Tricks
Page 31
did you do today? The look on
his face explains way too much.
Something nasty bubbles up
in my belly. But I’m not
ready to confess—not yet.
“I read. Swam. Worked out.”
Sounds like a pretty easy day.
You have it easy here, don’t
you, Seth? He doesn’t wait
for my reply. So why in the hell
did you want to go and blow it?
Okay, he knows. But how?
And what does that mean
to me? And how much,
exactly, does he know?
“What are you talking about?”
He advances, sipping his drink
like he doesn’t have a care.
You know exactly what I’m
talking about. Did I give you
permission to pick up some
guy in the workout room? Slip
into the sauna for, shall we
say, an afternoon quickie?
Did you think I wouldn’t keep
tabs on you? All you young fags
are alike. Simon’s philandering
taught me a lesson—never trust
a boy toy. And here in Vegas,
there is no shortage of pretty
faggots, willing to do just about
anything to earn an extra dime.
That includes acting as bait.
I didn’t expect Jared to follow
through and actually do you,
but whatever. I start to protest.
Carl holds up a hand. Shut
your mouth. You have twenty-four
hours to pack up and get
the hell out of here. Be gone
when I get home tomorrow.
He Will Not Allow
Explanations or arguments.
He’s had his say and I am
to leave. He doesn’t give a damn
where or how. Won’t even front
a few bucks to send me on my way.
I wander into my room, turn on
my computer—the computer.
It belongs to Carl. I’ve got
less than a day and zero capital
to start completely over.
I have exactly one resource—
a better, buffer body than when
I arrived. I’ll have to barter
it more carefully. It’s the only
one I have, after all. I go to
Craigslist, Las Vegas Personals.
Click on Men 4 Men, scan the ads.
Here’s a Help Wanted ad for Have Ur
Cake Escorts. Just in case, I jot
down the number. But what I’m
really looking for is another Carl.
There are a few possibilities.
Can’t be too picky. I send
out several e-mail intros, wait
less than patiently for a response.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Less Than Patiently
The Lady waits. Pretty
China White demands
I listen, and hold her in
my arms.
She is my only friend,
my one ally against
the low, throbbing
ache
inside my brain,
against the loneliness
my heart was not
prepared
to hold.
Will it break beneath
the obscene weight of
him
not loving me? How
is it possible I could
have been so very wrong
again?
Whitney
No Love
In this world for me. No hope.
No future. Nothing but plodding
through each day, not quite
surviving. I am not alive
except when I’m fresh off a plunge,
that first rush after a hot shot.
Then, for scant minutes, life
rages through my veins, a river.
Bryn comes later and later each
day, if he comes at all. Sometimes
I wait, barely hanging on,
wondering if he’s back in Santa
Cruz, combing the mall for a new
Whitney. Then I get mad. Not only
because my body is twisted with spasms
of need, but also because I should
be there. Not him. I belong there—
used to belong there. Don’t belong
there or anywhere like this. Waiting
for maintenance. And so, I’ve come up
with a plan. Bryn isn’t the only supplier
in Vegas. Sometimes they hang out
at strip clubs. And, I suspect, I can find
one who might be up for a trade.
I watch from a distance as a car
pulls up against the sidewalk, a block
down the street from Skin Tight.
Don’t know if the deal was set up before
or if this is a regular haunt for the guy
who goes to the window, collects
some cash, and tosses something at
the passenger. The deal is down in less
than thirty seconds. I can’t be sure it
was H without a little scamming of
my own. The guy, who is pretty much
a stereotypical Latino deal-meister,
turns back toward Skin Tight. I sidle
up, flash some thigh. “Hey, honey.
You looking for a little fun?” Already
broke one of Bryn’s rules. But this guy
def isn’t the heat. He is high himself,
but not on junk. His pupils shout “crystal.”
My heart sinks. I start to back away.
More reasons than one for rules, I guess.
The guy grabs my wrist, pulls me
into him. Hey, now. Where you going?
You ain’t a whore and a tease, are
you? ’Cause that might make me mad.
I’ve gotten a whole lot better at reading
guys since my little choking incident.
This is not a guy I want to make mad.
“No, baby. Just a whore, and a good
one.” Might as well play the game
for money if the Lady isn’t on the line.
But I’m not giving up on that yet.
“I was just hoping maybe you had
a little something in your pocket.”
