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A Throuple of Bums-1
Liam slid the asparagus into boiling water. The food bank had offered asparagus today. Free as usual. Wilted but not moldy. The green choices this morning had been eggplant, soft, too squishy, and beet greens, also wilted with holes in the leaves consistent with an insect infestation, species questionable. He sighed.
The food bank was a lifeline for him. Eighth Avenue was close enough to walk it. They usually had a green vegetable of the day in the produce department, about three boxes worth, and asparagus was a definite find. The 'checkout' clerk's wife-beater had been soaked in sweat at the food bank.
His kitchen was hot and humid. Summer in Manhattan was great with air conditioning, but he had no extra money to pay the extra electricity. He set the timer for two minutes and pondered his next moves.
He took a cup of potato flakes (food bank brand in a plastic bag), nuked some water, butter, and salt, then added the flakes. He stirred the mix half-heartedly. The cottage cheese from the food bank had two days to go before its 'best by' date, but still smelled OK.
His first dad left when he was three. He didn't remember him.
His second dad had shown him how to cook asparagus by blanching then broiling the tips glazed with olive oil and lemon juice. That dad had left too. Liam was too young to understand or remember why.
Liam had privately begged dad number two to take him on his way out the door. That man was a step-dad, not his real dad, so he couldn't leave his biological mom.
His biological mother, a large, abusive, perpetually drunk woman, had soured him on the idea of any romantic notions involving women or family.
He avoided home like the plague. He liked school in part because his mother never showed up there. She wasn't the PTA type. He had a few friends and didn't date because he wasn't interested in girls.
The gym shower at his high school was the beginning. He saw bodies and body parts that caught his eye and his interest; once or twice another student would stare at his junk longer than he thought the guy would need to paint his portrait. He beat his meat at home thinking over the data his eyes captured at school.
His mother, peeking through an open door one day wasn't amused and beat him.
He was interested in getting through high school and moving out and away from his mother.
Now that Liam worked at the post office; there he had morphed from janitor to postal sorting clerk in the space a year later. He made enough money for a tiny apartment and utilities. A throw-away no-contract cell phone was his only treasure. He hadn't funds for entertainment, TV, vacations, education, new clothes (he found the Goodwill handy for cheap clothes and shoes).
His rent-controlled apartment building had a small unheated pool for exercise; he didn't spend much time in the water.
A man had moved in a week ago down the hall, ok-looking, muscular, a swimsuit just loose enough for Liam to see the guy's cock and balls flopping when he walked near the pool. The guy, perhaps in his twenties with a tiny scar over his left eye, liked to swim in cold water. He usually showed up when Liam swam to do a few laps. Liam had introduced himself.
The guy's name was Alan. He was polite but didn't talk much. His usual thing was to arrive at the pool in a towel wrapped around his waist, said towel tucked in so as to not fall off of him.
Before diving in, Alan would remove the towel and show the swim suit underneath. Upon exit from the pool, Alan bent over, removed his swim suit, dried off slowly and thoroughly with the towel, tucked the towel around his waist, picked up the suit and looked over at Liam and grinned before leaving.
He had provided Liam with eye candy, a nice new add to the building.
A small room provided the rest of his exercise program. It featured one treadmill, an old exercise bike and a set of weights, the 30 lb. size missing. The yoga and stretching exercises in his room got him ready for the mini-gym downstairs. Between the exercise and his diet, Liam stayed trim, 5' 10" carrying 150 pounds.
Liam opened a can of pinto beans. The asparagus and mashed potatoes went on the plate along with the pinto beans and cottage cheese. Lemon juice would have been a nice addition, he thought. He poured himself a glass of water and sat down to eat. Protein? Check. Carbs? Check. Green veggie? Check. Water? Check.
Liam lived by himself.
Living with his mother wasn't an option. Her three husbands had tried that; none had succeeded. When push came to shove, alcohol was more important than a husband. After three hospital admissions to dry out, she hadn't a clue she might have a problem. After delirium tremens, blackouts, lost weekends, and increasingly poor memory, she still maintained that fiction.
Everyone else was aware. She was blissfully unaware. His mom didn't approve of Liam's gender preference. She didn't approve of anything save alcohol really.
Cheap bourbon was her best friend. Had it been human, it might have made a good husband. It tasted good like a good husband should. It made you happy for a while like good husbands do. It just had side effects, just like some...
Liam could have warned them. None of the husbands had asked.
After dinner, he rinsed and dried the dish and fork, then thought of the mail. Since his clothes were already in the hamper, he found a pair of skimpy speedos which still not ready for the laundromat. He put those on, barely stuffing his cock and balls in far enough to be decent in the hallway.
Liam took the old elevator down to the front desk. "Any mail for 306?"
