to be stupid to hook up in a place
like this. And if that leads to love,
well, you get what you deserve.
That Makes Me Laugh
Because I’m not sure if she’s being
serious or totally sarcastic or even
if she means it in a bad way or good.
However she spun it, it’s accurate.
“Know what? You’re right. Okay,
I’ll let you two tackle that algebra.
I’ve got some reading to do.” I stand,
then turn to Brielle. “Gram says love
lives inside every one of us. We just
have to accept that it’s there. Don’t
believe it wasn’t meant for you and
me. We deserve it more than most.”
Deserving and accepting are two
vastly different things, of course.
I go back to my room, digesting
the past hour. There was making
love, yes, and it was new and
satisfying, in a whole different
way. Surprising. Something
I want to experience again.
But I think there was a fair
amount of love, the emotion, too.
I wish I was better acquainted with
it. How do I know if I’m right?
How Does Anyone Know
If they’re right about love?
Pretty sure there’s no way
around trial and error, and
hopefully learning from
your mistakes when it comes
to things like listening to
the arguments of your heart.
Argh! I’m so totally absorbed
in thinking about what just
happened with Brielle that it takes
several minutes for the scene
in my own room to solidify.
When I go inside, I notice
Miranda’s presence. See,
from the corner of my eye,
that she’s sitting on her bed.
But it isn’t until I turn to look at
her that it becomes apparent
she’s in shock, her Latina face
the color of oatmeal. “What is it?”
She doesn’t say anything, but
offers whatever she holds in her
hand. It turns out to be a printed
page, ripped from the local newspaper.
MISSING TEEN’S BODY FOUND
That’s what the headline screams.
I skim the story, which shares
the grisly details in lurid
tabloid fashion:
Shayleece Reynolds just turned seventeen.
She should have been struggling with chemistry
and reading Jane Austen novels. Instead,
the former child prostitute was found beaten,
raped, and left to die in a remote stretch of desert
north of Las Vegas. In a highly publicized trial
last week, Ms. Reynolds testified against
Lawrence Reynolds, her pimp and alleged
biological father (court-ordered DNA testing
has yet to return results) for murdering her mother,
another prostitute. Ms. Reynolds disappeared
on her way to a dental appointment and was
reported missing by staff at Walk Straight,
a child prostitute rescue group home.
It is believed her death was retaliation for
her testimony, which resulted in Lawrence
Reynolds’s conviction for first-degree murder
and pandering a child under the age of fourteen,
which in itself carries a life sentence in the state
of Nevada. This case highlights the growing problem
of trafficking children for sex in Las Vegas and
across the US. Just last year, an FBI task force . . .
I Stop There
“Where did you get this?”
I’ve never seen any of the girls
look at a paper. Few enough of them
keep up with anything newsy.
From Belinda. I was outside
reading when she drives up, stops,
and opens her window. She doesn’t
say anything. Just throws the envelope
with this inside. I don’t know how
she knows where I am, Ginger.
How did she find me? The message
is clear: Keep your mouth shut.
Miranda is supposed to testify
against Papacito in a few weeks.
They’ve been building a case against
him and want to go to court before
the end of the year. “Did you tell
anyone?” She answers with a shake
of her head. “Why not? You have to!
They should take you somewhere safe.”
Where? If Papacito can find me
here, he can find me anywhere.
He’ll kill me, just like that other
girl. I have to leave. I need to hide.
“No, Miranda. Where can you hide?
You can’t go home. Papacito knows
Ricardo, and your family would be
in danger. You don’t have anywhere
else to go, do you? Better to let
your caseworker know, so . . .”
Her head swivels side to side.
“Listen. If you don’t tell, don’t
follow through and testify, Papacito
will get out of jail and go right back
to working those girls. You don’t
want that to happen, do you?”
She thinks it over, but not very
long. Doesn’t matter who goes
to jail, someone will make the girls
work. Today, Belinda, tomorrow . . . ?
Her eyes shimmer with frightened
tears. “Listen, I know you’re scared.
I’d be scared too. But someone
has to make them stop—”
Not me! Why me? I’m just a kid.
I can’t change it. I can’t change
anything. Rather than dissolve
as expected, she goes totally blank.
It’s After Hours
Only a single staff person here.
