the trophy boyfriend ladder.
Truth be told, he was pissy
about how he put it to me.
You know what happens to
muscle when you quit working
it, right? I’m not into fat boys.
It would be in your best
interest to invest a little
time at the gym. It was not
a suggestion. It was an
ultimatum. One major thing
I’ve learned about Carl is,
business or pleasure,
it’s his way or no way
at all. While I can respect
that on a certain level, when
it’s in my face, it’s not easy
to take. He is one hundred
percent about control. Not
sure why I didn’t see it
sooner. Not looking, I guess.
The strange thing is, I’m not
the least bit flabby, let alone
fat. So why? Preventative
maintenance? Whatever. I have
nothing better to do, anyway.
So Here I Am, Midmorning
Jogging six miles per on
a treadmill. Going nowhere
and doing way too much
thinking about what I’ve
allowed myself to become—
powerless. Even at home,
the only time my dad
dismissed me completely,
no argument allowed, was
the night he kicked me out.
Remembering him, revisiting
the farm, stirs up a cloud
of homesickness. Loneliness.
I am alone in this place,
despite nightly company.
I don’t belong here. I know
that. But I don’t belong
anywhere else, either.
And that is at the heart
of the black depression
pressing down on me,
flattening me. I have
no place. No home. Sex,
but no real affection. I am
kept, but not cherished.
I Am Swimming in Sweat
When an amazing-looking
guy decides to share the gym.
The way he assesses me
leaves little doubt that he’s
not into girls. Maybe working
out isn’t such a bad idea after
all. He offers a ten-thousand-dollar
smile, then sets his gym
bag down on a chair. I can’t
help but stare when he strips
off his shirt, revealing buffed
pecs and a six-pack I’d kill
for. The guy is a high-priced
Thoroughbred. And I’m
definitely not talking mares.
He goes straight to weights,
choosing some machine
I have no clue how to use.
When he looks my way,
I’m still staring like an idiot.
He grins. What? Did I flash
you or something? Hope
it wasn’t offensive. Most guys
seem to like it well enough.
He pauses. Gives me time
to formulate some inane answer.
I slow the tread to cooldown
speed, try to quit huffing.
“I …. uh …. sorry …. didn’t
mean t-to stare …” Huff, huff.
“I just started”—huff, huff—
“working out and”—huff—
“I know this is dumb, but”—
huff—“I don’t know how to
use all the machines.” Heart rate
slowing, I catch my breath
and finish, huffless, “I thought
I’d watch you and learn how
to do it. Uh, use the machine,
I mean.” Okay, that was inane.
He finds it amusing. Oh, I see.
Well, I use the machines all
the time. Happy to give you
some pointers, if you want.
The name’s Jared, by the way.
“Seth.” I stop the motorized
roadway. “I’d appreciate
anything you can give me …
I mean tips.…” Shit!
I’m sabotaging myself!
Hang On
Just why did I think that?
Sabotaging what, exactly?
I’m not shopping for
companionship. Am I?
“Tell me to shut up, okay?”
Jared laughs. Shut up,
Seth. He gestures for me
to come over to the machines.
So what are you most
interested in working?
Now we both laugh at
the unintended (?) double
entendre. “Well … other than
that, I want one of those.”
I point to his amazing stomach.
Don’t blame you. Okay,
you can use the ab crunch
and the assisted pull-up. But,
so you know, diet is huge too.
This is all about protein, my man.
“No problem. I can handle
meat.…” (!!) Once again,
I give his body an approving
assessment. “And just so you
know, I’m not afraid of hard work.”
He nods. Most farm boys
aren’t. At my perplexed
look, he adds, It’s your accent.
Very Midwest, with a touch
of the South. Kentucky? Missouri?
Oh man. It shows? “Indiana,”
I admit. “I never realized
we had accents, though,
especially not with ‘a touch
of the South.’” Really weird.
Not sure why it works
that way, but it does.
Nothing to worry about,
though. I find it kind of
appealing. Come here.
I’m a kid again, called to
the front of the classroom,
not knowing what for.
Will he—shiver—touch me?
But no, all he does is show me
how to properly use the ab
crunch machine. Still, he
stays close, and the entire time
I’m burning gut flab, a word
floats in my head—beginning.
All Worked Out
Tired, sore, I start toward
the townhouse to shower.