The desk clerk turned. "Yes. It's in your box right here." He handed him the envelope. Glancing at the return address, he saw the name of a legal firm on Sixth Avenue.
The letter, in a high-quality envelope had been stamped with a postage meter. The addressee name was hand-printed. The zip code was the full nine-digit postal code. The return address was printed.
"Thanks." He finished assessing the envelope as he turned back to the elevator, leaving the desk clerk to admire his ass for a few seconds.
The envelope that contained the rest of his life got opened about one minute after he got back to the apartment.
He found a sharp knife and carefully slit the envelope open and extracted the contents.
An attorney wrote to introduce himself as a senior partner at Dewey, Cheatham and When in Manhattan.
He wrote to ask a Mr. Liam Ethan Markham, now aged 23, to call to make an appointment regarding the contents of a last will and testament of one Thomas Edward Gratz of Boston, recently deceased.
The attorney, one Charles Dewey, had the pleasure of representing Mr. Gratz and the sad duty of informing those of his family and friends fortunate enough to be mentioned in his will.
The usual condolences and legal flourishes... and that was that. Liam raised an eyebrow in honor of Mr. Gratz, whoever he had been, and laid the letter on the table.
Half-way through his shower, soaping his substantial cock and swinging junk, his mind .
What the hell did Mr. Gratz's will have to do with him? He forced himself to rinse and towel dry. He didn't know the guy and sure as fuck wasn't going to take time off work to learn he'd inherited a cat or something.
Even so, Liam made plans to call Mr. Dewey, Esq. in the morning. It was the polite thing to respond, he decided.
The next day was rainy and cool...a nice change. He took a morning break at work and called the number on the letter.
"Dewey, Cheatham & When. How may I be of assistance?" A male operator answered the telephone call.
Liam asked for Mr. Dewey.
"Yes, we have Mr. Dewey Emeritus at home, Mr. Dewey, his son, senior partner on eleventh floor, and Mr. Dewey, the youngest son now freshly parted from the bosom of his alma mater, his law school to be specific, now parked in a cubbyhole on ninth floor...which Mr. Dewey excites your interest this day?"
Liam giggled for the first time in his recent memory and asked for Mr. Charles Dewey's office.
"Sorry not to be specific," he apologized.
"Daily operator thing, I'm afraid, honey. Don't panic. Mr. C. Dewey is an old stuffed-shirt, but you didn't hear it from me, dear. The young son on ninth floor is the hunk, an 'up and coming' legal star, if you get my drift. Here, I'll transfer your call."
Liam understood completely.
"Mr. Charles Dewey's office, may I help you?" The executive assistant that answered for Mr. Charles Dewey up on the eleventh floor possessed a deep male voice that could have made Jericho fall down.
"This is Liam Ethan Markham. Mr. Dewey wrote asking me to call for an appointment concerning a will, the Gratz will... "
"Oh, yes, let me see if Mr. Dewey is in."
Liam had a vision of the secretary getting up out of his chair and opening a door to see if the man he knew was in there...was in there.
"Let me connect you with Mr. Dewey, Mr. Markham."
"Charles Dewey." Liam had another quick vision that perhaps the gentleman was repeating his name to get it right finally.
"Is this Mr. Markham, Liam Markham?"
Liam's irritation increased. "No, it's Miss Florence Fuck," he thought.
"Yes, this is Liam Markham. I'm calling about your letter to make an appointment."
"Er yes, the reading of Mr. Gratz's will be held on Tuesday at noon. If that is convenient, the process should take about fifteen minutes right at noon... No, sir, I'm forbidden to divulge the contents of the will prior to the reading. We charge a fee for our reading services, you see... Oh, you are working at the post office that day?"
"As senior partner I do so hope you will think of us as your new legal representation after your inheritance. I will send you a letter informing you about the contents of the will. Perhaps you would be so good as to call for an appointment or come in after perusing the letter. Thank you for calling. Good bye." Click.
Liam then hung up slowly and checked back in. After sorting a bag from Albany, Liam worked on for about five minutes and then told his supervisor he wasn't feeling well. He wasn't.
On the way home, revived a little by the sea air and car fumes, he stopped at the library to check out this Mr. Gratz.
A Google search of Thomas Edward Gratz of Boston produced a recent obituary, full of information which Liam read google-eyed. Thomas Edward Gratz, an Iowa native, had been raised on a farm, and had attended law school in New York.
After graduating, Mr. Gratz worked for the Schuyler trust and museum, was a resident of the Schuyler museum in New York City for many years and retired to Boston. He had died of an apparent heart attack, suddenly, at home... unattended. He was survived by an only sister, one Dorothy Fiorello of Manhattan and a nephew, unnamed, of Manhattan.
Liam's heart began to beat a little faster. Surely not. His mom was named Dorothy Fiorello.
