Ben Tells Tales

The Sanctity of Marriage

2009-05-31T21:05:00.005-04:00

When I was growing up, weddings did not occur in my family. My uncles, or aunts dated, they would move in with the person they were dating, and before I knew, I had a new aunt or uncle. One of my aunts dated a lot, therefore, I had a LOT of uncles!

I don't know if this was due to being latin or just a peculiarity in my specific family. As far as I know, only one of my relatives was legally married.

Regardless of whether the lack of belief in marriage was due to my family, I have always felt that weddings were more of a public declaration, to your family and friends, that the person beside you was "The One." That was the person you were planning on spending the rest of your life with.

But that to me is not marriage.

Marriage, to me, is more a sense of duty, obligation, love and honor. You bestow these things upon the person you love and want to grow old with. It is a personal vow between you, the person you love, and the universe, that you will be loyal to that person. That you will devote your life, moving forward, to living as one. That come hell or high water, no matter what, you will not abandon one another. That you would die for them.

Of course, everyone's definition will vary, but that's mine. And I see myself as married. After 13 years with Niko, we're about as married as married is going to get; he's seen me at my worst, at my best, and he still has not left me. Nor I, him. I don't need a piece of paper to tell me how married I am.

But I need it for protection.

As it stands now, if my partner should die before me, I'm screwed if his family wants to come in and be nasty. Nothing is in my name except some joint accounts.

We can have will drawn up, Power of Attorney, etc. But I can't get married.

After 13 years, no matter what we've been through, no matter how much I love my partner, if one of us should die, the other party is screwed. And it's not just us. We know plenty of other gay couples in the same predicament. In fact, some of the couples have been together even longer than we have. We understand the tradition of marriage, the supposed sanctity.

And yet we cannot marry.

Mind you, I don't believe in marriage per se, but I'd like to know that I could marry, if I had the option.

When Prop 8 in California was defeated the first time, I was pissed. Not for us, but for all the gay and lesbian couples out there who want the traditional wedding.

We protested in Fort Lauderdale and I wrote to the ACLU. I signed petitions and wrote to our politicians, thanks to the organized directives of the ACLU.

And then Prop 8 came up once more and, once more, it was defeated.

That's inexcusable. First, because as gay people we are being treated like second class citizens. And I tired. I will no longer settle. And no, I don't want a "separate but equal" law, either! This is not the 60s and I will drink from the same water fountain as others; straight, gay, black, white, or where ever and whomever you identify with. One planet, one country, one government, one law to protect us all.

How dare the government tell me, "I can take your tax money but I will not give you Civil Rights." This is basically what California has just said. People, wake up!

Personally, although I am outraged that California once again refused to pass Prop 8, I am also baffled. A state which has been at the forefront of the "Going Green" campaign. A state where almost anything went. A state from where almost anything new and weird originated.

A state that is now, apparently, dangerously close to being bankrupt.

Denying people the right to marry is, in my opinion, morally wrong. For California it is also economically unsound.

Just imagine the cost of your average wedding. Now imagine how many gay couples there are in California, let alone the world. Quiet, normal, every day, run of the mill gay couples, coming and going, working, living, spending money just like everyone else.

Now imagine how much money gay marriages would dump into their economy, let alone our nations', if we were allowed to marry in all states. We're talking marriage license, banquet halls, ball rooms, limos, tailors, flower shops, caterers, bartenders, D.J.s, hotels, the airlines.

I mean, for crying outloud, if Disney has recognized the power of the gay dollar, I would think that for that alone, California would have passed Prop 8.

In the end, we all get what we deserve and, sometimes, we get what we create. California, if that is the bed you made, I hope you enjoy sleeping in it. For all other states who have passed laws to legally recognize gay marriages, I applaud you!

For all others homophobes who are against gay marriage, please click on the link below so you can see what the future holds for you. It is the youth of the world. And one day they will rebel.

For supporters of gay marriage, I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Please forward if you feel as I do.

Wild Thing: May 1996 - May 15, 2009

2009-05-20T19:36:00.008-04:00

There are many sad things in the world. However, none -- in my opinion -- can compare with the loss of a loved one. Be it a break-up, the death of a friend or family member. Or almost as bad, the passing of a pet.

