Traffick (4 page)

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.”

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 finally 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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

toward

darkness.

Is a whole lot worse.

When you OD, you have no idea

you're tumbling toward death.

When you withdraw,

you have no doubt about it.

It's like being underwater,

and really, really needing to breathe.

You swim as hard as you can,

but you're too deep

and it's taking too long,

you won't break the surface

in time. If you inhale,

you'll drown, but there's no oxygen

left and your body's on fire

and your lungs ache with trying.

Then, there's projectile puking

and green water squirts.

Your joints throb and there's no relief

for three days because you can't sleep

without help from the poppy.

It's all you can think about.

Just one more rig to kill

the pain and rescue you

from the black depression,

knowing you're helpless,