SEX OFFENDERS:Chapter Four

Once upon a time, like my Twelve Step Brethren, I believed a power greater than myself could rescue me from addiction. Restore my sanity. I reflected on my life, my actions, unsure of what to expect. Salvation? Forgiveness? Redemption?

Armed with incantations, like invisible talismans, I let go and let God. I learned to live just for today and take things one moment at a time. I learned that this, too, would pass. With the help of a sponsor, aided by the power behind the clichéd metaphors, I cast my demons out and threw a cloak about me that would keep the monsters from grabbing at me and pulling me back.

But on the other side of that cloak, just beyond the invisible crutches, they were all still there. The monsters I created waited for me. The demons that possessed me never really left. Each with a different face; some of them paced anxiously, as addicted to me as I was to them. Others waited patiently; they were with me longer and knew I was weak. Even I knew I couldn’t resist forever; sooner or later I had to crumble. One by one, I would sleep with them again, an orgy of addictions, and they would eventually possess me once more.

Especially the last one. My youngest demon-monster-addiction.

Philip was beautiful. He had the face of an angel and the mind of a spider. He had a dirty mouth and an even filthier mind. A boy after my own heart; he was all innocent smiles, cunning eyes and pouty red lips that I still long to kiss, still want to drink from. As irresistible as a deep breath of fresh air, for one so young, Philip was possessed by his own demons.

Of course, no one put a gun to my head. No one made me go into that chat room. No one told me to reply when his private message first popped up.

First came his Hook:
hot profile, Daddy! smooth latin pup here. luv big dick daddies plugging me.

I could have clicked on the X. I should have clicked on the X. Instead, I read his profile and stared at the IM a moment before responding.

Exactly how many big dick daddies have you been plugged by?

Then came his Line:
Only one. My Dad.

Even as I replied, I felt myself being reeled in.
Your Dad? You mean your real Dad? Do you like it?

And finally, his Sinker:
Yeah. My REAL Dad. And no. I don’t like it. I LOVE it! And I need it bad NOW. Come fuck me. Please! I’m wet & my hole is itchy & hungry 4 ur big Daddy dick.

He came on to me. He preyed on me. But no one saw it that way.

Children are innocent, everyone in the court said to me. I was the adult, they drilled in my head. They insisted I should have known better. Only, they weren’t there when he aroused me with all the wickedly delicious things he said. They did not see the tempting images he filled my brain with. They did not know someone else had gotten to Philip before me. They had no idea how filthy he was. Children might be innocent; but this one wasn’t.

The boy knew what he wanted. And so did I.

I threw myself into him with wild abandon. He said he was all of . . . 15? 16? I don’t remember. It didn’t matter. I didn’t really care. All I know is that I was never so overwhelmingly excited with something I knew to be so wrong.

We cybered almost nightly for months. We never planned on meeting. I didn’t need to. I had the images he e-mailed me, images he captured himself with his own camcorder. I never asked for them. I also had the mpegs he sent, movie clips of him doing naughty things to himself with toys, other objects. I even kept some of the cyber sex chats we shared, despite the tiny voice inside my brain that cautioned me against it, for those moments of self-abuse that filled my nights with guilt and shame.

During the onset of an intense headache, there was an unexpected knock at my door. I answered. My cyberspace sex angel with the red pouty lips and dark, haunting eyes stood before me. He wore tight, revealing jeans. A denim jacket over a tee-shirt that rode up and showed his smooth, flat belly.

I remember wondering: Did I invite him? How did he know where I lived? But then, it wouldn’t have been hard to find me if he really wanted to. I may have dropped hints like lead balloons, in the hope that he would take the initiative, invite himself, come searching for me. I may have mentioned where the club was. I may have mentioned living in my small apartment upstairs. I know I asked him if anybody knew where he was. I remember he shook his head.

The filthy chats we shared, the explicit jpegs he sent, the nasty conversations by phone; they all flittered through my brain like a peep show. What harm would there be? Who would know? He had already been molested by his father, or so he said. What difference would it make if just one more horny pervert abused the boy?

The club had closed hours before and everyone had gone. There was no one around for many miles. It was just Philip and me. My desire, like a poison, weakened me. I caved. Despite my better judgment, I let him into my apartment.

I poured us both a ginger ale, trying desperately to keep the headache at bay. Eventually, I switched to bourbon. In bed, we touched, we kissed. He explored. I fondled.

But I passed out before anything further developed.

A day or so later, the boy was still beside me. The autopsy revealed the boy had a severe asthma attack in his sleep. With his bronchioles paralyzed, his lungs stopped functioning. He died of asphyxiation while I was passed out beside him. I couldn’t even remember his name.

They found alcohol in his blood. Traces of semen on his lips, in his mouth, stomach and rectum. None of it was mine. It was my only saving grace.

With Randy as my defense attorney, I freely gave up the evidence needed and tried to implicate the boy’s father in order to save myself. Only it didn’t stick; no one bought it.

In the end, somehow, Randy kept me out of prison. I was on house arrest for nearly seven years; allowed out for work, to run errands, and attend weekly circle-jerk meetings with other convicted pedophiles, and my A.A. group.

The trial cost me everything; the cash, the fancy cars, the boys. Even the club. What had taken so many years to build, was gone in a matter of moments.


“And that’s my side of the story. All of it. As I remember it.” I felt as if I had just confessed to the crime all over again. Only this time, instead of the hot burning of embarrassment or the sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, I felt a lightness of heart. It was as if I was beginning to wake up from a bad trip. Like I was starting to let go. “I swear it’s all true. I’m sorry.” I added. And I truly was.

Circling nearby, as if anticipating I would light up again in his nonsmoking establishment, was the bookstore manager. I fiddled with the pack of cigarettes on the table just to give him a good scare. The leering ex-frat boy looked at me, at Elvis, then tossed me a dirty, knowing look.

