Tricks

the trophy boyfriend ladder.

  Truth be told, he was pissy

  about how he put it to me.

  You know what happens to

  muscle when you quit working

  it, right? I’m not into fat boys.

  It would be in your best

  interest to invest a little

  time at the gym. It was not

  a suggestion. It was an

  ultimatum. One major thing

  I’ve learned about Carl is,

  business or pleasure,

  it’s his way or no way

  at all. While I can respect

  that on a certain level, when

  it’s in my face, it’s not easy

  to take. He is one hundred

  percent about control. Not

  sure why I didn’t see it

  sooner. Not looking, I guess.

  The strange thing is, I’m not

  the least bit flabby, let alone

  fat. So why? Preventative

  maintenance? Whatever. I have

  nothing better to do, anyway.

  So Here I Am, Midmorning

  Jogging six miles per on

  a treadmill. Going nowhere

  and doing way too much

  thinking about what I’ve

  allowed myself to become—

  powerless. Even at home,

  the only time my dad

  dismissed me completely,

  no argument allowed, was

  the night he kicked me out.

  Remembering him, revisiting

  the farm, stirs up a cloud

  of homesickness. Loneliness.

  I am alone in this place,

  despite nightly company.

  I don’t belong here. I know

  that. But I don’t belong

  anywhere else, either.

  And that is at the heart

  of the black depression

  pressing down on me,

  flattening me. I have

  no place. No home. Sex,

  but no real affection. I am

  kept, but not cherished.

  I Am Swimming in Sweat

  When an amazing-looking

  guy decides to share the gym.

  The way he assesses me

  leaves little doubt that he’s

  not into girls. Maybe working

  out isn’t such a bad idea after

  all. He offers a ten-thousand-dollar

  smile, then sets his gym

  bag down on a chair. I can’t

  help but stare when he strips

  off his shirt, revealing buffed

  pecs and a six-pack I’d kill

  for. The guy is a high-priced

  Thoroughbred. And I’m

  definitely not talking mares.

  He goes straight to weights,

  choosing some machine

  I have no clue how to use.

  When he looks my way,

  I’m still staring like an idiot.

  He grins. What? Did I flash

  you or something? Hope

  it wasn’t offensive. Most guys

  seem to like it well enough.

  He pauses. Gives me time

  to formulate some inane answer.

  I slow the tread to cooldown

  speed, try to quit huffing.

  “I …. uh …. sorry …. didn’t

  mean t-to stare …” Huff, huff.

  “I just started”—huff, huff—

  “working out and”—huff—

  “I know this is dumb, but”—

  huff—“I don’t know how to

  use all the machines.” Heart rate

  slowing, I catch my breath

  and finish, huffless, “I thought

  I’d watch you and learn how

  to do it. Uh, use the machine,

  I mean.” Okay, that was inane.

  He finds it amusing. Oh, I see.

  Well, I use the machines all

  the time. Happy to give you

  some pointers, if you want.

  The name’s Jared, by the way.

  “Seth.” I stop the motorized

  roadway. “I’d appreciate

  anything you can give me …

  I mean tips.…” Shit!

  I’m sabotaging myself!

  Hang On

  Just why did I think that?

  Sabotaging what, exactly?

  I’m not shopping for

  companionship. Am I?

  “Tell me to shut up, okay?”

  Jared laughs. Shut up,

  Seth. He gestures for me

  to come over to the machines.

  So what are you most

  interested in working?

  Now we both laugh at

  the unintended (?) double

  entendre. “Well … other than

  that, I want one of those.”

  I point to his amazing stomach.

  Don’t blame you. Okay,

  you can use the ab crunch

  and the assisted pull-up. But,

  so you know, diet is huge too.

  This is all about protein, my man.

  “No problem. I can handle

  meat.…” (!!) Once again,

  I give his body an approving

  assessment. “And just so you

  know, I’m not afraid of hard work.”

  He nods. Most farm boys

  aren’t. At my perplexed

  look, he adds, It’s your accent.

  Very Midwest, with a touch

  of the South. Kentucky? Missouri?

  Oh man. It shows? “Indiana,”

  I admit. “I never realized

  we had accents, though,

  especially not with ‘a touch

  of the South.’” Really weird.

  Not sure why it works

  that way, but it does.

  Nothing to worry about,

  though. I find it kind of

  appealing. Come here.

  I’m a kid again, called to

  the front of the classroom,

  not knowing what for.

  Will he—shiver—touch me?

  But no, all he does is show me

  how to properly use the ab

  crunch machine. Still, he

  stays close, and the entire time

  I’m burning gut flab, a word

  floats in my head—beginning.

  All Worked Out

  Tired, sore, I start toward

  the townhouse to shower.

