the man was packing. A-fucking-mazing, he said, meaning every single thing about this, and they both cackled.

I need a picture. Andy reached for his jeans, dug his phone out of a pocket, and said, Get in here with me. Put his arm around Ro – oh holy night I’m being cuddled by Andy Fucking Martin – held the phone up so both of them were in frame, took the picture. You want me to send you that?

Jesus, yes. They cackled again. Did he always laugh like this? Ro tried to do a low, pleasant laugh when he wasn’t too out of his mind to think about it. He was crushing on the man in the worst way. Andy was maybe twenty years older than Ro but he could not give a flying fuck about that. He is married. Married married married. And they are in love. It was clear to see, and all that mattered. He gave this actual famous person, this fully gorgeous famous person who was being so incredibly nice, his phone number. Andy Martin has my phone number. It was a good goddamned thing it was almost closing time for real, because no way was he opening up that front door again. Of course, three pairs of boots was good for a weekday afternoon, so the boss wouldn’t be complaining. Especially since the celebrities swore they would tell everyone where they got their fancy fuck-me footwear. Their words. Ro was tripping.

When he got home that night and told his roommates, they did not stop shrieking for about ten minutes. Victor Garcia?! Andy Martin?! At Molest?! They bought what?! How hot is he?! How hot are they?! Did you make a pass?! Did they make a pass?!

Shut up! You’re all idiots! He was cracking up, trying to fix himself some dinner so he didn’t get off schedule. I need to eat, so get the fuck out my way. He wasn’t going to show them that picture, not yet. He’d been up since four and he was tired. This weekend would be time enough for that. Till then he could look at it about a thousand times and tell himself the whole amazing story all over again.

It was nice enough to get that text, with nothing but ‘we had fun today, thanks!’ and the picture. To get an actual call a few days later, inviting him to the performance – they were really going to do it; Victor was going to dance in those boots, and they were going to hold a ticket for him – was on the Top Ten Moments in Life list. Then, the following week, another text. So unexpected he thought for a minute his phone had been hacked. He read the text again: Hi Ro, I’ve been working on a photography project and wondered if you would model for me. It’s a series based on Shakespeare, historical costume. Standard rates. Give me a text back if you’re interested

Give you a text back, Ro said out loud. A TV star wants to take my picture?

Who’s that?

Ro looked across the room at Davy, the one other roommate at home at the moment. Andy Martin just asked me to model for him.

You lie!

For real. Look. He held out the phone.

Davy hustled across the room and stared at it. "For fucking real. They stared at each other. Shakespeare? Like, Leonardo Di Caprio Romeo Shakespeare?"

No se, hombre. Ro stared at the phone again. I don’t even know what standard rates are.

"Who cares, fool?!"

****

Reggie Galant was almost sorry to be done with the painting. He’d been looking at Andy Martin and Victor Garcia every day since August, and it had been no hardship. But the thing was a Christmas present, so off to Los Angeles it must go. When he contacted Andy to tell him it was ready to ship, he expected nothing more than a friendly acknowledgement. He definitely did not expect the texted picture. Satan’s hairy balls, he said out loud, returning a quick reply.

His friend Vivian, sat on the neighboring barstool, said, What?

Andy Martin’s just suggested I could bring their painting to Los Angeles.

Personal delivery? How much do you like the bugger?

Enough, Reggie allowed. I’ve never been to Los Angeles. There was bound to be a way to write off the travel.

Your visa still good from New York?

Yes. Texting all the while. He says he’s nearly done shooting the Shakespeare series. Teasing me with an advance viewing of his selections for the gallery.

Vivian drank some Guinness, set down his glass, and stared at Reggie. You were off your head about the Tempest pictures.

They’re fantastic.

I suppose you’ll go, then.

I suppose I will. Reggie scrolled back up to Andy’s third text: He likes dark-skinned men with English accents. ‘He’ being the exotic beauty with the waist-length hair and the 1970s peasant blouse, tucked under Andy’s arm in a dressing room. Reggie’s last lover had been nothing like this person. He’d also been a bloody long time ago. Reggie was more than willing to consider a holiday fling. If nothing came of it – by far the likeliest outcome – he could still enjoy the sense of possibility.

****

December 2019

A few weeks later, Reggie looked across the crowded room and temporarily lost the ability to speak. Andy had warned him Ro Gallo would be at the party. No idea if he’ll come in drag, he said. I’m sending a car for him, so he might.

Doesn’t drive? Neither did Reggie.

Doesn’t have his own car. Is this what you’re wearing?

Reggie glanced down at his clothes, then back up, frowning. Why?

Andy was grinning. No reason. You look fine.

Reggie was second-guessing himself. He’d dressed for ‘cocktail party hosted by movie star,’ not for ‘on the pull.’ Still frowning, he stepped into the bathroom and looked himself over again in the mirror. No, it was all right. Charcoal trousers and vest, holiday tie (red and white stripes on a field of green) and novelty shirt (white with stripes made of tiny green holly leaves). Tidy, well-tailored, evidence of a sense of humor.

Now he was staring at Ro, who was wearing a flare-legged harlequin jumpsuit. One leg and the opposite full-length sleeve were in red-on-white candy-cane stripes. The body of the thing was divided too. The parts that weren’t striped were solid red. It should have been too much, except the man was wearing his hair down again, and that inky mane perfectly complemented the gaudy jumpsuit. Not much makeup, though he did have high-heeled platform shoes on. This became evident when Reggie fetched up in front of him and had to raise his chin to make eye contact. Mr. Gallo, he said, offering a hand. I’m Reggie Galant. Your Queen Margaret is terrific.

Ro had been watching the painter approach. He looked so cute in that outfit, and ooh, nice accent. Ro shook the man’s hand, minding his manners. Thanks. Call me Ro. You painted that picture upstairs? It’s really great.

Thank you. Have you seen our hosts dance?

I have! They held a ticket for me last month. Andy was wearing this amazing dress, and Victor had heels on. Like these. He angled a leg, calling attention to his footwear. They were so good.