“You know what I don’t understand?” Elvis asked, oblivious to his surroundings. His face was contorted in confusion. “Why didn’t you just leave? Why stay here if you have nothing left?”

“In case you forgot, I was on house arrest. Besides, why leave Hotties? I still own a portion of it. And even if I did leave, what would I leave for?”

“You can start over again. Somewhere else! You could call it Hotties Two!” Elvis said, his excitement growing. “And I could . . .”

“You? You could what?” I asked, raising an eyebrow at the boy. Elvis looked back at me. I saw the wind billow out from his sail.

“Nothing.” Elvis mumbled and lowered his head.

“Listen,” I continued, trying a softer approach. “I appreciate your eagerness and . . . willingness . . . to help, but . . . starting up a club like Hotties is a lot of work. You need a lot of cash. Connections. Energy. And lots of it. I don’t have those things anymore. I’m getting old, Elvis. I’m getting old and I’m not sure that I have what it takes to just pick myself up, dust myself off and reinvent myself all over again somewhere else.”

“You mean you don’t want to . . .” Elvis leaned back in his chair and folded his arms on his chest.

“You know what?” I said quietly. “This conversation is over. I didn’t agree to come here so we could discuss my future plans.”

“Or lack of,” Elvis muttered.

“What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

“Nothing.”

“That’s what I thought.” I replied and drained the last of my coffee. “So . . . what happens now?” I changed the subject before Elvis had any more time to brood. “What are you going to do with . . . everything I just told you? Does it help you any?”

“I’m not sure.” Elvis replied, shrugging off his previous funk. “I guess I thought you’d be able to shed some light on anything I might have missed.”

“Something you might have missed?” I asked, leaning towards him. “I don’t get it. What exactly are you looking for?” Elvis chewed his lower lip a moment, lost in thought. He leaned towards me and looked me in the eye. I could almost taste him; our lips were mere inches apart.

“I’m looking for Philip’s murderer.” Elvis replied. I laughed unexpectedly, pulling away from him. I had to. If we stayed in the same position I was bound to kiss him. “What’s so funny?” Elvis asked, surprised at my reaction. He leaned back in mild irritation.

“Nothing.” I said, shaking my head.

“Well, then? Why are you laughing?”

“I’m sorry, Elvis. I just . . .” I searched for the right words. I couldn’t find them. “What do you think this is? A Hardy Boys mystery? This is real life.”

“You don’t have to mock me!” Elvis said indignantly.

“C’mon, Elvis.” I sighed and leaned forward again. “No one murdered Philip. He had an asthma attack.”

“No.” Elvis shook his head. “I mean, yeah. I know what he died from. He had asthma. I know that. But something doesn’t fit.”

“What do you mean?” I asked impatiently.

“Well . . . this is gonna sound crazy, but . . .” Elvis leaned forward as well and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “You were set up.”

“What? Set up?” I snorted and attempted to laugh. “What are you playing at, Elvis? Who would set me up?”

“You can’t think of anyone?” Elvis asked curiously. I shook my head and shrugged. Looking as if he didn’t believe me, Elvis stared intently into my eyes. He cocked his head to one side, raised an eyebrow.

“Well . . . ” I said after a moment. “I guess . . . there’s always Randy. Only . . . I don’t think he’d . . . I mean . . . he’s capable of many things. And God know’s there’s been a lot of bad blood between us, but . . . ” I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and scratched at the back of my head before speaking slowly and carefully.

“If I even entertained the notion that Randy set me up, I would be so . . . fucking furious. Beyond anything I could ever imagine.” I thought about the strange circumstances that led Randy to me shortly after my mother died. I thought about how Randy actually came knocking on my door shortly after I awakened that harrowing morning . . . I shook my head, refusing to accept it. “Randy took me into his home, Elvis. To the outside world, I was his son.”

“Funny thing for people to believe.” Elvis said flippantly.

“What do you mean?” I asked, suddenly suspicious.

“Last night . . . at dinner . . . I think Randy had a little too much to drink. He implied you were more than just his son.” The comment hung uncomfortably between us a moment before I finally commented.

“So what if I was? I was . . . a good boy once.” I explained. “I always did what I was told. Besides, I was grateful.”

Elvis stared at me a moment, then looked down at a spot on the table, between his hands. He spoke carefully. “You know . . . I always knew you weren’t the one responsible . . . for Philip’s death, I mean.”

“Okay.” I sighed heavily and rubbed at my temples. A dull throbbing had begun the moment Elvis suggested I might have been set up. “Let’s assume you’re correct. Let’s say Randy did set me up. First: how do you know? What makes you say that? Second: how do you proove it? And third: what good will it do? It’s not going to bring Philip back.”

“I know, but . . . I promised.” Elvis said simply.

“You promised.” I repeated. Elvis nodded. I cleared my throat. “Exactly who did you promise?”

“Myself. And, I guess, Philip. When the court ruled I couldn’t live with my dad anymore and had to go live with my mom. I vowed to come back when I was old enough and find out the truth.”

“You were just a kid.” I sighed and stared at Elvis. He stared back at me. “You know what?” I said, shaking my head. I leaned back in my chair. “You’ve got a lot to learn.” I picked up the pack of cigarettes and tapped one out. I put it to my lips. Nearby someone cleared their throat annoyingly. I looked up. The bookstore manager circled once again. I ignored him.

“Listen, Elvis . . . ” I started, then trailed off. “Oh, my God.” I muttered.

“What? What is it?” Elvis stood and spun around, blocking my view. After a moment, he sat back down. “What happened?”

“I thought I saw Freddy.” I scanned the store again but the boy was gone.

“Freddy? Are you sure?” Elvis asked, suddenly nervously.

