Traffick

  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