13 years ago, when I first met my partner, I didn't know that things would last this long. However, I won't bore you with how I feel about him; you can click here and read it for yourself later if you like. As with many couples, both gay and straight, there were and are still, things that drive me crazy, as there are with him; we laugh about these things.

However, the one thing I thought might have been a deal breaker were his kittens: Max and Wild Thing. Not because I don't like cats. But at the time I had a very old cat I knew I would soon have to put down and a few years prior, had put my first one down.

Except that Max and Wild Thing were SOOOOOOOOOO cute! And so tiny! With their little hisses and frantic fits of energy, they were little balls of fur with legs.

Niko had gotten them from a woman he knew in his apartment building in Victoria Park. They apparently kept falling into the pool and she was worried that one day she might not be there to fish them out. So into Niko's apartment they came.

I couldn't say no to them either; especially when it came time for all 4 of us to move-in together. There were no dogs in our lives then.

Plus I have this rule in life. I don't have many but the ones I do I feel pretty passionate about. When an animal comes into your home, you have made a silent oath with the universe to take care of that creature until one of you passes on.

And that's just the way it is. Til death do you part. Yeah, kinda like marriage. I know. But it kind is when you think about it. You might not be exchanging vows or anything like that; but the fierce determination of seeing a relationship through to the end, through thick and thin, demands a certain loyalty and respect of the other that is almost is like marriage.

As time went by, we always joked that their names, from Maurice Sendak's "Where The Wild Things Are," were ironic. Max's personality sort of grew into his name. Wild Thing's did not.

Wild Thing had a temper. He was Alpha which meant he always fought to be first for his food, for water, even to be petted. He loved rubbing himself all over our legs at feeding times (something that always rattled my nerves for some reason). He insisted on supervising you to make sure you gave him enough food and would Meow-Bitch you if you didn't. Plus, he would toss you really dirty looks at times.

He and Emma, our black pug, who is the Alpha of the dogs, never met eye to eye. In fact, I hate to admit, when Wild Thing was particularly ornery this one time, we said, "Get the Kitty!" And for whatever reason, it was Wild Thing Emma went for. She never hurt him; she just chased him around. Sometimes he'd be hiding somewhere and she'd walked by. You'd see a paw pop out of nowhere and bop her, then disappear. We always got a good laugh to see the look on HER face!

At other times, they'd simply have staring matches. The winner usually stood their ground and got to watch the loser slink away.

There were other moments that drove me crazy as well, like the time he looked down at Emma, looked at his food dish, then pushed it over the edge. She stepped out just in time but it shattered to bits on the tile floor. Then there were the times I just KNOW he muttered things under his breath at me when I said no to more food.

And I feel guilty for the very rare times he came to me and I just wasn't in the mood to play with him. Or didn't want to.

Wild Thing was all these things but he was many more, too. He could, at times, be very sweet -- to the point of almost being innocent and kitten-like, even late in life. He was extremely shy; in fact, some people doubted we truly had a second cat at all.

He was a Champion for his brother, though in all fairness, Max was rarely, if ever, chased after by any of the dogs. But they, at least, stuck together; most times. It was heart-warming to see Max & Wild Thing sleeping together. It was also saddening at times that he wouldn't join us in bed, or on the sofa, while watching a movie and all 3 pugs snoring lazily between us, along with Max; while Wild Thing looked on with something like loathing in his eyes. We always invited him, but he just never took to Emma; and held it.

Then one day Niko noticed was wrong. He took Wild Thing to the vet, where they discovered Wild Thing was diabetic and would need insulin shots for the rest of his life. I said, okay, how do we do this? And we did it.

For a while he seemed fine. Wild Thing ate a lot more, drank a lot more, peed a lot more. The litter was changed far more frequently than it ever was or it would stink to high heaven. But otherwise, Wild Thing seemed fine.

Then he started gaining weight. A lot of weight. But he was still fine. Or so we thought.

He seemed to be a lot less social than ever; and he wasn't all that much of a butterfly to begin with. He had more trouble jumping onto things. His eyes seemed to grow cloudy; something I noticed before I left for NYC a few weeks ago.

Subtle things. And still I thought nothing of it.