As I leave, I venture,
casually as I can, “Hope to
see you around again soon.”
Jared is toweling off
his own sweat polish,
and I’m struck again
by the beauty of his body.
Hot tub tonight at nine?
I hesitate. I never go out
when Carl’s home. Still,
he wouldn’t object,
would he? Long as I omit
the Jared part. “I’ll sure try.”
He gives me a wry grin.
Could he know why
I live here? If I don’t see
you tonight, I’ll run into
you here, I’m sure. Later.
I follow him out the door,
watch his sure gait along
the walkway, tugged, steel
toward magnet. It’s odd,
really. Usually I’m attracted
to softer men, with the major
exception of Leon Winkler.
And wouldn’t his football
jock butt shudder to know
exactly how I looked at it?
Don’t know why I’m
thinking about any of this
now anyway. I’m pretty
much committed to Carl,
who should be home soon,
expecting me showered
and shaved, all smooth
and scented with Armani
&nbs
p; Black Code, his favorite
fragrance. Expensive taste,
not a bad thing. He’ll also
want dinner started. High-
end meat or seafood. Steamed
vegetables. Fresh bread.
Never the same meal twice
in any given month. Good
thing Dad taught me how
to cook. Hmm. Wonder
how Carl would feel about
venison sausage and gravy.
Venison Is Not Easy to Find
In Vegas, so I’m working on
seafood Newberg (recipe
care of one of Carl’s large
collection of cookbooks)
when he finally arrives.
He is not alone. Neither
is he sober as he trips
through the door, laughing,
accompanied by a friend.
Acquaintance? I have no
idea. This is the first time
he’s ever brought anyone
home. The guy is maybe
forty-five, and everything
about him, from the square
cut of his bangs to the way
he wears his extreme
jewelry, screams “queen.”
When he squeaks, Hello there,
he leaves zero doubt about it.
Carl comes over and gives
me an ostentatious gin-
flavored kiss. Something
smells good, and I’m not
talking about in the kitchen.
He kisses me again, which
is weird. For all the sex
we’ve shared, a kiss from
Carl is relatively rare.
I almost don’t know how
to respond. Finally he draws
back. Oh, how rude of me.
Come say hello to my friend,
Brett. Brett, meet Seth,
my uh …. paramour.
Carl takes my hand, leads
me to the sofa, where
Brett has made himself
extremely comfortable.
Pretty boy, Brett says. Very.
My nerves lift on sharpened
edge, like when you go
hunting and suddenly feel
hunted. I force my voice low.
“Good to meet you, Brett.”
Now, now. Let’s not be
so formal. He laughs,
and it isn’t a pleasant laugh.
Any paramour of Carl’s
is a paramour of mine, right?
Before I Can Answer
He is all over me. Hands.
Mouth. Ugh. Tequila.
I push him away. “Wait
just one fucking second….”
I step back, look at Carl,
but he’s into the game.
Refereeing, in fact.
No need to be rude to
our guest. He’s here by
invitation. Understand?
“Invi—” Carl wants me
to be with this creep?
What happened to our
“exclusive relationship”?
“No, I don’t understand.”
With fine diamond clarity,
Carl explains, I enjoy
a bit of variety from time
to time. I expect your whole-
hearted participation.
He pushes me, and not
gently, toward Brett.
Now apologize to my
friend as I hope you
would apologize to me.
He Does Not Mean
With words. And he doesn’t
exactly mean solo. They
move in unison, and I am
sandwiched between them,
Carl behind me, moving
sensuously, while Brett dares
kiss me again. I hold my
breath against the assault
of gin at my back, tequila
in my face. A strange tongue
in my mouth. Now Brett
rests his chin on my shoulder,
and he and Carl are kissing.
It’s a cobra dance, and despite
what it means, I am charmed.
Seduced by sensual motion.
Behind me and in front
of me, both men grow hard,
and for some horrifying reason,
I respond in like manner.
I Have Never Considered
Three-way sex. How would.…?
Oh. No way will I let one
of them take me like that.
Like Loren, Carl has always
played the feminine role.
But unlike with Loren (who
insisted on using condoms),
with Carl (who refused to),
I set limits—“Carl, you know
the rule.” My rule: hands or
mouths only. He stops
kissing Brett, but neither
man quits moving, writhing
like mating hooded serpents.