“Well, no. I’m not. But I wouldn’t put it past Randy to have us tailed. That’s why you and I are going to get up and search the parking lot. Carefully.”

“But what would he be doing way down here?” Elvis asked in a slightly panicked voice.

“I don’t know.” I shrugged.

“What if it was him?” Elvis stood and pushed his chair in. “Do you think he’ll tell Randy?”

“He might. God knows the boy’s pissed off enough at both of us.” I stood and we started walking.

“This is terrible! I hope it wasn’t him. I can’t afford to have Randy distrusting me from the start.” Elvis confessed as we reached the exit.

“What do you mean?” I opened the door and let Elvis out. “What’s going on?” I asked outside. Elvis turned and looked up at me.

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

“Okay.” Elvis replied. He gave a deep sigh. “Philip wound up with you that night, but . . . he originally set out to meet Randy.”

“Randy? Are you sure?”

Elvis nodded. “Philip was supposed to meet Randy at a McDonald’s near our house. I . . . I followed him and watched him get into a black . . . ”

“Firebird convertible.” We both said in unison.


After scouring the parking lot, where we found no trace of Freddy, Elvis followed me in his car to the beach. I drove to a spot I liked to go to when I had things on my mind. There, we sat on the sand, near the surf. Seagulls screeched overhead. Sea foam bubbled several feet away. Around us, people gathered their belongings and left the beach as the sun sank lower, pulling night down behind it like a window shade.

I watched, enviously, as the wind played with his hair. Filled with an overwhelming urge to touch him, I fought myself and inched closer instead. We sat hip-to-hip and I totally grooved on his intense body heat.

“Hold out your hand,” I said, reaching into one of my pockets. I dropped a penny into the palm of his hand. Elvis looked down at it and chuckled.

“I was thinking how much Philip loved the beach.” Elvis said thoughtfully. He took a deep breath and swallowed visibly as I sat quietly beside him. “We were very close, you know. Very . . . very close” Elvis looked out towards the ocean, adding his story to the millions of confessions, secrets and dreams that were already held by Caribbean waters, never to be revealed to anyone.

“Philip was everybody’s favorite. He was . . . all the things I wanted to be. Confident. Popular. Friendly. He was a total jock. Did you know he was on our school wrestling team?”

I almost felt guilty for the alluring thoughts that popped into my mind. Boys wearing tight, form-fitting uniforms, besting each other on rubber mats. Faces in crotches, hands pulling cheeks apart, fingers digging into cracks. Referee faces right down there with them, sniffing and inhaling young, sweaty boy smells. Quiet jerk-off sessions between opponents, behind dark lockers.

I would have enjoyed the images better with a drink; and if I wasn’t still nagged by the reminder that Freddy had tailed us to the bookstore. Elvis, however, seemed to have forgotten; or at least, put it out of his mind.

“Dad’s sun rose and set around Philip.” Elvis spoke with the deep, raspy tone of longing I knew so well.

“Philip was a beautiful boy.” I said quietly. I turned to Elvis and saw him nod. “But so are you.”

“Not like Philip.” Elvis sounded wistful. “But thanks,” he added sheepishly and ran a hand through his hair. He was silent a moment before continuing, his voice filled with despair and embarrassment. “After Dad fell asleep, Philip and I would . . . ” Elvis trailed off. He looked away.

“You mean . . . you and your brother?” I asked. A strange exhiliration coursed through my veins. I tried to keep my imagination from running away with me. “My god. I never knew. Philip never said anything. He told me . . . ” But I stopped myself. I didn’t know what other things Elvis might have known about his brother. I watched him closely.

“I know what you must think of me.” Elvis looked away.

“I don’t think you do.” My heart raced and my mind reeled with filthy images of the two boys entwined. “Believe me when I tell you . . . even after all that’s happened . . . after all I’ve been through . . . I still think about him. I think about our on-line chats, the pictures we shared, the dirty . . . nasty . . . wonderfully filty conversations we had . . . ” I shook my head and closed my eyes. I felt the words about to spring from my mouth. I tried to censor myself, tried to keep the words from forming. I knew they should not be said and that out of anyone in the world, he was probably the last person I should confess to. But it was in my heart and I could not deny how I felt; it was almost palpable. “I’m ashamed to admit, especially to you, that the memory of him . . . it still turns me on.”

The moment I heard myself speak, I knew how perverse it must have sounded. I was sure Elvis would be offended; but he was quiet. When he finally spoke, I was surprised.

“Do I? Turn you on?”

“What? Are you kidding me?” I spluttered and laughed with relief.

“I mean, I would understand . . . you know . . . if I didn’t turn you on. I just kinda wondered if . . . ”

“You do. More than I care to admit.” I replied quietly.

“You know what I wish for? More than anything?” Elvis asked. I shook my head at him. “I wish for . . . a Daddy.” He gave me a small smile, a forlorn look in his eyes.

“But I thought you already had a father?”

“No! Not that kind of daddy. A Daddy. You know. An older man who will take care of me. Who will take me in his arms and hold me at night. A man who will kiss me as I fall asleep. Who could be my . . . my father, my brother. My friend. I wish for an older man who will help me keep the monsters away at night. Make me feel . . . special. Like I belong to something. Know what I mean?”

I sighed heavily, reminded of my own sad, once upon a time, dreams. He did not wait for me to respond.

“Philip always made me feel special. I guess that’s the biggest reason why I still miss him. I know it sounds selfish, but, I just wish I could have had one more night with him. And I wish that . . . that I could have been enough . . . that he didn’t have to go outside looking for more.” Elvis lowered his head and continued, his voice a near whisper.

“Dad never knew.” A sob suddenly escaped him. “I loved Philip.” Elvis spoke between sobs. “I looked up to him.”

“It’s okay,” I said, a bit uncomfortable with the boy’s tears. I put my arm awkwardly around his shoulders. Elvis leaned his head on my shoulder and cried quietly while I rocked him.