  As I leave, I venture,

  casually as I can, “Hope to

  see you around again soon.”

  Jared is toweling off

  his own sweat polish,

  and I’m struck again

  by the beauty of his body.

  Hot tub tonight at nine?

  I hesitate. I never go out

  when Carl’s home. Still,

  he wouldn’t object,

  would he? Long as I omit

  the Jared part. “I’ll sure try.”

  He gives me a wry grin.

  Could he know why

  I live here? If I don’t see

  you tonight, I’ll run into

  you here, I’m sure. Later.

  I follow him out the door,

  watch his sure gait along

  the walkway, tugged, steel

  toward magnet. It’s odd,

  really. Usually I’m attracted

  to softer men, with the major

  exception of Leon Winkler.

  And wouldn’t his football

  jock butt shudder to know

  exactly how I looked at it?

  Don’t know why I’m

  thinking about any of this

  now anyway. I’m pretty

  much committed to Carl,

  who should be home soon,

  expecting me showered

  and shaved, all smooth

  and scented with Armani

&nbs
p; Black Code, his favorite

  fragrance. Expensive taste,

  not a bad thing. He’ll also

  want dinner started. High-

  end meat or seafood. Steamed

  vegetables. Fresh bread.

  Never the same meal twice

  in any given month. Good

  thing Dad taught me how

  to cook. Hmm. Wonder

  how Carl would feel about

  venison sausage and gravy.

  Venison Is Not Easy to Find

  In Vegas, so I’m working on

  seafood Newberg (recipe

  care of one of Carl’s large

  collection of cookbooks)

  when he finally arrives.

  He is not alone. Neither

  is he sober as he trips

  through the door, laughing,

  accompanied by a friend.

  Acquaintance? I have no

  idea. This is the first time

  he’s ever brought anyone

  home. The guy is maybe

  forty-five, and everything

  about him, from the square

  cut of his bangs to the way

  he wears his extreme

  jewelry, screams “queen.”

  When he squeaks, Hello there,

  he leaves zero doubt about it.

  Carl comes over and gives

  me an ostentatious gin-

  flavored kiss. Something

  smells good, and I’m not

  talking about in the kitchen.

  He kisses me again, which

  is weird. For all the sex

  we’ve shared, a kiss from

  Carl is relatively rare.

  I almost don’t know how

  to respond. Finally he draws

  back. Oh, how rude of me.

  Come say hello to my friend,

  Brett. Brett, meet Seth,

  my uh …. paramour.

  Carl takes my hand, leads

  me to the sofa, where

  Brett has made himself

  extremely comfortable.

  Pretty boy, Brett says. Very.

  My nerves lift on sharpened

  edge, like when you go

  hunting and suddenly feel

  hunted. I force my voice low.

  “Good to meet you, Brett.”

  Now, now. Let’s not be

  so formal. He laughs,

  and it isn’t a pleasant laugh.

  Any paramour of Carl’s

  is a paramour of mine, right?

  Before I Can Answer

  He is all over me. Hands.

  Mouth. Ugh. Tequila.

  I push him away. “Wait

  just one fucking second….”

  I step back, look at Carl,

  but he’s into the game.

  Refereeing, in fact.

  No need to be rude to

  our guest. He’s here by

  invitation. Understand?

  “Invi—” Carl wants me

  to be with this creep?

  What happened to our

  “exclusive relationship”?

  “No, I don’t understand.”

  With fine diamond clarity,

  Carl explains, I enjoy

  a bit of variety from time

  to time. I expect your whole-

  hearted participation.

  He pushes me, and not

  gently, toward Brett.

  Now apologize to my

  friend as I hope you

  would apologize to me.

  He Does Not Mean

  With words. And he doesn’t

  exactly mean solo. They

  move in unison, and I am

  sandwiched between them,

  Carl behind me, moving

  sensuously, while Brett dares

  kiss me again. I hold my

  breath against the assault

  of gin at my back, tequila

  in my face. A strange tongue

  in my mouth. Now Brett

  rests his chin on my shoulder,

  and he and Carl are kissing.

  It’s a cobra dance, and despite

  what it means, I am charmed.

  Seduced by sensual motion.

  Behind me and in front

  of me, both men grow hard,

  and for some horrifying reason,

  I respond in like manner.

  I Have Never Considered

  Three-way sex. How would.…?

  Oh. No way will I let one

  of them take me like that.

  Like Loren, Carl has always

  played the feminine role.

  But unlike with Loren (who

  insisted on using condoms),

  with Carl (who refused to),

  I set limits—“Carl, you know

  the rule.” My rule: hands or

  mouths only. He stops

  kissing Brett, but neither

  man quits moving, writhing

  like mating hooded serpents.

