Change Partners (The L.A. Stories) Read online

  Patrick smiled. “I negotiate with the IRS all the time. Do you ever do anything besides work?”

  “I read,” said Dmitri, and that led into another round of conversation, one that gave both of them another level of understanding of each other. And it may have been socially acceptable, they may both have included others during that all-too-brief twenty minutes, but the way Patrick looked at him had nothing to do with books. Dmitri actually did follow him out that time, after collecting his gear.

  “Can I get some of that for you?” Patrick asked, and because if he handed something off they would have an excuse to walk together to Dmitri’s car, he said yes. But it wasn’t private. It was a small parking lot, brightly lit, and others from the studio were there. Patrick’s glance at Dmitri as he handed back the garment bag spoke of perfect comprehension, and total frustration. Dmitri, again, nearly laughed. I am falling, he thought.

  A month after their first meeting, Patrick was in Denver, because Dmitri was in Denver. Patrick freely admitted to stalking the dancer, though only to a good friend from his long-ago clubbing days. That friend was sick – dying, actually – and they both found Patrick’s stories a welcome distraction. He made them as funny as possible. He’d been to those two Los Angeles things, things at dance studios where Dmitri was performing. Patrick played up the clamor for his presence as a student. There’d been another competition, in Arizona; Dmitri had danced with students there. Patrick went into excruciating detail about the costumes. His friend demanded a full briefing about the next rendezvous. Here in Denver, Dmitri and the professional woman were competing. Patrick was hoping that he wouldn’t be saying good night to Dmitri in public this time, so he’d have something interesting to report. And for about ten thousand other reasons.

  Tonight Dmitri’s number was 327. Patrick was especially obnoxious when Number 327 and his partner made the final round of the Rising Star Smooth event, and egregiously so when they placed third. Dmitri almost smiled when the finalists lined up for their photo. And then – Patrick knew – he was done for the night. He went back to the table, took off his tuxedo jacket, removed the number, shrugged into the jacket again. Always the same routine. Patrick did the same thing at work, going through the same steps in the same order because that way he didn’t really have to remember it. Dmitri’s partner was also at the table. They exchanged a few words; she smiled; she patted Dmitri’s shoulder and went out alone, carrying her own gym bag and with a thin robe over her ballgown. Now what, Patrick thought. He did not want to go to the bar. He wanted to touch Dmitri. Wanted to kiss him. Their four conversations – all in public - had felt more like stages of a job interview than dates. Or they would have, if not for the way they looked at each other.

  He got it, though. One had to assume that at least ten percent of the men involved with this sport were gay. A hundred percent of them might have been. Perhaps because of the necessary physical contact between male and female partners – especially in the overtly sexy Latin and Rhythm dances – the professionals all behaved like closeted men off the floor: variously warm, variously friendly, with never a hint of actual sexual interest. Hugging, but never with a lingering touch. Kissing, but only women, always on the cheek. So for Dmitri to demonstrate a physical attraction to Patrick where any of his colleagues or competitors could see would clearly have been, at best, ill-mannered. Patrick conducted himself accordingly.

  But Dmitri hadn’t said anything discouraging when Patrick stated his intention of going to Denver. Even though this time, for the first time, they were both a flight away from home. And they were staying in the same hotel. Patrick had asked the reservations desk what floors most of the dancers were staying on, found that they were the lower floors, and thus booked a top-floor room. At least he and Dmitri had progressed to an exchange of phone numbers. Now, because his choice was to either passively follow him out again or actually make a move, Patrick made a move and sent a text: Well done tonight. I’d like to buy you a drink. But not in the bar. I’m in room 1107

  He saw Dmitri glance at the table. His phone was out; that was promising. He’d seen the text. He picked up the phone. Patrick thought for a moment Dmitri was going to look for him, to make some little move that would mean ‘no’ or ‘to the bar’ or something other than ‘yes.’ But he did something with the phone, and a moment later Patrick’s buzzed with a new message: I’ll see you there

  Patrick looked up from the phone. Dmitri was still at the table, gazing across the floor at him. Patrick thought very clearly do not be obvious. He didn’t smile. He turned his head a few degrees, looking back down at the phone so that when he nodded, no-one would think it was a signal to a person in the ballroom. Then he walked to the doors.

