Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  gaping mouth doorways,

  roller coasters. And almost

  everywhere you look—

  billboards and signboards,

  on taxicab roofs and

  giant-screen TVs on outdoor

  walls and indoor ceilings—

  you simply cannot escape

  the sight of near-naked bodies.

  Skin, Skin

  Everywhere skin. Instead

  of Sin City, they should

  call this place Skin City.

  Female skin. Male skin.

  Something-in-between skin.

  They (meaning Skin City

  marketing geniuses)

  aren’t choosy about gender,

  as long as the skin is flawless.

  Bronze. Young. Beautiful.

  I’m not griping. I like skin

  as much as the next guy.

  Maybe the real problem is,

  except for the first few days

  here with Carl, I’ve pretty much

  been left all alone to set up

  our luxury condominium

  in an upscale fringe suburb

  of the city. There’s a lake

  out here, and two golf courses.

  All seem totally out of place

  in this hot-as-snot stretch

  of desert sand. One hundred

  twelve degrees in the shade?

  Who says there isn’t a hell?

  If Vegas Is Hell

  The devil himself probably

  lives here at Lake Las Vegas.

  He’d only settle for the best,

  right? Everything here is that,

  from the boutique shopping

  to the pristine marina, to

  manicured waterfront

  greens. It’s beautiful, if hot.

  Perfect, with one small

  blemish: Here, I’m not Seth.

  I’m Seth, who’s Carl’s.

  Maybe that’s not so bad.

  I don’t know what to think

  anymore. Lots of people

  would envy my life with Carl.

  I eat well. Drink well. Dress

  well. And don’t have to work

  for any of that, unless you

  count the sex. All I have to do

  is keep the place picked up

  (a housekeeper handles the real

  dirty stuff), keep myself fit

  (the workout facilities are

  excellent), and look pretty.

  Hey, man. I’m a movie star!

  One Big Problem

  Is boredom. Back home

  I was never bored. Too

  much work to do. And

  when I was done, I could

  go into town, hang out

  with friends, play pool or

  dance or spread gossip.

  But here, I have no car,

  wouldn’t know where to

  drive it if I did. I can only

  work out so much. Lying

  by the pool is a sure

  path to skin cancer. TV

  is a brain-sucking machine.

  I need someone to talk to

  when Carl is busy playing

  Mr. Real Estate Developer.

  So I’ve started spending too

  much time online, making

  virtual friends. Fantasy

  connections are better

  than no outside contact

  at all. I even found a chat

  room called Men Kept

  by Men. My kind of room.

  Sure, There Are Posers

  Guys who only wish

  they were kept. And

  guys who wish someone

  would want to be kept

  by them. Fishermen.

  Then there are the guys

  who pretend they want

  to know all about you,

  and about five minutes

  into the conversation,

  they ask if you’ll talk dirty

  to them, preferably on

  the phone. Masturbators.

  Every now and then, you

  come across married guys

  who want to meet for real,

  with or without their wives,

  usually the former. Cheap

  thrill seekers. I haven’t

  played in the flesh, but I don’t

  mind getting someone off

  telling dirty stories. There’s

  a certain sick kind of power

  in that. I bet I’ve even

  made a priest or two come.

  Which Brings Me Back

  To Father Howard. I guess

  the first time he gave me

  a hug, I was about twelve,

  and an altar boy, steeped

  in Catholic tradition. I was

  preparing the altar for Mass

  when he called to me from

  the vestry. Seth, come here

  and help me a minute, please.

  It was a stifling summer

  afternoon, and the loud

  hum of the air conditioner

  fought heavy rock music,

  streaming from the radio.

  Father Howard was a twenty-

  first-century priest. What do you

  think of these colors? He held

  up some squares in turquoise

  hues. I want to paint the office

  and just can’t seem to decide.

  I went closer, studied

  the samples carefully.

  Finally I pointed to “Cool

  Caribbean.” Father Howard

  smiled. I like that one too.

  Cool Caribbean it is, then.

  Thank you, Seth. As I turned

  to leave, his arms coiled

  around me. You’re very

  special to me, you know.

  It was the first time a man

  had ever hugged me in such

  an intimate way. I liked it,

  twisted around to hug

  him back. “Thanks, Father.”

  That was it. That time. I left,

  feeling very special. It never

  occurred to me that it might

  be wrong for a man of God

  to embrace a boy in such a way.

  Or Where

  That first hug might lead.

  The next time we were

  alone together, Father Howard

  was bolder. His hug lasted

  longer, and he massaged

  my shoulders. You are such

  a good-looking boy, he said.

