gaping mouth doorways,
roller coasters. And almost
everywhere you look—
billboards and signboards,
on taxicab roofs and
giant-screen TVs on outdoor
walls and indoor ceilings—
you simply cannot escape
the sight of near-naked bodies.
Skin, Skin
Everywhere skin. Instead
of Sin City, they should
call this place Skin City.
Female skin. Male skin.
Something-in-between skin.
They (meaning Skin City
marketing geniuses)
aren’t choosy about gender,
as long as the skin is flawless.
Bronze. Young. Beautiful.
I’m not griping. I like skin
as much as the next guy.
Maybe the real problem is,
except for the first few days
here with Carl, I’ve pretty much
been left all alone to set up
our luxury condominium
in an upscale fringe suburb
of the city. There’s a lake
out here, and two golf courses.
All seem totally out of place
in this hot-as-snot stretch
of desert sand. One hundred
twelve degrees in the shade?
Who says there isn’t a hell?
If Vegas Is Hell
The devil himself probably
lives here at Lake Las Vegas.
He’d only settle for the best,
right? Everything here is that,
from the boutique shopping
to the pristine marina, to
manicured waterfront
greens. It’s beautiful, if hot.
Perfect, with one small
blemish: Here, I’m not Seth.
I’m Seth, who’s Carl’s.
Maybe that’s not so bad.
I don’t know what to think
anymore. Lots of people
would envy my life with Carl.
I eat well. Drink well. Dress
well. And don’t have to work
for any of that, unless you
count the sex. All I have to do
is keep the place picked up
(a housekeeper handles the real
dirty stuff), keep myself fit
(the workout facilities are
excellent), and look pretty.
Hey, man. I’m a movie star!
One Big Problem
Is boredom. Back home
I was never bored. Too
much work to do. And
when I was done, I could
go into town, hang out
with friends, play pool or
dance or spread gossip.
But here, I have no car,
wouldn’t know where to
drive it if I did. I can only
work out so much. Lying
by the pool is a sure
path to skin cancer. TV
is a brain-sucking machine.
I need someone to talk to
when Carl is busy playing
Mr. Real Estate Developer.
So I’ve started spending too
much time online, making
virtual friends. Fantasy
connections are better
than no outside contact
at all. I even found a chat
room called Men Kept
by Men. My kind of room.
Sure, There Are Posers
Guys who only wish
they were kept. And
guys who wish someone
would want to be kept
by them. Fishermen.
Then there are the guys
who pretend they want
to know all about you,
and about five minutes
into the conversation,
they ask if you’ll talk dirty
to them, preferably on
the phone. Masturbators.
Every now and then, you
come across married guys
who want to meet for real,
with or without their wives,
usually the former. Cheap
thrill seekers. I haven’t
played in the flesh, but I don’t
mind getting someone off
telling dirty stories. There’s
a certain sick kind of power
in that. I bet I’ve even
made a priest or two come.
Which Brings Me Back
To Father Howard. I guess
the first time he gave me
a hug, I was about twelve,
and an altar boy, steeped
in Catholic tradition. I was
preparing the altar for Mass
when he called to me from
the vestry. Seth, come here
and help me a minute, please.
It was a stifling summer
afternoon, and the loud
hum of the air conditioner
fought heavy rock music,
streaming from the radio.
Father Howard was a twenty-
first-century priest. What do you
think of these colors? He held
up some squares in turquoise
hues. I want to paint the office
and just can’t seem to decide.
I went closer, studied
the samples carefully.
Finally I pointed to “Cool
Caribbean.” Father Howard
smiled. I like that one too.
Cool Caribbean it is, then.
Thank you, Seth. As I turned
to leave, his arms coiled
around me. You’re very
special to me, you know.
It was the first time a man
had ever hugged me in such
an intimate way. I liked it,
twisted around to hug
him back. “Thanks, Father.”
That was it. That time. I left,
feeling very special. It never
occurred to me that it might
be wrong for a man of God
to embrace a boy in such a way.
Or Where
That first hug might lead.
The next time we were
alone together, Father Howard
was bolder. His hug lasted
longer, and he massaged
my shoulders. You are such
a good-looking boy, he said.