He hadn't ever heard her maiden name.
She had never mentioned a brother.
He never saw her birth certificate.
His own last name on his own birth certificate was the name of her first husband Leo Markham, a man Liam didn't remember since Leo left early after Liam's third birthday.
His mother's first and second husbands had left them. Liam remembered husband number two, his favorite dad, full of joy at first.
Husband number three, Mr. Fiorello, had lasted two months, a grim fucker, not above thrashing Liam for kicks and grins. Liam learned to dodge his step-dad; his mother learned to resent her share of the abuse.
No one had missed him after he left. The coroner had missed the long sturdy hat-pin hole, however. That hat-pin had been carefully guided, then driven by a hammer through his left ear canal into his brain during his alcohol-induced deep sleep, augmented with sleeping pills.
The business ends of a couple of wires connected to a new car battery hauled in from the garage were applied to the hatpin; this seemed to complete the job. The wires and battery went back to the garage, then the hatpin was removed with pliers and buried under the dahlias by his enraged, inebriated spouse.
The cause of death had been registered as stroke after the coroner read the widow's description of onset of seizures during sleep and inability to move one side of his body after the seizure.
No autopsy was performed.
Liam waited for the letter to arrive for a week. He checked with the front desk every day. At the end of the week, he called the law firm and asked for Mr. Dewey. A different operator answered and immediately connected him to the son on the ninth floor who answered his own phone and listened to the story.
"Mr. Markham, let me check the computer to see if the letter was ever written. Dad and his secretary don't get much work done up on the eleventh floor. I doubt they are staring at the great view of the New York skyline."
"Yes, here it is... oh dear, you should have received this, it's consequential. Let me print it out and bring it to you. It's the least I can do to make up for the delay."
"I can meet you at Vincent's Restaurant near Sixth Avenue and 63rd St at 6 p.m. Will that work for you? Great, see you then."
The kind, efficient male voice was really nice to hear. Dewey, Jr. had learned to do something right.
At 6 p.m. on the tick Dewey arrived and the host led him to a table where Liam stood and shook the lawyer's hand.
"I'm going by my middle name to differentiate myself from my dad and grandfather, may they soon rest in peace. Please call me Rodrigo, just kidding, it's Benjamin and everyone shortens that to Ben."
"Nice to meet you Rod, er Ben. Enjoyed talking to you on the phone. I'm Liam Markham and no one calls me." Ben grinned.
"They will now. Out of the woodwork, you will have friends of former and previous friends and relatives calling. Take these papers home and digest them. I'll give you the dollar summary first and then we'll order, how's that?"
"Works for me."
"Mr. Thomas Gratz was born in Iowa and moved to New York to study law. He later moved to Boston and taught law at Harvard. He was a unique guy. He was a teacher of mine there for a couple of classes. He was pretty well a feature of senior gay circles in Boston, made a ton of money and succinctly put, hated his sister, your mother. In his will, he left her ten cents. Exactly. I kid you not.
Liam, he left all the rest to you."
"Now you know why every person who ever imagined a relationship with you will be lining up to be chummy. Your mom will know and everyone she tells will know, including each and every attorney she consults to fight the will.
Be very suspicious, there are scammers out there who look for opportunities like this, including, sorry to say, nice, good-looking attorneys like me, some even better-looking if that can be believed, so be warned."
"This is the inheritance lottery. Lawyers salivate over cases like these. The fees attorneys charge for lawsuits by imagined jilted lovers, by people claiming to be 'love-children' and by cancer victims who got cancer from you somehow by osmosis, aren't a joke."
"You need a crack legal team, better than Dewey, Cheatham & When, by the way, a financial planner, a tax advisor and an accountant for starters. It's a lot like the advice people get after they win an enormous lottery jackpot."
"The other important piece, (listen up, Liam, this is critical) is absolute silence about the event, even to the point of stopping your phone service, moving out, stopping your postal mail, going abroad for a month or two, just disappearing off the grid until the public finds a new mark."
"You will need a copy of the will which is also in the folder here to take with you, not mail, to Paulo Schuyler-Jones in Manhattan here who manages the enormous fortune. He's the best there is and manages to beat the Dow-Jones by five or six per cent every year."
"He manages billions of dollars of Schuyler money and there's a story behind Mr. Gratz's money."
"Still with me, Liam?" Ben continued, "While in law school, Mr. Gratz met a professor with whom he fell in lust and after graduation moved in with him. The professor, Darren somebody, previously had a long-term gay friend relationship in his young years with the two gay men who married and inherited the Schuyler fortune."
"They had a throuple, three people living and loving each other openly, sharing beds, cocks, and all."