  He already had some vodka up in the room. A small bottle, waiting in the ice bucket beside two glasses, because he was hopeful. Whatever happened on this trip, he knew he’d want it. He still wasn’t sure what was going to happen. A half-hour later when there was finally a knock, he checked the peep to confirm it was Dmitri, and let him in. “Hi.” He closed and double-locked the door, and turned around.

  Without a word, Dmitri was kissing him. Pressing him against the door, body to body, mouth open as if he’d been every bit as hungry for this as Patrick. The kiss went from awkward, fierce, and frantic to deep and passionate within seconds. Patrick was not precisely comparing it to other kisses; all he was thinking, after oh thank God, he likes kissing, thank you Jesus, was ‘this is perfect.’ He tried to say something, but he kept losing his breath.

  Dmitri meant to say something, but he kept getting distracted. The few inches between them when the door closed were insufficient to maintain his presence of mind. Patrick’s hair, like rough silk in his hand. His skin, well-tended, smooth over the cheekbones and slightly rough at the jaw, as if he hadn’t shaved this evening. Neither had Dmitri. The faintest trace of cologne when Dmitri’s mouth found his throat. He was unbuttoning the casual silk-and-linen shirt at the same time he was moving them into the room. Patrick’s hands were on him too.

  Then they were on the bed. Dmitri emptied his pockets onto the nightstand. Stripped Patrick’s shirt off, began on his pants. He was already barefoot. As Dmitri pulled the pants off he was distracted all over again. Black hair on those legs, and a high-arched foot with, oh God, a tattoo on the inside of his ankle. A pink triangle there, outlined in black, in a place where it could only be seen when he was undressed. His olive skin was slightly bronzed, as if he saw the sun more often than Dmitri did.

  Patrick heard something like a sound when Dmitri’s mouth found the tattoo. He was making an array of sounds himself, though none of them amounted to words. All of them meant ‘yes.’ The other man got his own shirt off while he was addressing Patrick’s feet. Then he knelt up and unfastened his pants, shoving them down with a lack of finesse that was very flattering. His chest was waxed smooth and his skin was pale. Firmly-muscled, almost wiry, as if he habitually took in just a little less food than his body wanted. On his hands and knees over Patrick, his erection in Patrick’s hand, his face brushing against the hair on Patrick’s chest like a cat. Then lying flat, half on top of him. Kissing him hungrily.

  Dmitri had Patrick’s cock in his hand now, full and hot. God, this delicious, perfect, beautiful man. He was vocalizing into Dmitri’s mouth, one hand in the hair that was still stiff with product and the other gripping his upper arm. Body tense, one heel digging into the bed, hips rocking as he pushed himself into Dmitri’s hand.

  They had never discussed what they would do, or how. Had never even discussed going to bed together. It was simply an intention, a desire, communicated in silence. Now it was the same. Patrick had surrendered, completely abandoned himself, immediately. There was only Dmitri, taking absolute control. Bringing Patrick to climax with his hand while they kissed, and then going for the condom and the lube on the nightstand. Asking permission only with his eyes, the same way Patrick granted it. Readying Patrick and taking him, face to face, in near silence.
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br />   Patrick wasn’t silent. He hadn’t had anything like this experience for a long time. He was vocal by nature, and he made enough noise for both of them. He only went quiet when Dmitri finished, because then he made a sound of such profound satisfaction that Patrick lost his breath entirely. He held on as the pulse of that climax faded.

  Dmitri closed his eyes, catching his breath, amazed and somewhat appalled by his own behavior. He was almost afraid to look at Patrick. He disengaged carefully, caressed Patrick’s thigh, and went into the bathroom. He still didn’t make eye contact when he returned for the tidying-up procedure. Patrick didn’t say anything, simply let Dmitri do what was, essentially, good manners.

