“The book is coming along,” I told Keer Spalding, my agent of ten years, on the phone. Keer lived in New York City. He represented a slew of famous authors but admitted that he liked my queer company the best; a detail we had in common. Often, he told me, “If I weren’t involved with Douglas, I would certainly have you as my own.” Our relationship leveled at a working friendship, though. No matter what type of uncontrollable and unconditional lust or mind-affair he had for me, we never kissed or ended up in bed together. Keer and Kemp. It had a nice ring to it. But it would never flourish because of Serendipity’s contriving ways.
A tidbit of information and facts that might clarify Keer’s good looks: at twenty, he modeled underwear for a famous Italian designer. I’m talking back in the lat
