total control of another human being.
I say almost, because after Carl, my ex
sugar daddy when I moved in here
with David, I knew enough to find a way
to stash some cash in case I ever need
an escape plan. Carl, who brought me
with him from Louisville, a trophy
houseboy to decorate his Lake Las Vegas
luxury condo, allowed me no chance at
personal resources. He wanted ownership.
Slavery is alive and thriving in Sin City,
Nevada. Maybe that’s why I gambled
on connecting with hot-stranger-in-the-gym
Jared—the growing need for rebellion,
or at least a taste of autonomy. Or maybe
it was simply because I’m only eighteen,
and still stashed inside is the belief
that love waits for me somewhere.
The Truth, However
If I’m to be perfectly honest with myself,
is that my attraction to Jared was totally
fed by lust. Well, lust and loneliness.
Carl may have provided well for me, but
he wasn’t much for companionship.
Working out, lying by the pool, and
improving my culinary skills didn’t exactly
tally satisfaction. Even the sex with Carl
(and sometimes an added friend of his)
didn’t add much spice to our relationship.
So, yeah, I was pretty damn hungry when
Jared showed up in the gym, and that man
was something to look at. Ripped, not
an ounce of flab, and the chiseled face
of a god. I never suspected he was a ringer.
Carl baited the hook, and I bit. Hard.
When he reeled me in, I felt about like a trout
who knew that fly hadn’t looked quite right,
but just couldn’t help himself. And then,
Carl gutted me, threw me into the frying pan.
He Picked the Bones Clean
Disowned me completely, gave me
twenty-four hours to vacate his life,
not even a few dollars to help me
accomplish that goal. Luckily, I had
made a couple of friends online and
was able to convince one of them to pick
me up. Lake Las Vegas is quite a distance
from downtown, and the Mojave summer
temps are killer, sometimes literally.
I was ride-less. Homeless. Totally broke.
I did manage to stuff some very nice clothes
into a duffel bag. I figured I’d be the most
suave street person ever. But Jacques
was cool. He invited me to stay at his place
for a couple of days until I could find a more
suitable habitation, not that he didn’t expect
a little something in return. I was happy
enough to oblige. Exchanging blowjobs
for room and board was nothing new.
There was one slight problem with that—
Jacques had a boyfriend. But I crossed
my heart that Morris would never find out.
As Far as I Know
He never has, which I’m happy about.
I like Morris. He’s quirky and gentle,
and happens to be one of David’s dancers.
In fact, it was Morris who introduced us
at one of David’s infamous parties. My first,
but definitely not my last. It was a week after
I moved in with Jacques. Maybe Morris
felt a little threatened, and hoped I’d stumble
upon a different circumstance. I doubt
he expected what happened. It was late
when he showed up at Jacques’s. Hey, boys.
There’s a party at David’s. Wanna go?
I had nothing better to do, and Jacques
goes along with anything Morris suggests,
especially when it’s partying. “It’s after
midnight. You sure it’s still going on?”
Don’t you know this city never sleeps,
especially not on a Saturday night?
But even if it did, the crowd at David’s
wouldn’t. Staying up all night is a hobby.
I Was Stunned
When we turned into the driveway
of David’s amazing home in the Ridges,
a glitzy neighborhood, even by Vegas
standards. All lit up for the evening shebang,
the house looked like a five-star hotel.
Morris pulled his Prius right up in front,
where a hired valet took the keys. “You’ve got
to be kidding,” I said, as I followed Morris
and Jacques up the marble stairs to the front
door. “How many people live here?”
Morris laughed. Officially, just David,
although he keeps a steady supply of guests,
plus a rather large staff. This place has,
like, ten bedrooms or something. It takes
three housekeepers just to keep it dusted
and vacuumed. One day, Jacques darling . . .
That house swarmed with men. Women.
Undetermined. Gay. Straight. Unspecified.
Everyone drinking. Everyone eating.
Everyone smoking. Snorting. Popping pills.
It was Sodom and Gomorrah under
a single roof. I was awed. Awkward.
Nervous. Bemused. Out of my element.
And also totally psyched to explore.
We maneuvered our way through
the house and out into the huge backyard.
Even at that time of the night, the air
was hot and still, and the Olympic-size
pool overflowed an assortment of noisy
guests, most of whom wore only their skin.