It’s Bethany tonight. I’m afraid
to go looking for her and leave
Miranda alone, so I open the door,
call down the hall toward a couple
of girls headed toward the rec
room. “Hello? Can someone
please find Bethany right away?”
One of them waves assent,
and I turn back to check on
Miranda, who definitely looks
all “kid” right now. It’s striking,
really. I mean, we just threw
her a fourteenth birthday
party, complete with balloons
and cupcakes. But turning
tricks makes you ancient
inside. I think it ages your soul.
If there’s such a thing as
reincarnation, Miranda will
come back as a thousand-
year-old newborn, and in this
life she’s already an elderly
woman wrapped up in a child’s skin.
At the Sound
Of footsteps approaching, I step
out into the hall to intercept
Bethany and give her a heads-up.
I offer the basic info, then add,
“She’s thinking about running.
You have to call her caseworker
or she’ll be gone by morning.”
And probably disappear forever.
I’ll see if I can get hold of her,
agrees Bethany. Meanwhile, keep
an eye on Miranda. I’ll be right
back. She scurries away and I
return to my room as requested.
Miranda looks catatonic, but at
least she’s staying put. I decide
to check my messages, not sure
why, and I’m surprised to find
one from Alex. My heart stutters
happily. At least, until I read it.
MY MORNING SICKNESS IS OVER.
THE BABY DECIDED HELL WAS BETTER
THAN LIVING WITH ME. I MISCARRIED.
AND I DECIDED LIFE ON THE STREET
IS WHAT I DESERVE. DON’T TEXT ME AGAIN.
A Poem by David Burroughs
Living with Me
Is a privilege, one I reserve
for boys with exceptional
talents. It is well within
my
power to make or break
not only careers, but also
the very lives of young
men
and women, here in a city
spun on a web of connections.
The partners I choose
represent
my taste, and I handpick
them carefully.
Intellect is high on
the
list of requirements,
though I don’t want them
better educated than me, and a
beautiful
body like Seth’s trumps worldly
experience. In fact, I prefer
schooling them. Some
people
might disagree,
but breaking in a novice
definitely pleasures me.
Seth
Winter Approaches
Back home, it arrives, jacketed in ice.
Here, the only change of seasons
is sizzling to lukewarm and back again.
People tell me Las Vegas is no stranger
to snow, which makes me laugh. A few
flurries blowing down into the valley
from the surrounding mountains does
not a blizzard make. Still, even a pitiful
few snowflakes might shake me out
of this mood. I know it has everything
to do with Christmas coming. I’ve
never spent one away from the farm,
and nostalgia is suffocating me.
Familiar carols play in endless loops
in every store I happen into. It’s almost
enough to keep me sequestered at David’s.
But I’m even more uncomfortable there.
The parties have grown old. It takes
ever larger quantities of drugs to get
high. Ditto alcohol to dull the buzz.
Sex with David has become worse
than routine. It’s how I imagine it must
be for couples together for decades—
a series of excuses followed by a single
let’s-just-get-this-over-with encounter,
repeat the cycle. Even David must be
totally bored by the process. It feels
like things here are coming to an end.
But I don’t dare make the first move
to disintegrate our relationship until
I’ve sorted out the far side. My bank
account is healthy, but won’t last long
if I have to invest in a place to live
in Vegas, where a decent apartment
will set me back a minimum grand per
month, and I’d really prefer something
better than decent. I guess I’ve become
spoiled by living comfortably. Scratch
that. By living extremely well. How do
I give that up? Do I even dare try?
The Main Thing
That makes me want to try is Micah.
Our relationship has grown beyond
infatuation all the way to serious love,
and it’s killing me because I just want
to be with him. If his show was dark
tonight and circumstances were different—
yeah, right—I could spend the entire evening
with him. Nice dinner. Take in a movie.
Go home and straight to bed, where sex
would be anything but boring. Fall asleep
in each other’s arms. But he’s dancing
and David’s entertaining, and as for me,
the sex I’ll have, but not enjoy, will be paid
for by Peter from Kansas or Oklahoma
or New Mexico, who’s here for a roll
on the wild side. We’re connecting at
Liaison, a relatively mainstream gay
nightclub housed inside a major casino
right on the strip. One thing I’ve learned
is to meet these guys somewhere very
public first, to gauge demeanor
and hopefully avoid problems once
we go upstairs or next door or down
the street to wherever they’re staying.
