“No shit.”
Jeff nods. “Anthony would have been fifteen or sixteen. I don’t know why he was living with the guy. The newspaper accounts just called him a roommate.”
“Code for lover?”
Jeff shrugs. “Maybe. But the guy was in his thirties. And Anthony just a kid.”
“So? That’s not so unheard of.”
“But he wasn’t even of legal age,” Jeff says, clearly not satisfied with the scenario. “All I can figure is that the guy must have taken him in. Maybe Anthony got kicked out of his parents’ house. Maybe he was having sex with the guy and maybe he wasn’t. The point is, Robert Riley clearly meant something to him, if he still carries his picture around. And the guy was murdered in an antigay crime.”
“Matthew Shepard,” I say.
“What?”
“Remember how Anthony reacted to the PSA on Matthew Shepard. He was really affected by it. No wonder.”
“Yeah.” Jeff looks off into space. “No wonder.”
I sigh. The news makes me feel gentler toward him, and toward Anthony. “It must have been really hard for him,” I say, “being so young and the guy getting killed.” I think of something. “But didn’t Anthony say he’d just come out some time last year? And that he’d never been in a relationship?”
“Yeah,” Jeff says. “That’s what he said.”
“So he must have been lying.”
Jeff sighs. “I guess.”
I consider something. “Unless he didn’t view himself as gay then. Maybe the guy wasn’t a lover. And maybe his murder so traumatized Anthony that it really did take him all this time to come out.”
It seems logical to me. I feel as if I’ve solved the mystery square on its head, but all Jeff does is put his hands in front of his face and sigh once again.
“So what’s the matter?” I ask. “What’s eating you up?”
He looks at me as if it were obvious. And maybe it is. Maybe I’ve just so detached myself from Jeff’s life that I fail to see it.
“What’s eating me up, Henry,” he says, a little impatiently, “is that he’s never talked to me about it. And I can’t let him know what I know without revealing that I went behind his back. We went down to Pensacola for the Memorial Day party, and it was awful. I could barely look at him the whole time. I’m sure he sensed something was up.”
My heart tugs, just a little. I hadn’t even known Jeff had gone to Pensacola. Last year we’d gone together. I try not to dwell on it, to just stay in the moment. “So what did you do?” I ask. “Go back into the old Chicago newspapers?”
“Not quite.” Jeff smiles slightly. “Here’s the really ironic part. All this happened not twenty miles from where I grew up in Connecticut.”
“Connecticut? How did Anthony get to Connecticut?”
Jeff shrugs again. “I don’t know. But that’s where Riley was murdered. Where Anthony was living with him.”
“So you must remember this case, then, if it happened so close to you.”
“No. I’d already left for college in Boston. But I asked my sister about it. She remembered it vaguely. It was the first big gay story to hit all the Connecticut papers. Apparently, it motivated activists in the state to form an antiviolence project and ultimately led to the legislature passing a hate crimes bill.”
“So it was pretty big. They caught the killers, then?”
“Yep.” Jeff’s face clouds over. “The usual suspects. Straight high school kids who went out looking for fags to beat up. Shining stars of American malehood.”
“Poor Anthony.”
Jeff stretches. “Yeah. So I just have to figure how to process all of it.” He bends over, trying to touch his toes, but fails. “Oh, man. I’ve been out of the gym a whole frigging week. I need a workout something bad.”
I smile. “You look fine, Jeff. I thought you said you’d work on that body image of yours.”
He smiles back at me. It’s good to see him smile. “So, buddy,” he says, “you want to grab something to eat with me after this?”
I sigh. “Oh, Jeff, I’m sorry. I have—plans.”
He just smiles and holds up his hand in a “Say no more” gesture. He moves off toward the treadmill. Halfway there, he turns around and says, “Thanks for listening, buddy.”
My heart breaks watching him walk away. I can’t deny there’s still a very large part of me that wants to sit with Jeff all night, consoling him, making him laugh, making him forget his troubles. But that isn’t my job. It never should have been. I have another job now, and a new client. A new, very wealthy client on Comm Ave.