I trailed the boys to the bar, and no one
asked for ID when I ordered a mint julep.
I drew away from the tangle, to the edge
of the pavers, and lifted my glass. “Fond
memories, Carl,” I whispered toward
the starlit sky. When I returned my focus
to the party, I noticed Morris and Jacques
had knotted into a small group listening
diligently to a compact man on the far
side of sixty, but decent-looking nonetheless.
Morris caught my eye, waved for me
to come join them. First, I took a big
swig of my mint julep, loving the burn
of exceptional bourbon. “Fuck you, Carl,”
I said out loud, before wandering over
to meet up with my friends. As I neared,
the group’s attention turned toward
me. Who’s this? asked David, although
I didn’t know that’s who he was until
Morris made the introduction that altered
my life yet again. Seth, repeated David.
Wonderful name. Are you a dancer?
“Not unless you count two-step, in
which case, I’m a hell of a dancer.”
Everyone laughed, including David, but
his eyes were serious as they regarded
me, his interest quite obviously piqued.
Well then, not a dancer. What do you do?
I met his gaze square. “I am a top-flight
personal assistant. Currently unemployed.”
The Crowd Began to Thin
As the earliest hours of morning
trickled toward dawn. David and I
hardly noticed, except the queue for
the bar grew shorter and shorter
and his personal entourage shrank
smaller and smaller. A few people
offered cocaine. At first I refused, but
David indulged and fin
ally convinced
me to try it. Oh, but you should. It
makes every bad thing better, and
everything good the experience of
a lifetime. He winked. Especially sex.
I wasn’t attracted to David, not in
the classic sense. But I was hypnotized
by the power of his wealth, and I knew
if I played the game intelligently the reward
could be well worth the effort. One snort
of what David said was damn fine coke,
I shed worry like rainwater. Two, conversing
came easier. Three, and the world righted itself.
At Some Point
Morris and Jacques wanted to leave.
I wasn’t ready, but had no other ride.
I must have looked anxious because
David volunteered, You two go on home.
I’ll take good care of Seth and my driver
can drop him off when he’s ready to go.
The boys wandered off somewhere
close to two thirty. I can’t say exactly
when because I was way too busy
mellowing the coke buzz with bourbon
and, conversely, fighting the alcohol
sluggishness with yet another line.
It’s a great combination, one I’ve since
enjoyed fairly regularly, though David
doesn’t keep a stash here at the house.
Most of it comes in with his guests.
That night we talked well into the morning
hours. Turns out, David was born in
Illinois, so we had neighboring home
states in common. I knew he was angling
for sex, of course. David doesn’t try
to hide his attraction to pretty young men.
When he discovered I was still a teen,
though technically legal, he was intrigued
immediately. So what’s your story?
How did you get to Las Vegas from
Indiana? I take it you’re on your own.
Do you still have a family back home?
Without the cocaine stoking my mouth,
I would never have told him as much
as I did. “My mom died a long time ago,
but my dad still lives on the farm. When
I came out, he gave me twenty dollars
and told me to hit the road and stay gone
until I decided I wasn’t gay. My boyfriend
was studying at the Louisville Seminary,
and I figured we’d just move in together.
But when I got to Loren’s apartment, he told
me he was moving to New York to do
a field study with a congregation there.
Ah. And you weren’t invited to go along.
Queer rule number nine: avoid falling
in love with members of the clergy.
Even the best boyfriend can’t trump God.
“A very good rule. But what are numbers
one through eight? And is there a ten?”
He smiled. Maybe I’ll fill you in one
day. But you haven’t finished your story.
I didn’t especially want to confide disgusting
details about Carl, so I gave an abbreviated
version. “I met an older guy in a club
and we hit it off. He was moving to Vegas,
asked me to come with him. When we broke
up last week, I had nowhere to go, so Jacques
let me move in with him temporarily. I need
a new living arrangement. If you have any
ideas . . .” At that point I was high enough
to be reckless. I looked him straight in the eye,
traced my upper lip with my tongue.
Needless to say, he didn’t summon his driver.