Then, last Thursday night, when I called Niko before going to bed, I asked about the babies and Wild Thing came up. Apparently he had diarrhea and it had been everywhere as he, apparently, tried to make it to the litter box. He wasn't eating anymore and when the sound of the kibble hitting the bowl didn't pull him out of where ever Wild Thing was hiding, Niko realized something was definitely wrong.

So Niko took Wild Thing to work with him last Friday, May 15. The vets checked him out and . . . well, to make a long story short 'cause I'm having a hard time holding back my tears, he was put down at the Vet's recommendation.

At first, I was upset more for Niko, because I wasn't here for him and he had to go through this alone. Wild Thing was definitely Niko's baby. He had bonded with Niko more than he ever did with me. I guess, like Emma, I just didn't get him and he merely tolerated me because I was part of the package.

But now, the first full day after I've come home, we are down one family member. Although he rarely joined us for group or family stuff (for us gays our pets are our babies since we are not allowed to adopt), there is definitely a very huge void. Strangely, there is also a silence. A very loud silence that actually hurts. The dynamics have all changed.

I guess it will take a little time.

I held Niko last night when I came home. He cried in my arms. And I wanted him to so badly. I need him to. I needed to feel his sorrow. And I will always want him in my arms whether he's crying or not.

But this morning was really difficult.

I got up out of bed and went to feed all the critters. I went to reach for his bowl and it wasn't there. I filled one. Only one cat jumped up on the trunk we have in the kitchen that stores towels and keeps them safe from the dogs eating their food as well. And I broke down for a cat I lived with, fed, changed his litter, for 13 years, yet never really took the time to get to know.

I find myself wishing I had spent more time with Wild Thing, getting to know him better; appreciate him. Listening to his meows (Max rarely meows) and laughing when he got stoned off cat nip. Even petting him and learning how to get over that rubbing thing.

It makes me feel sad for all the Wild Things of the world that people don't get to know because the cats are too shy, or too sensitive, or just too demanding or too vocal.

But one thing does console me. It happened early May, though, when something transpired mentally between us. I remember picking him up and found myself just as startled as he looked. But he let me hold him in my arms, like a baby, and pet his belly.

He was, in my opinion, striking and beautiful. I just wish I had told him more. I think I got it. In the end it's still all about love, acceptance and forgiveness; even with animals.

Wild Thing is survived by his brother, Max, and begrudgingly, sister Emma. Also Trinket and Googie and his still stunned Dads.

Good night, sweet Wild Thing. We will miss you.

The Surreal Life

2008-10-25T22:20:00.006-04:00

It's Saturday night. 10:25 p.m.

And I'm already in bed.

There was a time when I would just be leaving the house at this hour. Instead, I've just popped a Percocet and I'm awaiting the warm fuzzies that will soon approach so I can feel a bit more comfortable and get more rest after what has been a very surreal week; MTV's got nothing on me!

I'm actually improving on a daily basis. In fact, there was even one point when I thought, "Was I really in the hospital? Did I really have surgery? But then my belly itches and I look down and see the half-shaved area. I stand in front of the mirror and look at my still swollen belly (some of it's just fat) and I look at my belly button, and the two other scars they made, one just to the left, the other just below . . . and I think . . . yeah, it really happened. I didn't dream it.

It's amazing how a part of the mind just wants me to forget. And yet, deep down inside I know better.

Things like this, unexpected things, things that could have escalated into something more serious if I hadn't listened to my body, followed my hunch, really make you sit back and take notice.

Life is too short. Waaaaaaaaaay too fucking short. And I started thinking, what if I had not survived? What if I had died? What if I hadn't opened my eyes and simply, just gone away?

Who would get rid of my things? Who would tell my family? My friends? How would my partner have reacted? How would his parents? And what about the rest of his family? Who would take care of the dogs? The cats? Who would help my partner with the bills?

On a good note, we have no children other than the dogs so that's a good thing. But would all these things, including the dogs, then just serve as a reminder of what once was?

These things have been on my mind since that night at the hospital I spent alone, when I kept waking up every few hours for heart monitoring, blood pressure and whatever that thing is they stick on the end of your finger that looks like a metal clothespin.