  He only said something, his first intentional words since ‘Hi,’ after Dmitri stretched out beside him and set a hand on his chest, lightly caressing. “Jesus H. Christ” was what Patrick said, and maybe it was exactly the right thing to say, because Dmitri – silently, but unmistakably – started to laugh.

  It was such a relief. That text had been so clearly an invitation that Dmitri hadn’t thought twice. Hadn’t thought much at all, actually, beyond ‘yes’ and ‘thank God’ and ‘finally.’ Then being in the room, behind a door, private with Patrick at last. Seeing the caution and the desire. The warm eyes and the laugh lines and the tempting mouth. He turned his head now and made eye contact. Patrick’s gaze was still warm. Everything about him said not ‘what the hell have I done’ but ‘let’s do that again soon.’

  After a few minutes, during which Patrick watched Dmitri laugh, stored that away as one of the ten most wonderful things he’d ever seen, and then kissed him again, Patrick sat up and reached for the vodka. He didn’t bother pouring it into the glasses. After what they’d just done he didn’t think Dmitri was likely to object to sharing. He took a swig and handed over the bottle. Dmitri swallowed a mouthful with a sound not far from the one he’d made inside Patrick. Then he said, “Je regrette.”

  “Ne regrette rien,” said Patrick. “That was what I’ve been dreaming of since the second I saw you. Not all of it, but a lot of it.”

  “I too.”

  “I’ve never been overpowered by somebody only an inch taller than me. This whole dancing thing is obviously more of a workout than I thought.” Dmitri laughed again. Patrick was delighted. “Is it too soon to say I love you? It is, isn’t it.”

  “No.” Dmitri moved up to sit beside him. He was still holding the bottle. He took another drink and handed it to Patrick, who also had another drink. That ‘no’ sure had sounded like an answer to both his questions. He capped the bottle and set it on the nightstand. Dmitri touched his face, turning it toward his own. They studied each other for what felt like a long time. “You have no interest in ballroom dancing.” An observation, not an accusation.

  Patrick answered accordingly. “Absolutely none, aside from the fact that you’re a ballroom dancer. You have no interest in accounting.”

  Dmitri raised his eyebrows, shaking his head ‘no’ with another tiny trace of a smile. “You take all this time, all this trouble, to see me.”

  “Well, look what it got me.” Another quick smile. Patrick smiled in return, but said quite seriously, “I have been wishing for you all my life.” Not ‘someone like you.’ He knew Dmitri would grasp the distinction, whether English were his second language or his third. ‘You’ encompassed the professionalism, the discipline, the graciousness, the discretion. The intelligence, and the passion, and the sheer masculine beauty. He waited to hear what Dmitri would say.

  He said, “I too.” He kissed Patrick again. Nothing about that kiss said anything except ‘this is perfect.’ After a while they began to really talk. They talked for a long time, saying all the things they couldn’t say in public. Family history and personal history, past loves, friends, business rivals and their mutual lack of real enemies, as well as the essential health questions. Along the way there was more vodka, hydration, the bathroom, and a lot more kissing. Patrick asked if Dmitri needed to have the alarm set; he shook his head. Then Patrick asked if he had to go back to his room, and he said, “Not tonight. What else did you dream of?”

  Patrick pushed him onto his back and kissed him one more time. “Let’s find out.”

  A month later, they spent their second night together. This time it was at Patrick’s apartment. This time, he didn’t ask if it was too early to say ‘I love you;’ he simply said it. In return, Dmitri taught him how to say it in Ukrainian.

  Chapter 2

  They never defined their relationship. They didn’t call each other ‘boyfriend.’ They simply connected, when they could; and when they did, they were lovers.

  Patrick was ten years into running his own business. He had office space in a building in West Hollywood, not far from the area he used to frequent in his clubbing days. By the time he met Dmitri four other CPAs had joined the firm as partners. Each had a specialty or two. Patrick’s were tax strategies and real estate transactional advice. Two of his colleagues were also certified financial planners. Over the years, their collective book of business grew more substantial. Patrick was doing very well indeed financially, and it made him uncomfortable.

