Tricks

  did you do today? The look on

  his face explains way too much.

  Something nasty bubbles up

  in my belly. But I’m not

  ready to confess—not yet.

  “I read. Swam. Worked out.”

  Sounds like a pretty easy day.

  You have it easy here, don’t

  you, Seth? He doesn’t wait

  for my reply. So why in the hell

  did you want to go and blow it?

  Okay, he knows. But how?

  And what does that mean

  to me? And how much,

  exactly, does he know?

  “What are you talking about?”

  He advances, sipping his drink

  like he doesn’t have a care.

  You know exactly what I’m

  talking about. Did I give you

  permission to pick up some

  guy in the workout room? Slip

  into the sauna for, shall we

  say, an afternoon quickie?

  Did you think I wouldn’t keep

  tabs on you? All you young fags

  are alike. Simon’s philandering

  taught me a lesson—never trust

  a boy toy. And here in Vegas,

  there is no shortage of pretty

  faggots, willing to do just about

  anything to earn an extra dime.

  That includes acting as bait.

  I didn’t expect Jared to follow

  through and actually do you,

  but whatever. I start to protest.

  Carl holds up a hand. Shut

  your mouth. You have twenty-four

  hours to pack up and get

  the hell out of here. Be gone

  when I get home tomorrow.

  He Will Not Allow

  Explanations or arguments.

  He’s had his say and I am

  to leave. He doesn’t give a damn

  where or how. Won’t even front

  a few bucks to send me on my way.

  I wander into my room, turn on

  my computer—the computer.

  It belongs to Carl. I’ve got

  less than a day and zero capital

  to start completely over.

  I have exactly one resource—

  a better, buffer body than when

  I arrived. I’ll have to barter

  it more carefully. It’s the only

  one I have, after all. I go to

  Craigslist, Las Vegas Personals.

  Click on Men 4 Men, scan the ads.

  Here’s a Help Wanted ad for Have Ur

  Cake Escorts. Just in case, I jot

  down the number. But what I’m

  really looking for is another Carl.

  There are a few possibilities.

  Can’t be too picky. I send

  out several e-mail intros, wait

  less than patiently for a response.

  A Poem by Whitney Lang

  Less Than Patiently

  The Lady waits. Pretty

  China White demands

  I listen, and hold her in

  my arms.

  She is my only friend,

  my one ally against

  the low, throbbing

  ache

  inside my brain,

  against the loneliness

  my heart was not

  prepared

  to hold.

  Will it break beneath

  the obscene weight of

  him

  not loving me? How

  is it possible I could

  have been so very wrong

  again?

  Whitney

  No Love

  In this world for me. No hope.

  No future. Nothing but plodding

  through each day, not quite

  surviving. I am not alive

  except when I’m fresh off a plunge,

  that first rush after a hot shot.

  Then, for scant minutes, life

  rages through my veins, a river.

  Bryn comes later and later each

  day, if he comes at all. Sometimes

  I wait, barely hanging on,

  wondering if he’s back in Santa

  Cruz, combing the mall for a new

  Whitney. Then I get mad. Not only

  because my body is twisted with spasms

  of need, but also because I should

  be there. Not him. I belong there—

  used to belong there. Don’t belong

  there or anywhere like this. Waiting

  for maintenance. And so, I’ve come up

  with a plan. Bryn isn’t the only supplier

  in Vegas. Sometimes they hang out

  at strip clubs. And, I suspect, I can find

  one who might be up for a trade.

  I watch from a distance as a car

  pulls up against the sidewalk, a block

  down the street from Skin Tight.

  Don’t know if the deal was set up before

  or if this is a regular haunt for the guy

  who goes to the window, collects

  some cash, and tosses something at

  the passenger. The deal is down in less

  than thirty seconds. I can’t be sure it

  was H without a little scamming of

  my own. The guy, who is pretty much

  a stereotypical Latino deal-meister,

  turns back toward Skin Tight. I sidle

  up, flash some thigh. “Hey, honey.

  You looking for a little fun?” Already

  broke one of Bryn’s rules. But this guy

  def isn’t the heat. He is high himself,

  but not on junk. His pupils shout “crystal.”

  My heart sinks. I start to back away.

  More reasons than one for rules, I guess.

  The guy grabs my wrist, pulls me

  into him. Hey, now. Where you going?

  You ain’t a whore and a tease, are

  you? ’Cause that might make me mad.

  I’ve gotten a whole lot better at reading

  guys since my little choking incident.

  This is not a guy I want to make mad.

  “No, baby. Just a whore, and a good

  one.” Might as well play the game

  for money if the Lady isn’t on the line.

  But I’m not giving up on that yet.

  “I was just hoping maybe you had

  a little something in your pocket.”