And I have to admit. It felt . . . nice.

“You must think I’m a real pussy,” Elvis mumbled, wiping at his tears.

“Why?”

“For crying like this after so many years.”

“Not at all, Elvis. Not at all. He was your brother. He probably made you feel wanted . . . needed.” I replied distantly, lost in the feeling of what I thought had been a long-buried memory.

“Yes,” Elvis said simply. He cleared his throat and looked up at me. I smiled weakly.

“I understand.” I looked away from Elvis. For all of Philip’s piggyness, the depth of his tawdriness, there was an air of innocence about him that shone through. Strangely, he had touched something inside me. I understood how Elvis felt. Philip had managed to make me feel the same way; however briefly.

“You know? He would go into those chat rooms while I sat beside him and watched. He would say the dirtiest . . . nastiest things to those men!”

“I know.” I whispered, suddenly back in that darkened room, the night Latin Pup’s first IM popped up on my screen.

“There were so many men that wanted to hook up with him even though they knew he was underage.” Elvis continued, almost in awe of his brother. His tears had finally slowed to a trickle. He pulled himself away from my arm; I felt disappointed. I had grown quite comfortable with him under my arm.

“He didn’t want any of them. He wanted the ones that turned him down. Or the ones on the fence. Sometimes he would scan the screen names and read the profiles before saying to me, ‘That one! That’s the one I’m gonna break down! I’m gonna be at his house tonight and we’re gonna fuck!’ ”

It all sounded sick coming from someone so young, so handsome. Sick and twisted and dirty. It was shockingly disgusting yet perversely beautiful.

“This one time,” Elvis continued, unaware of what he was doing to me. “He had ten conversations going on . . . at the same time! One of them was yours.”

“With so many going on how could you tell it was mine?” I managed, no longer circling or wading into the cesspool that was my addictions. I wallowed in it, submerged, and willingly drowned myself.

“Your profile picture was in the IM window.” Elvis explained. I remembered that night vividly. I took a deep breath. Closed my eyes.

And so it started. A longing. A craving.

And I listened.

Not to his words, not with my ears, but with my very blood. Chemicals inside me raced around, crashing against each another. The craving grew stronger. It rose like the foaming surf that crept ever closer to our toes.

“I started feeling weird about the whole thing,” Elvis continued. “I was afraid Dad would catch Philip playing around. Or that something would happen to him. I tried to warn him. I tried to get him to stop but Philip always did what he wanted.”

Listening to Elvis was like listening to a fellow alcoholic tell the group how they had hit rock bottom; sharing, drop by drop, swallow by swallow, every last detail of their final binge, the final moment that brought them to where they were. Thank you for sharing.

The devil, I’ve heard, was in the details. The devil, I think, is in our hearts.

And he was making his presence known.

I needed a boy. I needed a drink. I needed them both. It didn’t matter which one I got first so long as I satisfied the urge and rode the tide. The demons I had tried to bury within, now rose before me. They laughed ominously.

“Are you . . . are you thirsty?” I asked and licked my lips. I thought of the flask in the glove compartment of my car. I felt a nervousness creep in. God, please. Not now. I closed my eyes and felt my addiction recede ever so slightly. I had to try and fight it. A part of me was amazed by how quickly seven years of house arrest, AA meetings and circle-jerking pedos, could simply unravel, dissolve, then vanish with just a few words from a young and beautiful boy like Elvis.

“No,” Elvis muttered. “You can go get something if you want. I’ll wait here.”

“That’s okay. I’m . . . I can wait. I’m not that thirsty.”

But that wasn’t true. I wanted . . . no, needed a drink very badly. Maybe two. The Alcohol Monster laughed threateningly as he crept up behind me and put his hands on my waist. I could almost feel the heat of his breath on the back of my neck as he jockeyed for position, ready to fuck me. I tapped a finger on my thigh, rapidly, as though sending Morse Code.

“It’s getting late.” Elvis muttered. “I have to leave soon. Randy wants me to work with some of the dancers before I go on next week.”

“That’s nice.” I closed my eyes and breathed in the salty air. I attempted to move but I started to shake instead. I took another deep breath and tried to control myself as the Alcohol Monster mounted me.

“But I can’t go before I apologize.” Elvis mumbled.

“For what?” I opened my eyes, momentarily stunned.

“For crying. In front of you.”

“I apologize, too.” I threw my arm around Elvis again, in what I hoped was a parental fashion. But what I was really trying to do was control myself. I needed to focus on something, anything, to keep from shaking any further.

“What are you apologizing for?” Elvis stared at me.

“I . . . I didn’t mean to imply you were Randy’s property.”

“Oh. That.” Elvis made a face. “I accept your apology, but, it doesn’t really matter. Besides, why should I care if you’re shacking up with Freddy.”

“What? I didn’t say anything about shacking up with Freddy! He’s not even shack-up material. He’s only good for a short fling. Besides, I kicked him out.”

“You did?” Elvis blurted quickly. I thought I detected the slightest hint of pleasure in his voice. I nodded.

“Last night. Shortly after you left.” I thought I saw Elvis smile. He touched me, his hand like a balm to my aching spirit. I sighed audibly.

“Hey . . . are . . . are you okay?” Elvis asked suddenly. “Are you cold or something?” I had started to shake again.

“Yeah. That’s it. I’m cold.” I lied and shuddered.

“Why didn’t you say something?” Elvis shifted so that he sat behind me, his legs on either side of mine.

“We . . . we shouldn’t be doing this. What if Freddy . . . ?” I trailed off.

But Elvis didn’t respond. Instead, he wrapped his warm body around me. For the briefest of moments, the shaking subsided. I closed my eyes and leaned my head back against his shoulder. I felt a bit more under control.