And then tonight, on the way home from Target . . . yeah, I know what you're thinking; Target on a Saturday night -- woo-hoo . . . two songs played back-to-back on the radio that kinda slammed it all home.

I'm 46. I'm not as young as I used to be. I know it's not old, but it's not young. It just is. And I started wondering about the things I've done, mistakes I've made, things I've yet to experience that I have always wanted to do.

And then I thought, can I change my life? Do I have the power to become something other than what I already am? Do I have the power to bring to fruition, the things I need to make a truly wonderful life for my partner and myself? To share with family and friends experiences we only dream about or talk about?

I mean, the only thing stopping me is me, right? It's not just about money, though it's definitely an insurmountable issue; but is it really?

So I thought about. And though at first I thought, I'll stop this blog and start another. A more positive one, more upbeat. One that, hopefully, will help inspire others to do what they want . . . not with religion or by what I call "churchspeak" . . . but with positive thinking. By making a choice to live more positively. Then I thought, why change it? After all, this is a journal. It's about the path of my life, the detours I've taken, both on my own and with others, some by choice, some not.

And so, hopefully, what will follow, is an evolution of mind just as I feel my heart changing.

Going forward, I hope to bring a more positive outlook to life, my loves, my passions. Oh, I'm sure the soap box will still be there somewhere. I suppose it's inevitable that it stay away forever.

I guess I simply want to bring more peace, love and harmony into my life. Yeah. I know. Sounds like some dippy, hippie shit, doesn't it? Maybe it is. But it's an experiment I'm going to try. Not just for myself, but for my partner and our relationship as two individuals who have formed a family and forged a home; perhaps not the type of family that middle America conceives of as a family, but a family nonetheless.

Ironically, a few days ago I asked Niko about a book that I thought he had. It wasn't the one that I thought I wanted to read but I took it as a sign that perhaps it was the book I NEEDED to read; despite the fact that I've already got 12 other books on my side of the bed, all in various stages of involvement!

The book I'm reading? "It's Not Easy Being Green And Other Things to Consider" by Jim Henson, The Muppets and Friends. Not the kind of book you just sit and read from cover to cover. It's more the kind of book that you absorb as you go.

Some of the messages contained within are very simply and somewhat esoteric, but they've grabbed me. Strangely, I understand that it's about the simple things that make life worth living and experiencing. I will share some as I go in this "variance" from the things I have written about in the past.

Hopefully they will help keep me, and others, inspired to continue on this journey of the surreal life. No. Strike that. My quest for a more peaceful living, a more complete and balanced life.

Yeah. I think I like that better.

P.S. The songs I heard were Toby Keith's "As Good As I Once Was" and Tim McGraw's "Live Like You Were Dying."

Livin' La Vida Extreme

2008-10-23T19:15:00.002-04:00

Livin' La Via Extreme. No, I'm not talking about Ricky Martin shaking his bon bon in my direction; though that would be nice. Nor am I talking about extreme sports, fitness or challenges.

I'm talking extreme living of the roller coaster kind. High peaks and low valleys punctuated by the daily grind. Yes, life this past year has been anything but boring and bland. It's been a study in extremes.

Sure, there have been tedious moments or the routine of getting up in the morning, stumbling down the stairs to feed the dogs and cats and pour my coffee all without killing them or myself in the process. Of course, there's the usual bill paying stuff and grocery shopping, but it's all been a bit more tweaked, more fine-tuned; as if a filter of higher sensitivity has been placed in our living module, thus affording us a bit more awareness.

Unlike life before November of last year, life now has simply been . . . well, more lived, more deeply felt. Not sure if it's the state of the economy, the way I've been perceiving life in general, getting older, or a combination of those things plus other things I'm not yet seeing.

Example: Just a few short days ago I was battling the feelings of riding high from having completed a project, while at the same time, also dealing with the shortsightedness of time and other technical issues. Then, when I was getting ready to write about the things I'd learned this past year, something happened that will help me illustrate the sharp contrast of extremes which has been life as of late.

Tuesday morning about 3 or 4 a.m., I woke up to go to the bathroom and became aware of a dull stabbing in my right side; just under my ribcage. I thought nothing of it. I figured I either had not drank enough water, was constipated, or I ate something that didn't agree with me.