I run my knee up over his bulging
groin.“Something besides that, I mean,
and something to take me down.”
His turn to assess my eyes, looking
for lies. What he finds is a junkie.
He shakes his head. Don’t got no bonita,
baby. But I could maybe get some.
That’s the crystal talking. He wants to
get off, not an easy thing, high on meth.
I hate doing guys on meth. Takes too
long. But hey, this was my deal.
We Agree on a Time
To meet, and a corner three blocks
from my apartment, just in case
Lorenzo can’t score. Not having
some crazed meth fiend thinking
he’s getting laid with nothing
coming back the other way. After
Mr. Omaha, it was days before I’d
let a john come through my door.
Bryn was patient. For maybe one day.
After that he was all, Get over it already.
Odds are you’ll meet up with a creep
once in a while. You had your once.
He promised to check in more often,
to keep a better eye on me. But it hasn’t
happened that way. Ginger has showed
more concern, and I don’t even know her.
She knocks on my door at least
every other day. Just making sure
you’re still breathing, she says.
Doesn’t come in very often.
But that’s okay. Not like we’re best
friends or anything. Girls in the business
don’t really have friends. Our lives
are all about acquaintances.
I’m Supposed to Meet
My latest acquaintance soon. Don’t
know if I can make it three blocks
without a little help. Please, Lorenzo,
score! I’m getting so low. It’s only
been a few hours since my last visit
with the Lady, but I’m shaking like
it was yesterday. Just a small fix for
now. If Lorenzo doesn’t come through,
maybe Bryn will show. I only know
I’ve got to stop the knotting in my belly.
Ah! Better. Have to go while my brain
can still tell my feet to walk. Three blocks.
Lorenzo! Right on time. Fine quality
in a dealer, right? Sexy. Look sexy.
Forget the schoolgirl part. This guy
isn’t shopping for innocence. “Hey, doll.
Find what I’m looking for?” He smiles,
takes my hand, slides it down into his
pocket. Not one bag. Two. And,
farther down, something else.
No problem. It’s part of the deal.
My guy says dis stuff is pretty good.
You wanna pay for one and fuck
for one, or what? We start to walk.
I have a little cash stashed. Don’t tell
Bryn about my “extra” deals. A little
extra cash for a little extra service.
“Sounds good.” Meth or no meth,
though, we have to go quick. I’m on
Bryn’s clock already. “Before we start,
show me the stuff.” He does. It isn’t
white or even brown. “What’s this?”
You never seen black tar? Baby,
it’s the best. Believe me, those boys
in Mexico know their shit. Now come
over here. Take a taste of this.
I’ve heard of black tar Mexican.
Never tried it, but guess I’m gonna.
Ol’ Lorenzo gets a ride around the world.
Doesn’t take as long as I thought.
By the Time He Leaves
The Lady is singing a siren song
to me. Might as well try the black,
see if Lorenzo’s acquaintanceship
is worthy of long-term cultivation.
Two bags stashed, might as well take
a real rocket ride. I cook a massive
spoon. Don’t even bother to look for
a vein more concealed than on my arm.
Five. Four. Three … Whoosh!
Incredible. Lorenzo, I love you, baby.
Rush! Waves of pleasure flood my brain.
It’s a regular cerebral orgasm.
Wait. No. Too much. Down I go.
And oh, the noise. The noise inside
my head. Pounding. Blowing.
Exploding like a hurricane.
Close my eyes against the wind.
Spinning in my brain. Air. Need air.
Suck it in. Thick. Can’t breathe it in.
Damn stinking carpet. Again. Slow.
Slow. Slow. Heart. Beats. Slow.
Wind. Spins. Inside my head.
Don’t like this. Bad wind. Hurricane.
Slow. Sleep. Slow. Sleep …
A Poem by Ginger Cordell
Wind
Shuffles autumn feet
across November sand,
stirring grit like
ice
chips. Crystal white.
It blows along
deserted sidewalks,
crusts
lonely avenues. Where
has she gone? Panicked,
I search for
her
in familiar places.
Restaurants. Theaters.
Alleyways adjacent the
heart
of the city. I call out
her name. It returns,
hollow, an echo.
Ginger
Late Night Last Night
Three outcalls, one post-midnight.