“You feel soooooooooo good.” I moaned, unaware the thought had left my mind and tumbled from my lips.

“So do you.” Elvis whispered in my ear and held me tighter.

“You know . . . I must confess . . . I’ve made a lot of mistakes in my life. So, so many. But Philip . . . he was . . . the biggest one. I keep wondering . . . how different things would have turned out . . . if I had clicked on the X . . . if I would have just . . . sent him home . . . when he came knocking.”

Elvis said nothing. He merely held me.

“What are you . . . what are you planning to do?” I asked, shivering. Elvis wrapped his arms around me, doing his best to keep me warm. “About Randy?”

I could almost feel Elvis thinking. It seemed like a long time before he finally responded. “I’m going to get as close to Randy as I can. I want him to tell me what happened between them. I want him to tell me how Philip wound up with you that night. And I want him to tell me why.”

“Good luck.” I muttered. Elvis hugged me tighter and I felt comforted.

“Does it . . . does it really matter that much?” I whispered to Elvis.

“Yes,” Elvis hissed playfully in my ear. I could feel his hot breath against my neck. I closed my eyes and moaned, enjoying the sensation. I tried to savor the moment, his fingers running through my hair.

But addictions always win.

“Elvis?” I had held off as long as I could. “This feels great, but . . . ”

“I know.” He reached into a side pocket of his baggy cargo pants and pulled out a flask; the one from my glove compartment. I was stunned into silence a moment. “How did . . . where did you . . . ?”

“I looked through your stuff while you paid for cigarettes at the gas station. I figured you’d need it sooner or later. So I took it.” Elvis explained. I took it from him, gratefully. Just holding it was a comfort.

“That wasn’t very nice.” I joked, unscrewing the cap. I drank greedily.

“Yeah, well. Like you said to me . . . sometimes, I’m not so nice.”

“Hey!” I chortled, nearly choking on a swallow of alcohol. “Get your own damn lines.” I propped the flask upright in the sand.

Elvis silently pushed me back and kissed me. Softly. Gently. I did not complain. Instead, I let me desire go. Then, suddenly untethered by the rush of alcohol through my veins, I felt the Alcohol Monster slowly pull out of me as my desire for Elvis rose. I wrapped my arms around him with a frantic passion that was almost desperation. I rolled on top of him, kissing him as fervently as he kissed me. I chewed on his lips, his tongue, his chin, as he moaned softly and clutched at me. I licked his neck and bit down, wanting to draw blood. I grabbed his face and held the back of his head as if he would disappear.

“You know, you really should give up drinking,” Elvis suggested, pushing me away from him slightly.

“Why?” I asked, playing with his hair.

“You’ll live longer.” Elvis rolled us over so I was on my back again.

“It’s not as easy as you think. It’s an addiction, not a hobby. Besides, did you ever think that maybe I like the taste of booze? That maybe I like being an alcoholic and love being addicted to something?”

“There are other things you can be addicted to.” Elvis lowered his lips back to mine. I clung to him desperately.

“You know,” Elvis muttered in my ear. “This might be the last time we can be like this.”

“I know,” I mumbled, licking his ear lobe. “All we ever have is this moment. Let’s enjoy it while we have it.” I devoured him again, my hands all over his body, touching, caressing, groping.

“But I thought you said . . . ” Elvis protested, but I didn’t want to hear it. I wanted . . . no needed . . . to taste him. I was hungry and although he continued to plead with me, I unzipped him.

Elvis gasped as I devoured him for the first time. It was something I had not done in a very long time. Something I found, strangely, I wanted to do for him.

And as we rolled around on the sand, I thought all we needed was a wave to wash over us.

SEX OFFENDERS:Interlude 1 - Elvis Is Leaving The Building

In a cramped bedroom across the river from Manhattan, two young men, in a way still boys really, lay in separate bunk beds. A chest of drawers, about four feet wide, was all that stood between them.

Elvis lay on his right side in the sweltering heat, sticking to his clammy white sheets. He knew he should get up. He knew he should get dressed. It was time to leave. He had promised himself, and his dead brother Philip, that when he graduated high school, he would make his way back to Florida. Back to his real father. He had a murderer to catch.

And yet, he lay there, unable to move.

One more time, Elvis thought. Just let me watch one last time. Then I’ll go.

He intently watched his stepbrother, Jesus, across the room while stroking himself absent-mindedly; his cock flopped out through the opening in his boxers. His stepbrother lay on top of one of his hoes, quietly screwing her while she softly moaned and clutched at his back.

Elvis watched Jesus’ furry buttocks, caramel colored, hips grinding. They clenched. Unclenched. Clenched. Unclenched. Elvis longed to bury his face in the musky crevice, lick his stepbrother up and down and tug on his balls while his lower back arched, bowed, then arched again.

“Elvis!” Jesus whispered harshly. “You . . . awake?”

“What?” Elvis asked, startled from his reverie.

“C’mon . . . bro . . . get . . . ready . . . you’re . . . next.” Jesus punctuated each word with a deep thrust.

“Jesus!” The girl slapped him playfully on the butt.

“What do you mean?” Elvis mumbled, his heart racing suddenly. A part of him grew even more excited. He only hoped the girl wouldn’t stay to watch.

“Gotta . . . deep . . . pussy . . . fuck . . . sometime, bro.” Jesus panted.

“Oh.” Elvis said, disappointed. Then he muttered. “I’m not fucking her.”

“What the . . . ” Jesus stopped thrusting suddenly and gasped. “What are you . . . you can’t put your finger . . . ” Jesus protested. But the girl giggled and kept worming her finger in and out of his rectum. And then, “Oh . . . my . . . god!” Jesus started up again. “I’m . . . right . . . there . . . unh!” Jesus grunted and shook like a car with a bad engine.

Elvis sighed and came in his hand. He rolled onto his back and quietly sucked his fingers, licked the top of his hand, his palm.