  I run my knee up over his bulging

  groin.“Something besides that, I mean,

  and something to take me down.”

  His turn to assess my eyes, looking

  for lies. What he finds is a junkie.

  He shakes his head. Don’t got no bonita,

  baby. But I could maybe get some.

  That’s the crystal talking. He wants to

  get off, not an easy thing, high on meth.

  I hate doing guys on meth. Takes too

  long. But hey, this was my deal.

  We Agree on a Time

  To meet, and a corner three blocks

  from my apartment, just in case

  Lorenzo can’t score. Not having

  some crazed meth fiend thinking

  he’s getting laid with nothing

  coming back the other way. After

  Mr. Omaha, it was days before I’d

  let a john come through my door.

  Bryn was patient. For maybe one day.

  After that he was all, Get over it already.

  Odds are you’ll meet up with a creep

  once in a while. You had your once.

  He promised to check in more often,

  to keep a better eye on me. But it hasn’t

  happened that way. Ginger has showed

  more concern, and I don’t even know her.

  She knocks on my door at least

  every other day. Just making sure r />
  you’re still breathing, she says.

  Doesn’t come in very often.

  But that’s okay. Not like we’re best

  friends or anything. Girls in the business

  don’t really have friends. Our lives

  are all about acquaintances.

  I’m Supposed to Meet

  My latest acquaintance soon. Don’t

  know if I can make it three blocks

  without a little help. Please, Lorenzo,

  score! I’m getting so low. It’s only

  been a few hours since my last visit

  with the Lady, but I’m shaking like

  it was yesterday. Just a small fix for

  now. If Lorenzo doesn’t come through,

  maybe Bryn will show. I only know

  I’ve got to stop the knotting in my belly.

  Ah! Better. Have to go while my brain

  can still tell my feet to walk. Three blocks.

  Lorenzo! Right on time. Fine quality

  in a dealer, right? Sexy. Look sexy.

  Forget the schoolgirl part. This guy

  isn’t shopping for innocence. “Hey, doll.

  Find what I’m looking for?” He smiles,

  takes my hand, slides it down into his

  pocket. Not one bag. Two. And,

  farther down, something else.

  No problem. It’s part of the deal.

  My guy says dis stuff is pretty good.

  You wanna pay for one and fuck

  for one, or what? We start to walk.

  I have a little cash stashed. Don’t tell

  Bryn about my “extra” deals. A little

  extra cash for a little extra service.

  “Sounds good.” Meth or no meth,

  though, we have to go quick. I’m on

  Bryn’s clock already. “Before we start,

  show me the stuff.” He does. It isn’t

  white or even brown. “What’s this?”

  You never seen black tar? Baby,

  it’s the best. Believe me, those boys

  in Mexico know their shit. Now come

  over here. Take a taste of this.

  I’ve heard of black tar Mexican.

  Never tried it, but guess I’m gonna.

  Ol’ Lorenzo gets a ride around the world.

  Doesn’t take as long as I thought.

  By the Time He Leaves

  The Lady is singing a siren song

  to me. Might as well try the black,

  see if Lorenzo’s acquaintanceship

  is worthy of long-term cultivation.

  Two bags stashed, might as well take

  a real rocket ride. I cook a massive

  spoon. Don’t even bother to look for

  a vein more concealed than on my arm.

  Five. Four. Three … Whoosh!

  Incredible. Lorenzo, I love you, baby.

  Rush! Waves of pleasure flood my brain.

  It’s a regular cerebral orgasm.

  Wait. No. Too much. Down I go.

  And oh, the noise. The noise inside

  my head. Pounding. Blowing.

  Exploding like a hurricane.

  Close my eyes against the wind.

  Spinning in my brain. Air. Need air.

  Suck it in. Thick. Can’t breathe it in.

  Damn stinking carpet. Again. Slow.

  Slow. Slow. Heart. Beats. Slow.

  Wind. Spins. Inside my head.

  Don’t like this. Bad wind. Hurricane.

  Slow. Sleep. Slow. Sleep …

  A Poem by Ginger Cordell

  Wind

  Shuffles autumn feet

  across November sand,

  stirring grit like

  ice

  chips. Crystal white.

  It blows along

  deserted sidewalks,

  crusts

  lonely avenues. Where

  has she gone? Panicked,

  I search for

  her

  in familiar places.

  Restaurants. Theaters.

  Alleyways adjacent the

  heart

  of the city. I call out

  her name. It returns,

  hollow, an echo.

  Ginger

  Late Night Last Night

  Three outcalls, one post-midnight.