I bet the girls think so too.
He paused, but when I didn’t
respond, he tried, Other boys?
My eyes went wide. I started
to deny, but the adolescent
tugs I’d felt had all been
toward boys. I couldn’t lie
to a priest. I stared at the floor.
He tilted my chin, so I had
to look in his eyes. It’s okay,
Seth. You’re beautiful, just
the way God made you.
His lips, warm and soft,
brushed across my forehead.
I was scared. Thrilled. Amazed
at his acceptance of sin, born
inside of me. Father Howard
left things there. That time.
The Next Time
Hugging segued to touching.
Not too much. But enough.
Later, there would be more
touching. Mutual touching.
But always gentle. Always
with deep affection. We never
had out-and-out (meaning in
and out) sex. And though I’d heard
about pedophile priests, for
some reason, I never thought
Father Howard might be one.
Not then, anyway. Not until
years later, when I read about
him losing his collar because
of another b
oy. In another town.
The picture became rainwater
clear. I wasn’t special at all.
I was just one of the first
of many. I felt betrayed.
Used. White-hot pissed off.
But ultimately my emotions
cooled. Iced over. I could
have said no, and Father
Howard would have backed
off. But I didn’t. And while
he most definitely took
advantage of my youthful
ignorance, he also made me
believe that being drawn
to men didn’t automatically
condemn me to hell. After
Father Howard changed
parishes, I moved on too—
to girls in general and Janet
Winkler in particular. I’ll always
feel bad about hurting her,
but I can’t be what I’m not.
Bringing me back to what I am—
gay, and being provided for
by someone I like but don’t love.
Making Me
According to this guy Chad,
a regular chatter in Men Kept
by Men, A whore, and not
a whole lot more. No worries,
mate. I’m a whore too.
Turns out Chad’s keeper
imported him all the way
from Sydney, Down Under.
But wherever he’s from,
his assessment must be wrong.
Okay, I don’t love Carl. But
millions of people have lived
together without being in love.
I type, “How is this different
from a marriage of convenience?”
Chad’s fingers are quick:
Did you sign anything to
make the arrangement legal?
If your man drops dead,
what will happen to you?
Carl won’t die any time soon.
Right? I mean, he’s not that
old. Right? Okay. Valid point.
One I should probably consider
sooner rather than later. Right?
A Poem by Whitney Lang
Sooner or Later
Someone
you could not have
ever dreamed of
appears like a rainbow
bridging clouds, and
steals
your breath away.
Someone beautiful,
inside and out,
grabs hold of
your
hand, guides you
along a rarely traveled
road, to a place
where your broken
heart
can be mended, piece
by beating piece.
The cost, gratefully
afforded, is only
your love.
Whitney
Free
That’s what I am now. Free
of Mom, of Kyra’s shadow.
Free of friction and the pain
of a shattered heart. I’m healed.
I’m also blown away by Vegas.
What a crazy city! I bet this
is what all those Saudi sheiks
wish their desert looked like.
Of course, on any given day,
there are probably a half-dozen
Middle Eastern moneybags
living it up here in Sin City.
This is where they come to get
away from Allah’s watchful eye.
‘Cause Vegas would scare the living
crap out of any deity worth his salt.
It’s hot as hell and downright
filthy. Not like dusty dirty,
although when the wind blows
hard from the west, it’s that, too.
Vegas is the kind of dirty every
mother worries about. What would
my mom say if she knew this is where
I ended up when I left that night?
Nothing, probably. I bet she’s happy
I’m gone. One less irritation carving
wrinkles. Daddy must be worried
sick. It’s been almost two months,
and I haven’t let him know I’m okay.
Eventually I will. I’m more than
okay, actually. I’m great, because
I’m with Bryn, who loves me
more than anything. Who wants to
be with me always. Who needs me.
That’s something all new—being
needed. Treasured. Protected.
I’ll never let anyone hurt you,
Bryn promised. You are my angel.
I’ve never been anyone’s angel,
either. Bryn has given me wings.