“Christ.” Jesus said as he stood a moment later, his muscled body rippling and sweaty. “You’re pathetic, you know that?” His entire attitude toward Elvis changed as he pulled the condom off deftly with thumb and forefinger. He held it out to Elvis, teasing him. “Here. Wanna eat mine, too?”

“You’re an asshole.” Elvis stated matter-of-factly.

“At least I’m not a faggot.” Jesus flung the used condom on the floor at the foot of their dresser. Elvis looked at it, then up at Jesus. His stepbrother took a step toward him. He glared down at Elvis, hands on his hips, and made his softening cock bob up and down. It was like it was beckoning Elvis, taunting him even more.

A lone drop, the one that wasn’t milked, glistened and lengthened. Elvis licked his lips and reached out for it, despite the disgust he felt at being unable to control himself. Jesus snorted and pulled back.

“Cocksucker.” Jesus tossed Elvis a knowing half-sneer.

“Fuck you!” Elvis snapped, defiant.

“You wish.” Jesus laughed maliciously and hurried out of the room. A moment later, Elvis heard the shower go on in the bathroom across the hallway.

“Mother fucker!” Elvis exclaimed, suddenly enraged. “Why the hell do I let him do that to me?” Filled with a burning desire to hit something, he looked up abruptly, remembering he was not alone. Across the room, sitting up on Jesus’ bed, a plump white girl with big breasts and hickeys on her pale skin, dressed slowly and cautiously.

“What the hell are you looking at?” Elvis spat.

“I know you’re not talkin’ to me.” She mumbled and clicked her tongue.

“Just hurry up and get the out!” Elvis snapped.

The girl eyed Elvis suspiciously and harumphed as she continued to dress.

Suddenly disgusted with the sight of her, and with himself, Elvis lunged out of bed and dove for the used condom Jesus had thrown on the floor. He picked it up and, without thinking, Elvis flung it at the girl. It smacked onto the side of her face and stuck.

“You fucking asshole!” She shrieked, fanning her hands crazily back and forth as if her face was on fire. Jesus’ seed dripped down her chin. “Eeeeeeewww! I hate cum on me!” The girl screamed at the top of her lungs and jumped out of bed. She grabbed her things and ran half-naked out into the apartment.

A part of Elvis wanted to laugh; the other felt bad for what he had done. It wasn’t the girl’s fault. Elvis sighed heavily. He could no longer sit idly by while his stepbrother continued to flaunt his naked body and his sexuality in front of him. The time to leave had definitely come. Besides, he had a murderer to catch.

With renewed focus, and a sense of urgency, Elvis jumped out of bed. He dressed quickly in jeans and a tee-shirt, then pulled his oversized knapsack from under the bed. He rummaged through the chest of drawers, pulling out underwear, socks, tee-shirts. A pair of jeans. Shorts. The money he’d been saving from his part-time job after school. An old key ring. A picture of him and his brother, a day at the beach with their Dad, months before Philip was murdered.

Elvis glanced at the photograph. His image, and Philip's, looked up at him, both grinning from ear to ear. They had their arms about each other’s shoulders. They had been inseparable, once upon a time. They had shared many things, many dreams, many secrets.

At first, it had been that way with Elvis and Jesus, as well. When Elvis first came to live in New Jersey with his mother, her new husband, and his son from a previous marriage. Jesus had become like a surrogate, older brother to Elvis even though they were the same age. Only, somewhere along the way, as they grew older, things had changed dramatically.

“Going somewhere?” Elvis stood in the open doorway, a towel wrapped loosely about his waist.

Fuck! Elvis thought to himself. He had been anxious to get moving before Jesus came back from his shower, before his mother got out of bed and started her day with a new bottle of Captain Morgan’s.

“So, where you going?” Jesus stepped into the room and closed the door.

“Away.” Elvis shoved everything into his knapsack.

“Where’s Carol? I heard her scream. Thought maybe you decided to fuck her after all.”

“She, uh . . . she said she had to leave.” Elvis fought back the urge to laugh at the memory of her flapping hands and the condom stuck to her face.

“Did you do something to her?” Jesus asked suspiciously.

“Nope. Not me.” Elvis replied. He averted his eyes as Jesus approached. He could smell the fresh scent of their mother’s Dove soap on his stepbrother.

“Damn.” Jesus lamented, brushing gently past Elvis. “Too bad she’s gone. I’m usually good for a second fuck in the mornings.” Jesus dropped his towel and stared at Elvis, letting his words hang between them.

Elvis struggled to keep his focus, forcing himself to look away from his stepbrother as he stood, a few short feet away, tugging on his balls, stroking his cock. Elvis licked his dry lips, closed his eyes, and took a deep breath.

“Wanna take her place?” Jesus quietly teased, a twisted smile on his face.

Elvis looked up, stared into Jesus’ eyes. Neither of them spoke. There were many things that popped into Elvis’ head, many things he wanted to say. But he realized they would all be lost on Jesus. There was no point in saying anything at all. Elvis zipped up his knapsack, shouldered it and walked out of their room.

“What? You’re not gonna say anything?” Jesus followed Elvis down the long hallway to the front door.

“What’s going on? What are you boys fighting about?” Elvis’s mother, Lydia, poked her head into the hallway. She was a Blatina woman with caramel colored skin and long raven hair. Her wrinkly eyes blinked against the light.

“Nothing’s going on, Ma. Go back to sleep.” Elvis replied.

“Bullshit, nothing’s going on. Elvis is leaving, Lydia!” Jesus cried out.

“Leaving?” Lydia sputtered and stepped into the hallway, blocking her son’s path. Elvis brushed past her. “Elvis? What’s Jesus talking about?” She asked, a slight worry in her voice.