  I bet the girls think so too.

  He paused, but when I didn’t

  respond, he tried, Other boys?

  My eyes went wide. I started

  to deny, but the adolescent

  tugs I’d felt had all been

  toward boys. I couldn’t lie

  to a priest. I stared at the floor.

  He tilted my chin, so I had

  to look in his eyes. It’s okay,

  Seth. You’re beautiful, just

  the way God made you.

  His lips, warm and soft,

  brushed across my forehead.

  I was scared. Thrilled. Amazed

  at his acceptance of sin, born

  inside of me. Father Howard

  left things there. That time.

  The Next Time

  Hugging segued to touching.

  Not too much. But enough.

  Later, there would be more

  touching. Mutual touching.

  But always gentle. Always

  with deep affection. We never

  had out-and-out (meaning in

  and out) sex. And though I’d heard

  about pedophile priests, for

  some reason, I never thought

  Father Howard might be one.

  Not then, anyway. Not until

  years later, when I read about

  him losing his collar because

  of another b
oy. In another town.

  The picture became rainwater

  clear. I wasn’t special at all.

  I was just one of the first

  of many. I felt betrayed.

  Used. White-hot pissed off.

  But ultimately my emotions

  cooled. Iced over. I could

  have said no, and Father

  Howard would have backed

  off. But I didn’t. And while

  he most definitely took

  advantage of my youthful

  ignorance, he also made me

  believe that being drawn

  to men didn’t automatically

  condemn me to hell. After

  Father Howard changed

  parishes, I moved on too—

  to girls in general and Janet

  Winkler in particular. I’ll always

  feel bad about hurting her,

  but I can’t be what I’m not.

  Bringing me back to what I am—

  gay, and being provided for

  by someone I like but don’t love.

  Making Me

  According to this guy Chad,

  a regular chatter in Men Kept

  by Men, A whore, and not

  a whole lot more. No worries,

  mate. I’m a whore too.

  Turns out Chad’s keeper

  imported him all the way

  from Sydney, Down Under.

  But wherever he’s from,

  his assessment must be wrong.

  Okay, I don’t love Carl. But

  millions of people have lived

  together without being in love.

  I type, “How is this different

  from a marriage of convenience?”

  Chad’s fingers are quick:

  Did you sign anything to

  make the arrangement legal?

  If your man drops dead,

  what will happen to you?

  Carl won’t die any time soon.

  Right? I mean, he’s not that

  old. Right? Okay. Valid point.

  One I should probably consider

  sooner rather than later. Right?

  A Poem by Whitney Lang

  Sooner or Later

  Someone

  you could not have

  ever dreamed of

  appears like a rainbow

  bridging clouds, and

  steals

  your breath away.

  Someone beautiful,

  inside and out,

  grabs hold of

  your

  hand, guides you

  along a rarely traveled

  road, to a place

  where your broken

  heart

  can be mended, piece

  by beating piece.

  The cost, gratefully

  afforded, is only

  your love.

  Whitney

  Free

  That’s what I am now. Free

  of Mom, of Kyra’s shadow.

  Free of friction and the pain

  of a shattered heart. I’m healed.

  I’m also blown away by Vegas.

  What a crazy city! I bet this

  is what all those Saudi sheiks

  wish their desert looked like.

  Of course, on any given day,

  there are probably a half-dozen

  Middle Eastern moneybags

  living it up here in Sin City.

  This is where they come to get

  away from Allah’s watchful eye.

  ‘Cause Vegas would scare the living

  crap out of any deity worth his salt.

  It’s hot as hell and downright

  filthy. Not like dusty dirty,

  although when the wind blows

  hard from the west, it’s that, too.

  Vegas is the kind of dirty every

  mother worries about. What would

  my mom say if she knew this is where

  I ended up when I left that night?

  Nothing, probably. I bet she’s happy

  I’m gone. One less irritation carving

  wrinkles. Daddy must be worried

  sick. It’s been almost two months,

  and I haven’t let him know I’m okay.

  Eventually I will. I’m more than

  okay, actually. I’m great, because

  I’m with Bryn, who loves me

  more than anything. Who wants to

  be with me always. Who needs me.

  That’s something all new—being

  needed. Treasured. Protected.

  I’ll never let anyone hurt you,

  Bryn promised. You are my angel.

  I’ve never been anyone’s angel,

  either. Bryn has given me wings.