I Wanted the Sex to Convince Him
To let me move in, so I offered anything
he wanted. Compared to Carl, who was all
about the kink, David’s requests weren’t
extraordinary. The thing is, he can have
whatever he wants with any of the cute
dancers in his stable who might be looking
to advance his career. But David doesn’t want
easy sex, he wants affection. Okay, he wants
love, which isn’t something I can give him,
though I profess to. I doubt it’s possible
for someone my age to fall in love with
a man old enough to be his grandfather,
no matter how good that person is to him.
I want to experience real love again,
wrapped around sex and infusing lust
with meaning. But that won’t happen here,
won’t happen today, and I don’t dare go
searching for it elsewhere right now.
It’s enough that I can barter my body for
a lifestyle most people only dream of.
La Dolce Vita
That’s what I’m living here with David—
the sweet life, and I can’t discount that.
But neither can I count on it to last, as that
asshole Carl so aptly proved. So I’m bartering
my body on the side, via Have Ur Cake
Escorts. People travel to Vegas specifically
to create memories to leave here, and I’ll stay
in Vegas with them. When Lydia interviewed
me, I was clear about the parameters—only
clients willing to pay premium rates for a top-
of-the-line barely adult. I won’t risk losing
life with David for anything less than a grand—
five hundred in exchange for my company,
another five for invading it, condoms required.
Sometimes couples want three-ways, and that
costs a third more. For fifteen hundred,
I’ll get it up for a woman, too. With limited
hours available plus a relatively high price
tag, I’ve had five dates, plenty to open a bank
account. That should multiply quickly.
I’m on My Way
To an outcall now, meeting the guy
at Picasso, one of the Bellagio’s finest
restaurants. David’s in L.A. for a couple
of days, so I don’t have to fabricate
an excuse. I expect my client to be
older, but when the maître d’ brings
me over to the table, the decent-looking
man who stands is in his early thirties.
I’m Joe, he says, and that may or
may not be the truth. Thanks for
joining me. Would you like a drink?
he asks, knowing I’m underage,
not that it matters. Carding is rare
in these situations, and should a waiter
get too nosy, I have a forged ID. I request
my favored mint julep, and Joe springs
for the prix fixe dinner. Four Five-Diamond-
Award courses, accompanied by wine.
I sit, staring at actual Picasso paintings,
while Joe tells me about himself.
I can’t imagine he’s lying. The details
are too specific. He’s an art dealer, in
Vegas on business. His wife, three kids,
and two golden retrievers wait at home.
You must be wondering why a married man
would arrange to meet someone like you.
I shrug. “Everyone has fantasies or fetishes,
but few are brave enough to act on them.”
When I was a kid at summer camp,
there was this teenage counselor, Rob.
He wasn’t exceptional, really. Still, I
used to daydream about him holding me.
Touching me. Using me. The first time
I masturbated, I pretended it was Rob
jerking me off. It??
?s strange, because I’m
really not gay. I love my wife, and having
sex with her. But once in a while, this need
rises up, and I want Rob to jerk me off.
After dessert, we go upstairs—Joe and Rob,
who does a whole lot more than jerk Joe off.
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Need Rises Up
From a bottomless well
of longing,
a whining so insistent
no
amount of willpower
can force
it silent. They say the
way
to be strong
when confronted with
the siren’s song is
to shutter
your ears,
fight the darkness, reach
for the light, but
the windows
are draped
with memories
of ecstasy.
Whitney
A Chat
With the Grim Reaper
should be enough to scare
away any thought of relapse.
Wish it were that easy,
but not even days conversing
with death can disintegrate
the claws of addiction.
My memory banks
are foggy, misted by months
held fast in the arms of the Lady,
squeezed by need
you can’t describe, can’t relate
to unless you’ve experienced it.
I barely remember that last fix,
Mexican black tar instead
of my usual China white.
The Lady, she took me on
one hell of a ride
before we dove over the cliff,
falling, falling, falling.
Falling in slow motion.
Overdosing on Heroin
Is ugly business.
Well, the initial rush
is truly incredible. Similar,
I imagine, to a military jet taking
off, throwing you back in your seat
as you climb, almost perpendicular
to the ground. Yeah, close to that.
But then, the noise, a hurricane
inside your head, blowing.
Pounding. Exploding.
You try to fight the bad wind,
and everything slows.
Your breathing.
Your heart.
Slow.
Slower.
You
can’t
find
air
as
you
drift