  It was a good night for tips, so Alex

  and I celebrated with fine Italian

  dining and people watching on

  the strip. I slept in this morning,

  lay in our bed, still perfumed

  with our lovemaking. We don’t

  do that so much now. I’ve missed

  it. But more and more, Alex flinches

  when I touch her. Not just me,

  I think. But anyone. Everyone.

  It took twenty minutes of gentle

  kissing and easy massage to arouse

  her even slightly. And while she had

  no problem pleasing me, nothing

  I did could bring her all the way.

  Sex for Alex is nothing but a job.

  It isn’t in my power to fix that.

  It’s strange, really. Strange

  and sad. When we first got here,

  it was me who shrank from touch.

  Alex taught me the joy of skin

  against my own skin. She showed

  me how to feel without fear.

  Now she’s the one afraid to feel.

  I wish that I could change that.

  But she’s built a fortress around

  her. A sand castle. It’s bound

  to crumble. And when the sea

  rushes in, I’m afraid she’ll drown.

  It’s Almost Noon

  By the time I yank myself out

  of bed. “Alex?” I call, but my

  intuition tells me I’m alone.

  I check the bathroom, wander

  into the living room. No Alex.

  Damn, damn, damn. She can’t be

  out turning tricks already! What

  is wrong with her? We don’t need

  the extra money. I don’t get it.

  I want to find her, drag her

  off the street or out of whatever

  car she has gotten into. But Vegas

  is a big city. Alex could be

  anywhere. Still, she has a few

  favorite places. I clean up,

  get dressed, call a cab, head

  out the door. Damn. What’s

  going on across the parking

  lot? Looks like a garage sale.

  Oh. Whitney. An ambulance

  took her away a few days ago.

  Guess the landlord decided

  she’s not coming back and neither

  is her sleazy pimp boyfriend.

  A small knot of people stand

  around watching the landlord

  haul her stuff out of the place.

  Sounds like the creep is taking

  offers. I go up to an older lady.

  “Everything for sale, huh?”

  The woman barely looks at

  me. Too busy checking out

  bargains. She shrugs. Guess so.

  Poor Whitney. How far

  did you run this time?

  “Why? Did she … is she …?”

  The lady shrugs again. Don’t

  know. But hey, those junkies

  are the walking dead, anyway.

  Junkies and Whores

  Whitney and Alex. No life

  force left behind the lenses.

  The walking dead. Spot-on.

  My cab arrives. Not a driver

  I know. Where to? he demands,

  tapping the steering wheel like

  he’s got somewhere better to

  be. When I hesitate, he drops

  the flag. Where you want to go?

  I’m not in the mood for snippy

  cabbies. “Just drive down Las Vegas

  Avenue. I’ll tell you
when to turn.”

  It’s my dime. I’ll spend it how

  I want to. I have him cruise in

  circles, in an area known for

  its strip clubs and accompanying

  activities. “Slow down. I might

  want you to stop.” Feels good to be

  the one giving orders for a change.

  I see several working girls. A few

  guys. One or two in the “not sure”

  category. There. That’s her.

  Right there in the plain light

  of day, hustling. “Stop here!”

  He pulls to the curb, and I hand

  him two twenties for a thirty-two-dollar

  fare. He looks at me. Change?

  “Goddamn straight.” No tips

  for smart-assed cabbies. Off

  he drives in a huff. Good.

  Alex doesn’t notice me right

  away. Too busy working a guy

  in ugly purple Bermuda shorts.

  I tap her shoulder. “What’s up,

  girlfriend? You’re not thinking

  about doing this guy, are you?”

  Alex jumps. Ginger! What

  the hell? She looks at Bermuda,

  who is seriously checking me out.

  He licks his lips. Well, hello.

  You’re not really her “girlfriend,”

  are you? Meaning, are you two,

  like, lezbos? “Actually, I am

  her girlfriend. Why, you want

  to watch?” You effing pervert.

  I can’t believe how pissed

  I am, or how submissive

  Alex is acting. I expected more

  of a reaction. Bermuda reacts

  for both of them. Hell yeah!

  How much to do the two of you?

  Don’t say anything, Ginger!

  Alex warns. Who the hell

  died and made her boss?

  If she can hustle guys, so can

  I. This one won’t get off cheap.

  “Three hundred for all you can eat.”

  Right on. Bermuda reaches into

  his back pocket. But it isn’t money

  he shows. Vegas vice. He flashes

  a badge. You’re under arrest for

  solicitation. Then, an afterthought.

  How old are you, anyway?

  A Poem by Cody Bennett

  Afterthoughts

  Why can’t an afterthought

  be forethought?

  Where does

  hindsight

  take you if you’re

  focusing behind you?

  What important

  is gained

  when the lesson

  defies recollection?

  When Alice stepped

  through

  the looking glass,

  did she see herself