  We’re Staying

  In a weekly motel—small, but mostly

  clean and air-conditioned. And it’s only

  until Bryn has time to find us something

  nicer. He’s been working almost

  every day, photographing wannabe

  beauty pageant queens. I don’t like

  him ogling gorgeous girls for hours

  at a time, but he comes home to me.

  He photographs me, too. Lately,

  the pics have all been naked.

  Such a beautiful body deserves

  to be seen, he says. We could make

  some extra money, too. To get

  an even better place. More like

  what you’re used to. I want

  only the very best for you.

  I don’t mind posing without

  clothes. Some of the finest art

  ever was paintings of nudes.

  Bryn makes me feel pretty,

  and I like how that looks in photos.

  At first it was kind of weird,

  thinking about total strangers

  seeing me that way, but it’s not

  so bad, really. And hey, maybe

  Mom will come across one of them.

  That would be awesome. Stupid cow

  would probably be jealous.

  Bryn called a little while ago.

  I’m on my way home, and I’ve

  got a little surprise for you.

  Hope you’re up for some fun.

  Fun? Like what? He must have

  gotten paid, which is good. I was

  starting to worry a little about

  how we were going to eat.

  I guess inheriting his mom’s house

  was more about spending money

  than making money, at least until

  he can sell it. Not easy right now.

  Because of the housing slump.

  And because going back to Santa

  Cruz would probably not be wise.

  But he said we’d be fine, and we will.

  Bryn Blows In

  Like a breeze off the ocean,

  lifting me with his presence.

  Then his arms lift me for real,

  spin me around and around.

  Hey, baby. He kisses me, infuses

  me with happiness. What a day.

  Sorry I’m late. The clock says

  it’s eight eighteen. He is late.

  He carries me to the couch, sits

  me down. Are you ready for my

  surprise? Two surprises, actually.

  He reaches into a pocket for the first.

  Guess it’s not a dinner out.

  Nope. Not even close. It’s a dope-

  sized plastic bag with some brown

  substance inside. “What’s that?”

  But I suspect his response:

  Smack. One of the girls turned

  me on to a little. Thought

  you might like to share a taste.

  Heroin. I’ve never even thought

  about trying it. “I don’t know….

  That shit is scary as hell.” Way

  past meth, which is scary enough.

 
; Bryn’s Reaction

  Is swift, completely unexpected.

  Oh, I see. You can do cocaine

  with your other boyfriends, but

  you won’t try this for me?

  Holy Pete! He’s never snapped

  at me like that before. I’ve never

  even heard him raise his voice.

  My first instinct is to bark back,

  but I don’t want to fight with Bryn.

  “I—I’m sorry. I just … didn’t …

  Uh …” Why am I apologizing?

  “It’s just, heroin is so addictive, and …”

  He softens immediately. No, hon.

  Not if you only do a little, once

  in a while. And the places it will

  take you! I want to see you there.

  OMG. I can’t believe I’m saying

  okay to heroin. But I am. Except,

  “No needles! No way will I shoot

  up anything.” I wait for his reaction.

  No problem. We’ll just chase

  the dragon, okay? He means heated

  tinfoil and a rolled-up bill to grab

  the smoke, draw it up my nose.

  I’ve seen people at parties do

  meth the same way. Even before

  Bryn creases the foil into a deep

  V, my heart starts racing. Fear

  is exhilarating, all on its own.

  I watch him drop a pinhead of H

  into the makeshift bowl, and goose

  bumps cover my arms. I have no

  idea what to expect when the smoke

  lifts into the dollar bill “straw.” Ugh.

  It tastes like rotten ketchup. Bitter

  and harsh in my throat. I start to choke.

  Bryn’s warning is rough: Don’t

  you dare cough it out! He checks

  out my eyes. Looking for pupil

  dilation, no doubt. It takes a while.

  If you shoot up, you feel the effects

  instantaneously. Smoking it might

  take ten or fifteen minutes. Patience.

  Meanwhile, I have another surprise.

  It takes all of ten minutes before

  I begin to feel kind of tingly. Euphoric.

  Like everything in my life just fell

  into place. The sensation is gentle,

  not at all like the overwhelming

  buzz I thought it would be. I can

  handle this. What’s all the hype

  about, anyway? Bryn has finished

  setting up the second surprise—

  a webcam, hooked up to his

  laptop. I thought it would be fun

  to put ourselves in the movies.

  America’s Sexiest Home Videos.

  Come here. Let’s get nasty.

  The tone of his voice lets me know

  disagreeing is not an option.

  But I don’t want to disagree.

  Every nerve in my body screams