Elvis stopped in his tracks. So much for making a smooth get away. He took a deep breath and turned to face his mother. Lydia searched his face.

“Listen. Ma. Don’t make a big deal out of this, okay? I’m leaving. I’m going away and I’m not coming back.” Elvis explained.

“What do you mean?!” Lydia cried. “You can’t do that. You’re just a boy!”

“I’m 19, Ma. I’m a grown-up now.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. What about school?” Lydia grasped.

“I’m done with school. Don’t you remember? Graduation was two weeks ago, Ma.” Elvis turned and started down the hallway again.

“What about college?” She asked, following Elvis.

“Not going to college.”

“Then what about work? Who’s going to help pay the rent? The groceries? The phone?” Lydia looked puzzled and chewed on her lip, pulling at straws.

Elvis stopped and turned around again, a half-smile on his face. He looked meaningfully past Lydia and up at Jesus, who stood directly behind her.

“You think I’m gonna get a job? I’m the one going to college. Remember?”

Elvis snorted and looked at his mother. “I guess that means your . . . husband . . . will have to go out and find a job now.”

“Elvis, please.” Lydia reached for him with one hand while pushing Jesus back with the other. “You can’t leave me. I’m your mother. I need you.”

“You can’t manipulate me anymore, Ma.” Elvis stared his mother down. “You left first. Remember? Or did you conveniently forget that you abandoned Philip and me?”

“It was never about either one of you.” Lydia protested. But Elvis had heard enough. He turned and moved towards the door. “Elvis.” Lydia followed closely behind him. “You’re being unfair. That was a long time ago. You have no idea the kind of man your father was!”

“Why don’t you explain it to me?” Elvis stopped and turned to her.

“It’s been a very long time, Elvis. Why are you asking me this now?” Lydia stared blankly at her son.

“I guess you deserve some kind of explanation even though you never gave me one.” Elvis sighed deeply. “When Philip died I made a promise to go back home . . .”

“But this is your home.” Lydia protested.

There was a moment of silence.

“This isn’t home, Ma. I’m sorry but, I’m going back to Florida.”

“But why?” Lydia asked, perplexed. “You lived here almost as long as you lived there. And what do you want to go back there for? Florida’s terrible! It’s hot, it’s muggy and there’s all those hurricanes. There’s nothing there for you.”

“Dad’s there.” Elvis said simply. Lydia lowered her eyes, screwed up her forehead and chewed on her lower lip. Elvis continued before his mother could find another reason for him not to leave. “Besides, I want to investigate Philip’s death.”

“Investigate his death? Ha! Who are you? The Hardy Boy?” Jesus laughed behind Lydia. “More like the hardly boy.”

“Honey, no one murdered Philip. He died of an asthma attack.” Lydia put a hand on Elvis’ arm.

“Listen, Ma. I don’t know why you left Dad. And after all this time I don’t think it really matters much anymore. I only know that I made a promise to my brother and to myself. I need to see my father.”

“You’re father is in that room,” Lydia said, extending an arm towards the room she had just stepped out of.

“That . . . man . . . in there? That’s not my father. That’s . . . ”

“Don’t talk about my father,” Jesus threatened and tossed Elvis a warning look. “I’ll kick your ass!”

“What’s going on out here?” As if on cue, Jesus’ father wallowed out of the bedroom. He stood behind Jesus, filling most of the width of the hallway.

“Nothing, honey. Go back to bed.” Lydia replied calmly.

Disgusted, Elvis turned his back on them. But as he faced the door, it was as if someone had stretched the hallway to make it longer than it was. For a brief moment, he doubted. But there was a part of him that had to move; a part of him that knew if he didn’t go now he would never go at all. He refocused, somehow found the strength he needed and took the first step.

As he reached the door, his hand on the knob, Lydia’s hand touched one of his shoulders. And in that one touch, time seemed to sand still. Both, mother and child, seemed to feel a slowly churning carousel of unspoken, harbored emotion. The past became present and the present seemed to dissolve.

“You didn’t even leave a note.” Elvis said softly, like a lost little boy. Without turning, he closed his eyes and waited for a word, a reason, anything.

But none came.

Lydia’s mouth opened and closed. She didn’t know what to say that would make her son understand.

“I . . . I’d like to know how you are.”

“I’ll write you. When I get there. Goodbye, ma.” Elvis said politely. After all, it wasn’t like he hated her; he just never found it in himself to forgive her for abandoning them. And then there was that little part of him that felt that maybe, just maybe, if she had never left, Philip might still be alive.

Elvis opened the door and stepped out into the vestibule of the small apartment building. Their door shut loudly behind him. Elvis closed his eyes, half expecting, half wanting his mother to follow him out. But she didn’t. He could hear the three of them arguing inside, now.

Saddened, and a bit disappointed, Elvis looked down. There on the dirty, black and white, cracked tile floor was the used condom he had thrown at Carol. He stepped over it, suddenly quite anxious to be on the road.



Elvis had forgotten about summer in South Florida. The still air was so heavy and thick with humidity that his breathing was more like gasping. His clothes clung to him uncomfortably and the knapsack on his back made him feel as though he were plodding through mud.

A variety of Spanish music, from houses with open doors and windows, assaulted his ears; salsa, meréngue, latin rock. In the trees, cicadas whirred noisily, making their own mad form of music. Less than a block away, the freight train blared angrily as it rolled by. It made the ground beneath his feet vibrate.

Elvis was tired. It had taken him nearly two weeks to hitchhike, via backroads, from New Jersey to Florida. He was sweaty, hungry and could not stand his own smell. He shuffled the last few steps that led to his father’s door. Elvis raised a fist and knocked timidly. There was no answer.

What if he had moved away? But that was not a thought Elvis wanted to entertain. All he wanted was to be inside, in the air conditioning, downing a tall glass of lemonade while he soaked in a cool tub of water.