A couple of times I hooked up with creeps
who wanted rough play and figured
since they were paying premium rates
I’d be happy to accommodate. I will,
to a point. But I do have limits, and stuff
like fisting or asphyxiation are high on
my no-can-do list. It’s another good
reason to maintain a certain level of
muscle mass. I may be gay, but I can
fight my way out of a bad situation
if need be. Luckily those two men
weren’t interested in getting that rough.
We compromised instead. And while
I didn’t get the hefty tip they promised,
I still got paid for my time. There’s
a learning curve to the escorting business.
Intuition
Becomes your best friend, and mine
tells me Peter from Wherever is safe
enough. The slender fortyish man is sitting
at a table for two, looking a bit unnerved
by the hunky guys dancing onstage.
I know it’s him by the Stetson he wears—
our prearranged sign—and greet him
confidently. “Hello, Peter. I’m Seth.”
His eyes swing my direction and assess
me curiously. Oh. Yes. Hello. Um . . .
He stands and offers a weak handshake.
Please. Sit down. Drink? At my request
for bourbon, he goes to the bar, returns
with two whiskey sours. It’s well liquor,
which suggests that the bundle he’ll drop
to spend time with me is beyond his budget.
Or maybe he’s already dropped a wad
investing in slot-machine play. Either
way, I’ll request payment up front.
I sip my drink and he gulps his, gaining
confidence and growing bolder.
You’re different than I expected.
“Really? You’re not disappointed,
are you?” He drains his glass to ice
before he answers. Oh, no. Not
disappointed. In fact, I’m pleased.
I kind of thought you might be more . . .
effeminate, I guess. I mean, I did
request a . . . He lowers his voice.
A top. But you’re exactly right.
Okay, a little strange. There’s some
kind of story here. Another drink,
and he tells it, slurring slightly.
See, when I was a kid, there was this
guy who lived around the corner.
He looked a lot like you, except older.
I used to ride my bike by his house
and one day I got a flat out in front.
He was working in his yard and
offered to fix it. I followed him around
back to his shed. There were lots
of pictures on the wall—not naked
ladies, like most men have, but guys
in the buff, doing
unmentionable things.
While he fixed my tire, I kept staring
at them. I didn’t even know penises
were meant to do anything but pee.
Finally, he says, “You know, it feels
really good to have someone touch
your wiener. I’ll show you if you want.”
He showed me, and it did feel really
good. I kind of knew it was wrong,
but that made it even better. I went
back a few times. At first it was just
hand jobs. Then he taught me oral.
One day, he wanted to demonstrate
“the very best way.” I was only ten,
and penetration hurt like hell. Plus,
it made me bleed. My mother noticed
my underwear, and that was that.
What Peter Wants
Is for me to play dirty old neighbor.
Hey, it’s his cash, and I do ask for it
up front before we head to his room,
which happens to be at the Mandarin
Oriental, a short walk from the club.
We go up to the twelfth floor, to superb
accommodations. Apparently Peter
is flush after all. Maybe he just likes
cheap booze. He pours two deep
glasses of Jack Daniel’s before going
to the bathroom to get ready. I return
most of mine to the bottle, turn on
the TV and find a country music
channel. I’m betting Peter is a country
kind of guy. If not, I am, and I get
to be in charge. I take off my shirt,
leave the jeans on so I can order him
to unzip them. I also take a quick whiff
of powdered encouragement from
a little bottle hidden in my sock.
By the time he wobbles back,
I’m ready to go. Ready to play dirty
neighbor who has gay porn hanging
on the walls of his shed. “Come here,
kid. Get down on your knees.” And,
we’re off, Toby Keith warbling in
the background. Peter has come prepared
with a number of toys, including his favorite
vibrator. If I wasn’t buzzed and expecting
a very good tip, I’d have a hard time
stomaching the coming play. Instead, I
jump into the game and an hour passes
before I know it. Little boy Peter finishes,
completely satisfied. “If it’s okay, I’d like
to clean up before I go.” He nods mutely,
and doesn’t even put on his underwear
again before shuffling over to say hi to Jack