I turn and head into the locker room. I check the mirror to see if I’m sufficiently pumped. I flex quickly before anyone spots me. Yes, I look good.
I step into the shower and let the spray hit me full force. I need to invigorate myself, psych myself up for the job. It’s been a while since I’ve taken on any new clients. I can handle the regulars; I know what they want; I’ve got it down to a routine. But new clients take a little more motivation. I have to admit that the edge is off my escorting. Whereas in the beginning it was hot, risky, exciting, empowering, now it’s different. Some encounters still leave me as satisfied as ever, seeing the gratitude on the face of my client. But other times I just feel weary, and going back to my empty apartment I just flop on my bed and fall asleep in Hank’s clothes. Sometimes I don’t even bother to shower until the next morning. I know: how gross is that?
Maybe it’s the spring, when young men’s thoughts turn to love, or however that old saying goes. Maybe it’s the fact that, without Jeff to occupy my every waking moment, I’ve come to realize just how alone I really am. I want a boyfriend. A husband. Is that so much?
I think maybe I should get a dog.
I step out of the shower and towel myself dry. At the sink, I cup some water in my hands and use it to swallow a little blue pill Shane secured for me. Viagra. “Don’t take it if you’re using poppers,” he instructed. I was a little skittish about admitting I needed it—after all, Hank is such a stud—but lately a little lift has been helpful. Me and Bob Dole, something in common. Who knew?
I look at myself in the mirror. I try to see Hank standing there, but all I can glimpse is Henry Weiner. I’m up for a promotion at work: a little more responsibility for a whole lot more money. If I get the promotion, which seems a shoo-in, will I continue escorting? It’s never just been about the money, I know, but the extra cash has been a good rationale for continuing. I sit down on the bench and pull on clean Calvin Klein boxer briefs, the precise brand and style my client asked for. I sigh and begin rolling on my socks.
“Hey, best friend!” The voice of Brent suddenly breaks the silence of the locker room. He drops his gym bag beside me. “You coming or going?”
“Going,” I tell him.
“Oh. Too bad. Thought we could spot each other.” Brent pulls off his shirt, revealing his awesome physique. I wonder again if Brent takes steroids. It wouldn’t surprise me, and might even account for his mood swings and the sprinkling of acne across his shoulders.
“Here’s a funny story, speaking of spotting,” Brent’s saying, chattering along as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he doesn’t. “The other day I was at the bench press and I say to this guy, ‘Hey, will you spot me?’ And he says, ‘Baby, I spotted you the moment you came through that door!’”
He erupts into his high-pitched laugh. I just smile a little wearily. I watch him step into his gym shorts. “So you going to Gay Disney?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Is Jeff?”
I stop as I’m tying my shoes. “Gee,” I have to admit, “I don’t know.”
“Well, I’m not.” Brent moves in closer to me on the bench. “Don’t you want to know why, Henry?”
I smile. “Even if I didn’t, you’d tell me anyway.”
“Of course. Because we’re best friends.” He grins madly. “And I want you to be the first to know.” He grabs
me by the shoulders. “Henry, I’ve met someone! And this one is going to last, I can just tell!”
I manage a smile. “Good for you, Brent.”
“I know you think I’m just being excitable, that you’ve seen me like this a hundred times. But this is different, Henry. Very different.” Brent beams. “He’s totally not into the scene. No drugs. Nothing!”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing more than a beer once in a while. A real guy. Hates the club scene. Wouldn’t be caught dead at a circuit party.”
I stand. “You seem to have so much in common.”
Brent stands to face me. “That’s just it, Henry. We do.” He draws closer. “Since you’re my best friend now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been wanting to retire from the scene for a while now. You can’t keep at it forever, you know. You’ll end up looking like what’s-his-name—you know, the one we always made fun of? Kenneth! How tragic is he?”
I cringe. If Brent only knew I see Kenneth once a week, dancing for him, making his dreams of relevance come true, even if for a night.
“And with Jorge,” Brent continues, “I’ve found a companion. Someone to come home to.”