What the hell am I knocking for? Elvis thought to himself, suddenly remember his keys. He shrugged the knapsack off his shoulders and rummaged through it. His hand wrapped around the old key ring and he wondered. Would the keys still be the same? Wouldn’t his father have changed the locks? More thoughts he did now want to deal with. Elvis tried the keys; they worked.

Dizzy from heat and exhaustion, Elvis turned the doorknob and pushed. It didn’t open. Then he remembered; doors in Florida opened out to offer better protection from hurricane winds. Elvis pulled. The door opened and a blast of cool air rushed at him, licking his sweaty flesh. Elvis sighed unexpectedly with relief.

“Dad?” Elvis called out from the threshold. There was no answer. Elvis stepped inside and pulled the door shut behind him. Silence now roared in his ears. The house was cool and dark. He stood still a moment as childhood ghosts and memories flooded his senses. He swayed slightly, his body grateful to finally be out of the heat.

“Dad?” Elvis called out again, pushing the dizziness away. Still no answer. He took a deep breath and another step into the house. Elvis looked into the open living room; it was dusty and unkempt. The pendulum of a grandfather clock had long since stopped swinging. Months, if not years, of newspapers lay in skewed stacks over the floor. And on the sofa, to his right, just beneath the front window, lay his father, now bearded, his full, thick, dark head of hair now sprinkled with much gray. He was passed out in a dingy white tank top and stained, yellowed briefs. His eyes were closed and his chest rose and fell softly. In one hand, he clutched a picture.

Elvis approached quietly, stepping through a little path that had been left open to the couch. He sat at the edge of the sofa and placed a hand on the older man’s chest. His father snored lightly, slept deeply.

Elvis pried the photograph from his father’s fingers. It was a picture of the three of them, that day at the beach; his dad was in the middle, arms around each of his sons.

Filled with relief at finally being back with his dad and overwhelmed with the blankness of the last seven years, Elvis was surprised to feel his eyes watering. He lay his head gently on his father’s chest, closed his eyes for only a moment and almost drifted.

A sound inside the house startled Elvis. He sat up abruptly.

From one of the bathrooms, someone had flushed a toilet. Elvis heard the water running as whoever it was washed their hands. Then the door opened.

His heart racing furiously, Elvis’ first reaction was to run away. But he didn’t move. This was his house, after all. He stood to face the person shuffling down the hallway.

At first it was difficult to place the hairy, burly man that stood before him wearing nothing but a white, wife-beater tee-shirt and boxer shorts. The two of them stared each other down until recognition made the older man grin.

“I knew one day you’d be back. I kept telling your father but he wouldn’t believe me.” He spoke in a deep, reverberating voice.

“Uncle Rollie?” Elvis asked uncertainly. The man laughed and opened his arms. Like a child, Elvis went to him and turned to mush within the embrace of the huge, tight bear hug.



Several hours later, after he had taken a long, hot bath that left the tub ringed with dirt; after a refreshingly cool shower and several glasses of lemonade from an ice cold pitcher, Elvis sat in the kitchen with his Uncle Rollie. They spoke quietly over a plate of cheese and crackers and another glass of lemonade for Elvis, a cold beer for Uncle Rollie.

Elvis learned that in the last seven years, nothing much had changed for his father. He still got up every day at the crack of dawn, got into his pick-up truck and went to work. He came home every night just after the sun went down, had a couple of beers and, on weekends, drank until he passed out on the living room couch. There he would remain until Rollie picked him up and dropped him into his own bed. Then the week would start over again.

“At first, I stayed here weekends. I was always afraid he was going to . . . you know . . . do something stupid. Now I’m divorced, so, I stay here all the time. But don’t worry. Now that you’re here I’ll . . . I’ll start looking for my own place.”

“C’mon, Uncle Rollie. You don’t have to move out. This is your house, too. Just stay here. There’s enough . . . ” Elvis’ mouth opened wide, unable to supress the large yawn that escaped him. “Excuse me.”

“Why don’t you go to sleep, papito? We can talk about this tomorrow. Okay?” Uncle Rollie suggested and Elvis nodded sleepily. He got up from the table, made his way to his old room. Uncle Rollie followed quietly behind him.

The room he once shared with Philip was the same as it was when the County police came to take him away. Elvis looked around. The school pennants, family pictures, Marlins baseball poster. Their favorite bands, singers, scattered CDs and video games. Even their old computer, once confiscated by the police, had been returned.

“Thanks for taking care of Dad, Uncle Rollie.” Elvis said, now so tired that he didn’t know quite how to feel. He started to undress.

“He’s my brother. What else could I do?” Rollie replied. He stepped out of the room, closing the door behind him, then changed his mind. He popped back in, like an afterthought. “By the way, I think you should sleep on this bed.” Rollie suggested, pointed to the bed nearest the door.

“I was planning on it. This is my bed.” Elvis screwed up his forehead. “Why do you say that?” Elvis asked curiously, removing his tee-shirt. He had already folded his jeans and placed them neatly at the foot of the bed.

“Well,” Rollie started. He seemed to grow uncomfortable but Elvis was far too tired to pick up on it. “Your father . . . somewhere in his mind . . . I think he still thinks Philip is alive.”

“Why do you say that?” Elvis asked, now stripped down to his underwear.

Uncle Rollie thought a moment, choosing his words carefully. He then cleared his throat and explained. “Just make sure you sleep in your own bed. Your father goes walking in his sleep from time to time and he . . . he winds up in Philip's bed. He . . . calls for Philip in his sleep. I wouldn’t want him to surprise you in your sleep the way he surprised me once.”

“Right.” Elvis replied automatically as Uncle Rollie stepped out of the room. Elvis stretched and yawned largely, then lay back in bed. He closed his eyes and fell asleep long before his head ever even touched the pillow.