It was a good night for tips, so Alex
and I celebrated with fine Italian
dining and people watching on
the strip. I slept in this morning,
lay in our bed, still perfumed
with our lovemaking. We don’t
do that so much now. I’ve missed
it. But more and more, Alex flinches
when I touch her. Not just me,
I think. But anyone. Everyone.
It took twenty minutes of gentle
kissing and easy massage to arouse
her even slightly. And while she had
no problem pleasing me, nothing
I did could bring her all the way.
Sex for Alex is nothing but a job.
It isn’t in my power to fix that.
It’s strange, really. Strange
and sad. When we first got here,
it was me who shrank from touch.
Alex taught me the joy of skin
against my own skin. She showed
me how to feel without fear.
Now she’s the one afraid to feel.
I wish that I could change that.
But she’s built a fortress around
her. A sand castle. It’s bound
to crumble. And when the sea
rushes in, I’m afraid she’ll drown.
It’s Almost Noon
By the time I yank myself out
of bed. “Alex?” I call, but my
intuition tells me I’m alone.
I check the bathroom, wander
into the living room. No Alex.
Damn, damn, damn. She can’t be
out turning tricks already! What
is wrong with her? We don’t need
the extra money. I don’t get it.
I want to find her, drag her
off the street or out of whatever
car she has gotten into. But Vegas
is a big city. Alex could be
anywhere. Still, she has a few
favorite places. I clean up,
get dressed, call a cab, head
out the door. Damn. What’s
going on across the parking
lot? Looks like a garage sale.
Oh. Whitney. An ambulance
took her away a few days ago.
Guess the landlord decided
she’s not coming back and neither
is her sleazy pimp boyfriend.
A small knot of people stand
around watching the landlord
haul her stuff out of the place.
Sounds like the creep is taking
offers. I go up to an older lady.
“Everything for sale, huh?”
The woman barely looks at
me. Too busy checking out
bargains. She shrugs. Guess so.
Poor Whitney. How far
did you run this time?
“Why? Did she … is she …?”
The lady shrugs again. Don’t
know. But hey, those junkies
are the walking dead, anyway.
Junkies and Whores
Whitney and Alex. No life
force left behind the lenses.
The walking dead. Spot-on.
My cab arrives. Not a driver
I know. Where to? he demands,
tapping the steering wheel like
he’s got somewhere better to
be. When I hesitate, he drops
the flag. Where you want to go?
I’m not in the mood for snippy
cabbies. “Just drive down Las Vegas
Avenue. I’ll tell you
when to turn.”
It’s my dime. I’ll spend it how
I want to. I have him cruise in
circles, in an area known for
its strip clubs and accompanying
activities. “Slow down. I might
want you to stop.” Feels good to be
the one giving orders for a change.
I see several working girls. A few
guys. One or two in the “not sure”
category. There. That’s her.
Right there in the plain light
of day, hustling. “Stop here!”
He pulls to the curb, and I hand
him two twenties for a thirty-two-dollar
fare. He looks at me. Change?
“Goddamn straight.” No tips
for smart-assed cabbies. Off
he drives in a huff. Good.
Alex doesn’t notice me right
away. Too busy working a guy
in ugly purple Bermuda shorts.
I tap her shoulder. “What’s up,
girlfriend? You’re not thinking
about doing this guy, are you?”
Alex jumps. Ginger! What
the hell? She looks at Bermuda,
who is seriously checking me out.
He licks his lips. Well, hello.
You’re not really her “girlfriend,”
are you? Meaning, are you two,
like, lezbos? “Actually, I am
her girlfriend. Why, you want
to watch?” You effing pervert.
I can’t believe how pissed
I am, or how submissive
Alex is acting. I expected more
of a reaction. Bermuda reacts
for both of them. Hell yeah!
How much to do the two of you?
Don’t say anything, Ginger!
Alex warns. Who the hell
died and made her boss?
If she can hustle guys, so can
I. This one won’t get off cheap.
“Three hundred for all you can eat.”
Right on. Bermuda reaches into
his back pocket. But it isn’t money
he shows. Vegas vice. He flashes
a badge. You’re under arrest for
solicitation. Then, an afterthought.
How old are you, anyway?
A Poem by Cody Bennett
Afterthoughts
Why can’t an afterthought
be forethought?
Where does
hindsight
take you if you’re
focusing behind you?
What important
is gained
when the lesson
defies recollection?
When Alice stepped
through
the looking glass,
did she see herself