  We’re playing by my rules,

  remember? But don’t worry.

  I only expect you to give.

  For now. From somewhere,

  he extracts a condom, hands

  it to me, keys to the kingdom.

  Don’t rush, he orders,

  and don’t you dare

  close your eyes. I want

  to see how much you like

  it. He moves in front of me,

  strips Brett from the waist

  down, pushes him onto

  his hands and knees. Then

  he drops his own trousers.

  Come on, he urges, positioning

  himself inches from Brett’s face.

  Shaking, I move behind Brett,

  grab his shoulders. Carl’s hands

  cover mine. Brett moans as I …

  Oh my God! I am damned.

  But I don’t stop and I don’t

  rush. Carl’s eyes never once

  leave mine. Finally I beg

  his permission. “Now? Please?”

  He nods and I do. We all do.

  A Poem by Whitney Lang

  Don’t Stop

  Don’t look behind you.

  Something is chasing

  you, and if you slow

  down,

  it will catch you. Run!

  Faster! Through alleys.

  Tunnels. Underground.

  Down there

  in that dark place,

  fear is your friend

  for complacency kills

  down where

  instinct is survival.

  Reach. Find your wings.

  Fly away from the

  monsters,

  hard on your heels.

  Don’t stop. Only

  then can they win.

  Run!

  Whitney

  Fighting “Night Time”

  Pretty name for the hideous pukes

  and soaking sweats of withdrawal.

  I understand I have to go through it.

  Die if I don’t. Maybe die if I do.

  I don’t want to die. Do I? Fuck,

  what if it’s better than living half in,

  half out of this world? Goddamn Bryn!

  Bastard turned me into a zombie.

  So why do I sit here, crying to see

  him? Why do I love him so much?

  He cheats. Lies. Lied about everything,

  from start to now. I know it. Don’t care.

  I want to be with him. Want to make

  love with him. Even though that means

  waiting my turn. He has other girls.

  Other zombies. Killing time in cheap

  rooms like this one. Sometimes he comes,

  rewards them like he rewards me,

  with junk and beautiful sex. Sometimes

  other men come. That sex is never

  beautiful. It is selfish. Needful.

  Fueled by sick desire to get off. Get

/>   even. Get over someone who has

  hurt them by symbolically impaling

  someone else. So Bryn’s zombie girls

  stay stoned. Out of our heads

  messed up. Eyes closed, we can

  be anywhere. Italy. France. Australia.

  Jupiter. Hell. Doesn’t matter, as long

  as we’re not here. As long as we can

  pretend we’re still pretty. As long as we

  can make believe Bryn still loves us, too.

  I’m Not Stupid

  I know I’m addicted. Damn it all,

  despite the many promises I made

  to myself, I mainline now. A needle

  in the vein delivers Nirvana

  so quickly! And in those first few

  minutes, when all the pain is lifted,

  I see what Bryn saw in me that first

  day at the mall—naïveté. I was stupid.

  He knew it. I was crazy hungry

  to fall in love. He saw it in my eyes.

  And then, when I called him, stinging

  at rejection, he so had me. He is very

  good at what he does. Recruiting

  girls, feeding them a steady diet

  of lies and drugs, then starving them

  until they submit to his demands.

  He is a pimp, plain and simple.

  A fucking gorgeous, sweet pimp,

  who I’d do anything for. Including

  advertising my body: For Sale. Cheap.

  He’ll come to me soon. I need the Lady

  bad and he knows it. Can’t send me

  out on the streets like this. It isn’t pretty.

  Probably couldn’t even give myself away.

  When Bryn’s Key

  Finally turns in the lock, I’m huddled

  in a corner, covered in goose bumps,

  shivering through the sweat. At

  least I’m all puked out. He takes

  one look, nods. Poor baby. Don’t

  worry. Daddy has presents for his

  beautiful little girl. He comes over,

  sits beside me. Pulls a dime bag

  from his pocket like it’s made of gold.

  Clean rigs, too. Let Daddy fix it

  for you. He cooks up a perfect spoon,

  loads it, plunges it between my toes.

  Bryn gives me wings. The sting

  is luscious, the awful rush all I need.

  No, not all. I need Bryn. And he’s here,

  all mine right now. His lap is warm,

  inviting. I climb into it, slip my arms

  around his neck. Thank you. Better now.

  Oh, so much better. Soaring. Up here

  in the clouds, the air is dry. I kiss him,

  suck his tongue into my mouth, seeking

  moisture. It curls over my own tongue,

  sensuous as smoke. Time slows.

  Make it stop! Make it stop with me,

  here in Bryn’s arms. I want him.