Chapter Three
Ross Gerard James was born the only son and second child of Marjean Springstein and Max R. James, a traditional Catholic family in southern New Jersey. Ross and his sister Edie had survived a traditional upbringing in the Sixties in American culture: the blossoming of television as a major influence, the war in Vietnam, the women's rights movement, the civil rights movement, the Beatles, Elvis, hippies, the Watergate scandal, the Beverly Hillbillies, the Mi-Lai incident and the Kent State incident and the Iran-Contra affair and the assassinations of Bobby, Martin, and John.
Ross had graduated high school in Egg Harbor, had gone on to college at Drew University in Madison, NJ, majoring in financial management intending to become a stock broker. After his second year in a small brokerage firm, learning that the life of a broker was more nearly as portrayed in the Michael Douglas 1987 movie "Wall Street" than the romantic notions about it, he decided he needed a change and was admitted into law school at Seton Hall.
Stocks in America are not "bought", they are "sold" which, as portrayed in the "Wall Street" movie, was as venal a business as were the late nineteenth century robber baron's practices. Wanting to avoid that route, Ross became a professor of financial and corporate law, bouncing around for his first ten years from law school to law school, growing into the role he would create for himself as an international consultant, speaking at conferences and giving guest lectures.
In all of his peregrination as a professor, Ross found his sexual energies growing: his Catholic childhood and his family expectations were that he marry and settle down and raise a family of his own.
His cock had far different ideas: he was as gay as it is possible to be in southern New Jersey from a Catholic family in a small town. So while he was bouncing from law school to law school as a professor, he was bouncing from bed to bed; he was not a sexual predator, he simply had an indefatigable sexual appetite that needed constant nourishment.
His mother had wanted Ross to become a Catholic priest; there is great irony embedded in that thought.
Tina Schick had wanted to marry Ross; as his high school sweetheart, she was convinced that they would fulfill all of the same New Jersey Catholic expectations that Ross had been burdened with.
When he left for college she was heart-broken; she did the only thing a sensible Catholic girl in a small town in southern New Jersey could do. She got pregnant from a truck driver passing through with a load of watermelons for the New York market. Tina named the baby boy "Ross". The high school sweetheart kept her secret from Ross: he never knew about the pregnancy or the baby until he attended a high school reunion ten years later.
At that reunion, he was gracious and polite to Tina, but spent the weekend in his hotel room with Chad, the former football quarterback, who had an appreciation for talented blow jobs. Chad was a top, told Ross he was bisexual, and refused to do anything sexually with Ross except to receive a blow job and to fuck Ross's willing asshole. Chad was an asshole but did not share his.
The only other trips Ross had made to his hometown after graduating high school was to his father's funeral, and for the wedding of his mother to a retired Lebanese antiques dealer.
Ross never admitted nor explained his gayness to his mother; he never felt a need to explore the great rift between them. Her Catholic life would never allow her to admit that being gay was in any way considered normal; nor would she ever admit that the abuse of young men by Catholic priests had ever happened. In her view of the universe, Ross was just a very busy confirmed bachelor.
In Ross's world, sex was a recreational addiction: he needed as much of it as he could acquire. As a law professor, Ross had access to fresh cock every time he turned around; taking a student to bed was against professional ethics. The dangers of doing so were chronicled in the novel by Christopher Rice: "The Snow Garden" followed a student and his affair with a professor.
By the time he had met Joaquin, Ross had kept a list in his mind about the men he had fucked, been fucked by, sucked, rimmed, and deflowered, or by whom he had been sucked, rimmed, and 69-ed. The number was probably over 200, although Ross was not sure; he had stopped keeping track some time after he met Mason.
Mason was a whole new adventure, a new challenge, a new hurdle to be conquered; he had met Mason when Ross was being interviewed for the national business-news weekly magazine where Mason was a writer and editor.
Ross knew immediately that he had to meet this challenge: here was a man that seemed to be above it all, had all the answers, was brilliant, aloof, and unattached. He fell in love with Mason long before they had a second meeting; he devoured everything Mason wrote or published and followed his career religiously.
Mason was slow to catch on that he had an admirer; he was busy with his career in New York City, and was constantly traveling, following story leads or new trends or national economic data. Mason also taught a monthly seminar at NYU, which he operated as a forum; he invited other professors, other journalists, and financial professionals to sit with the students for two hours to discuss current topics. Mason's interests were art, wine, food, and men. Not too far from Ross's wheelhouse.
They finally had more and more reasons to meet and interact; Mason finally had the flash of insight that clued him in that Ross was enamored of him. It took over a year, but Ross reeled in his biggest catch; he had taken a transfer to New York City, teaching at CUNY-Queens College law school. He could not wait to call Mason and let him know, and then gravity took over; they moved in together within the first semester and enjoyed a beautiful honeymoon.
Until Ross's proclivities took over again: he had more trouble keeping his cock in his pants than a go-go dancer. Mason signed the apartment over to Ross, moved into a townhouse close to the United Nations building, and took off for a media conference in Mexico City.
Mason had a heavy heart over the entire issue: three years with Ross had been fun, beautiful, aggravating, challenging, argumentative, humorous, and sexually exciting. Breaking up with Ross had nearly killed him.
Somehow they had managed to remain friends; actually, they had become friends, something they could not claim to have been prior to the breakup. Ross was interesting enough and gracious enough to be charming to Mason; Ross was intelligent enough to know that he had committed a grievous mistake, and probably had ruined the best relationship he every had.
So it was that when Mario was living with Mason in Malibu and working as the houseboy, Ross had come for a visit from his then-current professorship engagement in Atlanta. He and Mason had enjoyed a week together, and had together discovered TMGM, The Most Gorgeous Man in the known universe, Joaquin. An afternoon on the way to a restaurant in northern Malibu along Pacific Coast Highway had taken them past the art gallery Joaquin owned, where Ross ended up having sex with Joaquin while Mason was perusing the abstract art.
Joaquin was reminiscing about that incident; the first meeting at the art gallery, the wham-bam sex on his desk in the office in the back of the gallery, and later falling in love with Ross and enduring the ups and downs of a relationship that slowly evolved into marriage. They frequently attended Mason's monthly sex parties at the house in Malibu, but never fucked any of the party guests; they kept their sex between themselves.
Joaquin had always wondered if Ross was capable of fidelity; he even questioned Mason about it one day. When, after a few years of marriage, Ross was exhausted after flying to numerous consulting gigs around the country, he was too tired to have sex with Joaquin, it made Joaquin question the fidelity issue all over again. Leopards and their spots, after all.
But by now, after twenty years together, he was convinced that Ross had been faithful, or at least Joaquin had stopped worrying about it. They had learned to love each other, had learned to respect each other, and had enjoyed their time together.
Then one day the receptionist in the Beverly Hills art gallery told Joaquin he had a call; a young man named Ross Schick was calling from New Jersey.