  Not in the big scheme of things. Not with his family, or their community. Not with his business associates, who were all more or less on the same level. It was with Dmitri that he felt off-balance. He knew he was making at least twice as much as his lover. Dmitri worked hard, and he seemed to manage his money well. Patrick never had the sense that money was a problem. There simply wasn’t much extra.

  Ballroom was, he realized, an expensive profession. Continuing education was required, same as for financial professionals (in kind if not in substance). There was non-optional travel; Dmitri and his professional partner went to out-of-state competition events often. His costumes weren’t as expensive as hers, and he didn’t go through shoes as fast. He didn’t have to spend as much on grooming. But the hair, the skin and the hands had to be maintained. There were his teeth, which hadn’t had a good start in life. There was a gym membership. There were other healthcare expenses. Patrick wanted to offer – so many times – to send Dmitri to the chiropractor or physical therapist, whoever he needed. He didn’t offer, because he didn’t want to offend the other man’s pride.

  Patrick traveled too, most often for professional meetings or conferences. He always wanted Dmitri to come along, and almost never asked. It was, again, a case of pride. Patrick didn’t even know if it would be offensive to say ‘let me pay for your ticket.’ When he went along to a ballroom thing, they each paid their own way. The only overlap was at the hotel. There, Patrick booked the room, and Dmitri stayed with him. When they ate together, it was billed to the room. If Patrick hadn’t met Dmitri in the context of a ballroom event he would have been disappointed by how little time they had together. Even with an understanding of the context, he was disappointed by how little of Dmitri’s attention and energy came his way. He never said so. This was the man he’d fallen for, and he simply had to take him as he was.

  Dmitri knew. He saw it all. Saw the urge to help, the wish to ask, the constant and bottomless invitation. He was incapable of saying ‘could you pay for this.’ None of his prior relationships were anything like this. It would have been unthinkable for one of those transient lovers to be that kind of partner. Dmitri wasn’t even sure what partnership meant, in this personal context. He had no model for it.

  Eighteen months after they met, he was sufficiently troubled by it that when his partner Natalia ended a call with her husband after an event, he said, “May I ask.”

  She glanced at him, expecting something about their next event. Then her attention sharpened. “Something personal?” He made a sound and gesture of assent. “Let’s get out of the ballroom. It’s cold in here, anyway.” They each did their usual end-of-the-day routines. Natalia didn’t suggest going to the bar or restaurant. Instead she led the way upstairs to her room. Once there, she said, “Get out of your straitjacket and call down for some food. You
know what I like. I’m going to change.” She let him help her with the fastenings of her ballgown, then went into the bathroom.

  Dmitri did as she’d suggested, making himself comfortable. This wasn’t the first time they’d shared a meal in her room. Early in their partnership, she introduced him to her husband. There had been the usual threat assessment: will this man interfere with my wife. Then the oblique statements to establish that Dmitri was no threat to any woman. It was, because of the milieu, not so much a matter of openly stating ‘I am gay.’ It was more a subtle indication of disinterest in the female. It transpired that Natalia’s husband had requested she stop working with her previous partner, a straight man whose behavior was too familiar. Not quite harassment, but inappropriate. She found Dmitri through the grapevine. He was the only experienced leader dancing in her style who was willing to relocate to Los Angeles for a new partnership. The husband made it clear, over the past couple of years, that he appreciated Dmitri. So there was sufficient trust that he thought he could speak plainly to Natalia.

  He approached it from the side anyway, out of habit, after she was comfortable in warm-ups and the food had been delivered. “I have a friend,” he began.

  “Patrick,” she agreed. “We’ve spoken. Are you having problems?”

  He made a face that said ‘not exactly.’ He didn’t really even know how to say this. “It is eighteen months now. I know he wants more. More time, and to be able to do more for me. I have never accepted help from a,” he hesitated, then forged ahead, “a lover. It would make him happy. I do not know how to have this discussion.”