We’re playing by my rules,
remember? But don’t worry.
I only expect you to give.
For now. From somewhere,
he extracts a condom, hands
it to me, keys to the kingdom.
Don’t rush, he orders,
and don’t you dare
close your eyes. I want
to see how much you like
it. He moves in front of me,
strips Brett from the waist
down, pushes him onto
his hands and knees. Then
he drops his own trousers.
Come on, he urges, positioning
himself inches from Brett’s face.
Shaking, I move behind Brett,
grab his shoulders. Carl’s hands
cover mine. Brett moans as I …
Oh my God! I am damned.
But I don’t stop and I don’t
rush. Carl’s eyes never once
leave mine. Finally I beg
his permission. “Now? Please?”
He nods and I do. We all do.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Don’t Stop
Don’t look behind you.
Something is chasing
you, and if you slow
down,
it will catch you. Run!
Faster! Through alleys.
Tunnels. Underground.
Down there
in that dark place,
fear is your friend
for complacency kills
down where
instinct is survival.
Reach. Find your wings.
Fly away from the
monsters,
hard on your heels.
Don’t stop. Only
then can they win.
Run!
Whitney
Fighting “Night Time”
Pretty name for the hideous pukes
and soaking sweats of withdrawal.
I understand I have to go through it.
Die if I don’t. Maybe die if I do.
I don’t want to die. Do I? Fuck,
what if it’s better than living half in,
half out of this world? Goddamn Bryn!
Bastard turned me into a zombie.
So why do I sit here, crying to see
him? Why do I love him so much?
He cheats. Lies. Lied about everything,
from start to now. I know it. Don’t care.
I want to be with him. Want to make
love with him. Even though that means
waiting my turn. He has other girls.
Other zombies. Killing time in cheap
rooms like this one. Sometimes he comes,
rewards them like he rewards me,
with junk and beautiful sex. Sometimes
other men come. That sex is never
beautiful. It is selfish. Needful.
Fueled by sick desire to get off. Get
hurt them by symbolically impaling
someone else. So Bryn’s zombie girls
stay stoned. Out of our heads
messed up. Eyes closed, we can
be anywhere. Italy. France. Australia.
Jupiter. Hell. Doesn’t matter, as long
as we’re not here. As long as we can
pretend we’re still pretty. As long as we
can make believe Bryn still loves us, too.
I’m Not Stupid
I know I’m addicted. Damn it all,
despite the many promises I made
to myself, I mainline now. A needle
in the vein delivers Nirvana
so quickly! And in those first few
minutes, when all the pain is lifted,
I see what Bryn saw in me that first
day at the mall—naïveté. I was stupid.
He knew it. I was crazy hungry
to fall in love. He saw it in my eyes.
And then, when I called him, stinging
at rejection, he so had me. He is very
good at what he does. Recruiting
girls, feeding them a steady diet
of lies and drugs, then starving them
until they submit to his demands.
He is a pimp, plain and simple.
A fucking gorgeous, sweet pimp,
who I’d do anything for. Including
advertising my body: For Sale. Cheap.
He’ll come to me soon. I need the Lady
bad and he knows it. Can’t send me
out on the streets like this. It isn’t pretty.
Probably couldn’t even give myself away.
When Bryn’s Key
Finally turns in the lock, I’m huddled
in a corner, covered in goose bumps,
shivering through the sweat. At
least I’m all puked out. He takes
one look, nods. Poor baby. Don’t
worry. Daddy has presents for his
beautiful little girl. He comes over,
sits beside me. Pulls a dime bag
from his pocket like it’s made of gold.
Clean rigs, too. Let Daddy fix it
for you. He cooks up a perfect spoon,
loads it, plunges it between my toes.
Bryn gives me wings. The sting
is luscious, the awful rush all I need.
No, not all. I need Bryn. And he’s here,
all mine right now. His lap is warm,
inviting. I climb into it, slip my arms
around his neck. Thank you. Better now.
Oh, so much better. Soaring. Up here
in the clouds, the air is dry. I kiss him,
suck his tongue into my mouth, seeking
moisture. It curls over my own tongue,
sensuous as smoke. Time slows.
Make it stop! Make it stop with me,
here in Bryn’s arms. I want him.
Tricks Page 27