We’re Staying
In a weekly motel—small, but mostly
clean and air-conditioned. And it’s only
until Bryn has time to find us something
nicer. He’s been working almost
every day, photographing wannabe
beauty pageant queens. I don’t like
him ogling gorgeous girls for hours
at a time, but he comes home to me.
He photographs me, too. Lately,
the pics have all been naked.
Such a beautiful body deserves
to be seen, he says. We could make
some extra money, too. To get
an even better place. More like
what you’re used to. I want
only the very best for you.
I don’t mind posing without
clothes. Some of the finest art
ever was paintings of nudes.
Bryn makes me feel pretty,
and I like how that looks in photos.
At first it was kind of weird,
thinking about total strangers
seeing me that way, but it’s not
so bad, really. And hey, maybe
Mom will come across one of them.
That would be awesome. Stupid cow
would probably be jealous.
Bryn called a little while ago.
I’m on my way home, and I’ve
got a little surprise for you.
Hope you’re up for some fun.
Fun? Like what? He must have
gotten paid, which is good. I was
starting to worry a little about
how we were going to eat.
I guess inheriting his mom’s house
was more about spending money
than making money, at least until
he can sell it. Not easy right now.
Because of the housing slump.
And because going back to Santa
Cruz would probably not be wise.
But he said we’d be fine, and we will.
Bryn Blows In
Like a breeze off the ocean,
lifting me with his presence.
Then his arms lift me for real,
spin me around and around.
Hey, baby. He kisses me, infuses
me with happiness. What a day.
Sorry I’m late. The clock says
it’s eight eighteen. He is late.
He carries me to the couch, sits
me down. Are you ready for my
surprise? Two surprises, actually.
He reaches into a pocket for the first.
Guess it’s not a dinner out.
Nope. Not even close. It’s a dope-
sized plastic bag with some brown
substance inside. “What’s that?”
But I suspect his response:
Smack. One of the girls turned
me on to a little. Thought
you might like to share a taste.
Heroin. I’ve never even thought
about trying it. “I don’t know….
That shit is scary as hell.” Way
past meth, which is scary enough.
 
; Bryn’s Reaction
Is swift, completely unexpected.
Oh, I see. You can do cocaine
with your other boyfriends, but
you won’t try this for me?
Holy Pete! He’s never snapped
at me like that before. I’ve never
even heard him raise his voice.
My first instinct is to bark back,
but I don’t want to fight with Bryn.
“I—I’m sorry. I just … didn’t …
Uh …” Why am I apologizing?
“It’s just, heroin is so addictive, and …”
He softens immediately. No, hon.
Not if you only do a little, once
in a while. And the places it will
take you! I want to see you there.
OMG. I can’t believe I’m saying
okay to heroin. But I am. Except,
“No needles! No way will I shoot
up anything.” I wait for his reaction.
No problem. We’ll just chase
the dragon, okay? He means heated
tinfoil and a rolled-up bill to grab
the smoke, draw it up my nose.
I’ve seen people at parties do
meth the same way. Even before
Bryn creases the foil into a deep
V, my heart starts racing. Fear
is exhilarating, all on its own.
I watch him drop a pinhead of H
into the makeshift bowl, and goose
bumps cover my arms. I have no
idea what to expect when the smoke
lifts into the dollar bill “straw.” Ugh.
It tastes like rotten ketchup. Bitter
and harsh in my throat. I start to choke.
Bryn’s warning is rough: Don’t
you dare cough it out! He checks
out my eyes. Looking for pupil
dilation, no doubt. It takes a while.
If you shoot up, you feel the effects
instantaneously. Smoking it might
take ten or fifteen minutes. Patience.
Meanwhile, I have another surprise.
It takes all of ten minutes before
I begin to feel kind of tingly. Euphoric.
Like everything in my life just fell
into place. The sensation is gentle,
not at all like the overwhelming
buzz I thought it would be. I can
handle this. What’s all the hype
about, anyway? Bryn has finished
setting up the second surprise—
a webcam, hooked up to his
laptop. I thought it would be fun
to put ourselves in the movies.
America’s Sexiest Home Videos.
Come here. Let’s get nasty.
The tone of his voice lets me know
disagreeing is not an option.
But I don’t want to disagree.
Every nerve in my body screams