"When one of the throuple died, the two remaining men, Michael and Darren, asked Thomas to form another different throuple which lasted until the original founder dissolved it. Darren and Thomas stayed together for many years until the professor's death, when Thomas took up teaching at Harvard."
"The economics of that relationship can work well," continued Ben. "Three can live more cheaply than two. Sometimes. As rich as these guys were, they weren't concerned with saving money. They were so rich that they had passed the point of being thrilled about spending money or having it to spend."
"One huge throuple advantage is the independence from monogamy, the presumed enemy of sexual freedom, which, presented to their families and friends, is very often challenged. Polyamorous throuples are often asked the "why" of the throuple model."
"Proponents are unanimous that there is 'enough love for two parents or two kids or two rabbits or whatever, so there's enough love for three or more humans'."
"The throuple deals with normal emotions like jealousy by living in the other's shoes 'mentally' and accepting jealousy as an expected human emotion."
"Another technique used to deal with the emotional responses to being in the next room while their special person fucks another is 'compersion' a word that refers to the idea that 'I love any situation that makes my partner(s) happy, because I love my partner(s) and their increased happiness increases mine.' It's a variation of the truism, "A rising tide floats all boats'."
"Thomas was gay." continued Ben. "I got the gay gene from my dad. Thomas and I were friends but platonic. We never did the deed. By that time, he was unable to do the deed, full of memories, and there were rumors that he still mourned his professor-lover."
"Paulo is an adopted son of Eric Schuyler-Jones, the succeeding beneficiary of the Schuyler trust. Paulo never married nor did his twin. Eric is gay and is married to Brent Smythe the prominent cellist and professor at Julliard."
"So that's the gossip and I'm sticking to my story. Are you hungry yet?"
Over dinner, Ben and Liam continued their conversation. Liam told Ben that he was gay, attracted only to men for sure, but had zero experience. Literally. Other than with himself.
Liam had questions about throuples. He wanted to know how they decided on major decisions like what car to get.
"Good question with a simple answer," Ben replied. "Either the three of them argue it out or a strong alpha member of the triad does the deciding, the other two accepting his dominance in the throuple to keep the peace. That threesome may work if two of the triad are submissive."
"The throuple may further divide or not into a V form where A has sex with B and with C, but B and C don't have sex with each other."
"A simple A plus B plus C polyamorous throuple of gay men love each other," Ben added, "and find a balance of household chores and responsibilities and work without any one of them being dominant. They love and share equally. They sometimes schedule their times alone as couples within the triad and pencil in a threesome sometimes."
"Another advantage of a throuple is that any one of them is rarely lonely. If they adopt children or one fathers a child, they may decide to share raising children with three parents rather than two, making it easier for two of them to have a date night or a date day while the children are being cared for."
Ben told Liam that throuples are sometimes asked if they all have sex together at once. Some do, some don't. If they all decide they are free to fuck outside their triad within the rules of the throuple agreement.
"They ordinarily talk a lot together and form rules together. It is easier to live by rules they help to make."
Liam hadn't asked Ben the amount of the bequest. He thought to and finally popped that question. Before Ben answered, he asked Liam to go along with him for a few minutes.
Ben called the waiter over, handed him an iPhone and asked the man to take a picture of himself with Liam, several of them, in fact.
Ben asked Liam to stand, drew him into his arms, asked his permission to kiss him, and kissed him soundly full on his lips. Pictures were taken of that, then Ben got his phone back and asked Liam for a dollar bill. Ben wrote out a brief note for the waiter to sign stating that he, the waiter, had taken the photo of Ben and Liam at this location, this date and this time. The waiter signed and dated it.
Ben scribbled out a receipt, dated and signed for one dollar as a legal retainer receipt and took a photo of the receipt formalizing the fact that Ben was Liam's attorney of record as of that moment.
"We did that for two reasons. If the New York or Massachusetts Bar ever finds out that we had sex, I have picture evidence to show them that we were lovers before I was your attorney and it was consensual."
"If questions from my firm or anyone else arise about what I am to tell you, I can say that I'm your attorney of record. In addition, further conversation about your business is protected from disclosure by attorney-client privilege law unless I help you commit something illegal."
"You can always fire me if we cannot agree on legal fees later."
"Paulo will tell you the current specific about your new fortune. I can paint the picture, as your attorney, in broad strokes by telling you that you are not just rich. You are very rich. Not Schuyler-rich, but you won't be able to tell the difference. As of this week you will have access to that money."
"Your tax advisor(s) will have their say about things and have advice for you as will your financial planner and Paulo will chime in with your accountant."
"The important thing to remember is that all of them will be on your side. The end result will be a plan you can not only live with, but you can be very comfortable for the rest of your life."
"Your uncle kept track of you for the last ten years or so very carefully. You met his standards. You passed the tests. I believe he was proud of you."