“I thought you didn’t want to settle down until you were thirty-five.”
“When did I say that?” He looks at me intently. “You know what my biggest fear is, Henry? Ending up an old queen, all alone. You know the type. Every gay movie they make these days has the middle-aged guy whose sole reason for being in the film is to console and counsel the younger set. He’s usually fat and queeny and wears lots of rings. Oh, God, Henry. I do not want to become that.”
He secures his locker and checks himself in the mirror.
“Thankfully, now I won’t have to!”
He grins like an idiot. “Have fun wherever you’re going, best chum of mine! Will you be the maid of honor at my wedding?”
Thankfully, he’s off into the gym before I can answer.
Outside, it’s started to rain, a light, warm, spring drizzle that brings that ripe, earthy smell up from the park. I pop open my umbrella and make my way across Tremont and then up Dartmouth. I want to be happy for Brent and not take solace in the fact that I’m quite certain that this one will last no longer than any of the other “husbands” Brent has thought he’d corralled.
But what if he does last? What if Brent has indeed found lasting happiness with someone who will love him until the end?
Waiting for the WALK sign in Copley Square, I think about Jeff and Lloyd. For the first time, I think maybe I understand why they’ve invested so much time, energy, and passion in that frustrating, maddening, back-and-forth relationship of theirs. Because they’ve tasted it, I think. They know what it can be like.
And they know it’s worth fighting for.
In one week, I’ll be twenty-nine. The last year of my twenties, and no sign of a husband. Here I am, off to pose in my Calvin Kleins for some rich guy on Comm Ave, and I’ve never had a real boyfriend.
What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s raining harder now. I cross Boylston and then Newbury in a funk. Maybe I should’ve called a cab. I pull in tighter under my umbrella. Crossing Marlborough Street, I almost get hit by a Volvo. I give the driver the finger.
Yeah, a dog isn’t such a bad idea. At least I’ll have someone waiting for me when I get home.
I ring the bell at the guy’s building. “It’s Hank,” I call, and the buzzer lets me in. At least the guy’s rich. Maybe he’ll give me a good tip. It’s a fashionable brownstone, with a majestic staircase and gilded banister. The guy is on the second floor. I knock.
My jaw drops. The guy who opens the door must weigh four hundred plus.
“Are you … Maurice?” I stammer.
The guy nods and motions me inside. I step around him, which is no easy task. The apartment is a mess, piled high with newspapers and magazines and a couple of empty pizza boxes. The furniture is tacky, and there are no curtains on the windows, only dirty Venetian blinds. But this is Comm Ave! The guy’s supposed to be rich!
Maybe he is. But he’s also a slob. It looks as if he hasn’t washed his hair in weeks. There are stains on his shirt.
“Did you wear the Calvins?” he asks.
I nod.
“Let’s see.”
Good, I think. Let’s just get down to business so I can get out of here.
The place has the unmistakable stench of boiled chicken. I feel a little nauseated. But Maurice doesn’t seem to pay any attention to the body I’ve just revealed to him. He simply takes off his own clothes—a sight to see, let me tell you. He struggles out of his pants, grunting and sweating. By the time he removes his dirty shirt, he’s breathing so heavily I think he might have a heart attack.
Pass no judgment, I tell myself. He needs love. Like all the rest of them. I’ve given affection to others who have been less than the physical ideal. I can do it again.
Yet I can’t even see Maurice’s genitals behind the enormous barrel of stretched, hairy gut. A distinct wave of body odor strikes me. I close my eyes. No amount of Viagra will help me now.
“Come here,” Maurice orders, suddenly pulling me roughly to him, gripping my head with his hands and pushing it deep between his moist, sagging pectorals. I stiffen instinctively. “Don’t resist me, man. Go for it. Suck my tits.”
I swallow hard. “I … can’t … breathe,” I manage to say.
Maurice lets my head go but immediately replaces his hands on my shoulders, pushing me down to my knees. “Then suck my cock,” he barks.
I open my eyes to see a small, flaccid, uncircumsized penis tucked in the shadow beneath the man’s heavy stomach. I open my mouth and place my lips around it. Give him love, I repeat over and over in my head, like a mantra. I begin to run my tongue over the sweaty hood of his cock.
“That’s it, suck it,” Maurice moans.
But I can’t get past the terrible cheesy smell down there between his legs. And the taste—gritty and bitter. I feel myself close to retching.
“Come on, suck it harder! I’m paying for this! Suck!”
Something foul passes from his penis into my mouth. I spit suddenly onto the floor.
“Suck it!” he commands, angry now.
I pull my face away from the revolting thing. “I can’t,” I say.
“What do you mean, you can’t?”
“I just … can’t. I can give you a hand job.”
Maurice glowers down at me. “I don’t want a hand job. You said you did oral.”
“Yes, but …” I stand up. “Maybe if you showered …”
“It’s what I want, not you,” Maurice says, stabbing a finger into my chest. “I’m the one paying you, buddy.”
I take a step backward. “You know what?” I say all at once. “I don’t want your money.” I begin pulling on my jeans. “I just want to go home.”
Maurice takes a step closer to me threateningly. For the first time in all these months of escorting, I feel fear. My mouth goes dry.
“You’re nothing but a little whore,” Maurice says. “And you have no idea who I am, how important I am.” He motions over his shoulder. “Get the fuck out of here.”
“Gladly,” I say.
I run out with my shirt and shoes in my hands. My socks are still crumpled up somewhere on the guy’s floor. Maurice slams the door behind me, and I’m left in the hallway to pull on my sweatshirt and slip my bare feet into my shoes. An elderly woman coming out of an apartment across the way spots me, shakes her head in disgust, and hurries off. She’s evidently become used to seeing a parade of trash in and out of that place.
Trash. I just thought of myself as trash.
I practically stumble outside onto the sidewalk, the torrential rain quickly making me realize I left more than my socks in Maurice’s apartment. My umbrella’s still in there, too. I walk back home in the driving rain. It’s better that way, I think. With the rain coming down all over my face, and my hair plastered down in front o
f my eyes, no one can tell I’ve started to cry. All I want in that moment is to find Jeff and to have him hold me, to have him make me feel better—to make me feel as good about myself as he had that day he’d first invited me to dance with him. That’s all I want. I want Jeff.
But Jeff has never looked at me that way, never seen me even for a moment’s consideration as more than a sister. He’s never loved me the way I’ve loved him.
“Well, fuck you, Jeff,” I say into the rain. “Fuck you.”
I’ve never come this close to admitting to myself the truth of what Brent and Shane and so many others have always insisted. Okay, so I’m in love with Jeff O’Brien. I can’t deny it anymore. I’m in love with Jeff and I’m a fucking whore. Trash kicked out of apartments on Comm Ave. What the fuck has happened to me?
I get home a blubbering mess. The silence of my apartment overwhelms me.
I pick up the phone and punch in his number. He’s home.
“Shane?” I croak into the phone. “Can you come over?”
And of course, he does. He makes me dinner and massages my shoulders, and I find the Viagra is still working. He goes down on me, and I do my best not to pretend it’s Jeff. Afterward, we lie awake on my bed for a long time, looking up at my skylight as the rain hammers a steady beat against it. Shane reaches over and begins outlining the features of my face with his finger. First my eyebrows, then my eyes, then my ears, then my nose.
By the time he reaches my chin, I’m asleep. He apparently lets himself out then, or some time soon after, for when I wake up in the morning, he’s gone.
I wonder why he didn’t spend the night.
That Weekend, Walt Disney World
Jeff
They call it “The Happiest Place on Earth,” and Anthony sure seems to agree. I can see it on his face and hear it in his voice: the way he laughs at the campy antics of the Incredible Tiki Birds; the way he throws his arms into the air as we come speeding around the corner on Big Thunder Railroad; the way he lets out a whoop as we plunge from the top of Splash Mountain; the way he befriends every gay man and woman who passes by us wearing the telltale red shirt.
Where the Boys Are Page 28