But when I got up several hours later and the feeling had not intensified, but spread to the left side, I began to wonder. I thought I would call in sick but didn't feel right doing it since I was off two days just last week. I talked to Niko about the symptoms and we both agreed I was probably just constipated; it had happened once before and the feelings had been similar.

So, off to work I went; it was about 8:30.

I mentioned it to my Boss when I got to the office a few minutes later. He asked if I still had my appendix. Which I did.

As I tried settling into the day, the sensation grew progressively worse; in fact, it felt as if my insides were on fire. Portions of my intestines felt as if someone were playing a wild Moroccan tune, undulating and bubbling.

Somehow, I managed to walk home after dismissing myself for the day at just after 9 a.m.

Reduced to near tears, with a low fever, and feeling as if I was going to pass out, I realized, this was no ordinary sensation. Something was wrong. I just didn't know what. I tried to calm myself down by focusing only on the moment; but guess what? Focusing on the present, the right here and how is NOT a good idea when what you are experiencing is pain.

Armed with my heating pad, my cell phone, and our three pugs to help keep me warm, I made my way upstairs where I collapsed, with my clothes on, to see if the sensation would subside.

But the heating pad didn't help. In fact it only made matters worse. I called my doctor's office to see if they had any answers to my questions. The voice on the phone . . . MJ? DJ? PJ? . . . said he was no doctor but it sounded as if I needed to go to the hospital. However, he had an opening at 11:30 with my PA, if I wanted it. And a part of me did.

But by the time Niko got home, just after 10:00, I knew that I would not be seeing Dan Brown or anyone else at the Doctor's Office. It was the Hospital ER for me and I knew it. There was no point in fighting it.

My awareness continued to slip from there, due to the pain I was in. I barely remember us getting to the hospital. Somehow I lasted the wait in ER but didn't last 5 minutes in Triage when I threw up after drinking Crystal Light with contrast; the nurse and doctor on duty wanted me to drink the stuff since they thought a Cat Scan was in order.

I won't bore you with the rest because, frankly, I'm not sure I remember much about it. Somewhere along the line I was given morphine for the pain. And some time around 4:00 in the afternoon, or thereafter, after two doses of morphine, two bottles of Crystal Light with contrast, kept down with some anti-naseua stuff (Klonopin maybe?), I had the Cat Scan and was dutifully informed that I was going to be prepped for a laprascopic appendectomy.

By that point, I was riding the morphine drip. He could have told me I was about to be gored by a rhino; I wouldn't have cared.

I was rushed through surgery and before long, found myself waking in a hospital room as if no time had passed.

And now, here I am, at home, released from Broward General yesterday about 4:30 p.m. I have an incision in my belly button, one to the left of it, another to the right. I'm uncomfortable, but nothing compared to what I felt Tuesday. In fact, I'm quite fine if I don't feel anything extreme for a few more days at least!

The light in the room is waning, the ceiling fan is whirring softly and outside I think rain has begun to patter on the leaves in the trees. The dogs are surrounding me and the effect of a Percoset is still trying to claim me so I think I'll leave now and coast for a few hours. Yes. I will be content laying in the valley of a low moment while somewhere outside, I'm sure, another extreme moment awaits me.

A World Wide Plea

2008-10-10T22:13:00.006-04:00

In my life, music, movies and theatre play a very key role. In fact, when someone says almost anything, I am frequently reminded of a line from a song, a quote from a movie, or a character’s expletive from a Broadway show. Perhaps it is because these forms of entertainment were instrumental in allowing me to escape, mentally, the realities of my childhood, growing up on food stamps and welfare; even if only for a little while.

Because of my penchant to escape through music, movies and theatre, especially when times are difficult, is probably the reason why I am hearing Shirley Bassey in my head, with The Propellerheads, singing “History Repeating.”

And I can’t help but think that it is because of what is happening now, in our lives, in our collective moment in time.

I am no historian. In fact, as a child, I never even liked history. I found it dull and rather boring. Once, in elementary school, I even asked our teacher why we needed to learn history. Wasn’t it more important to learn about the present and think about the future?

A very shocked Ms. Wynn looked at me, her eyes got a bit buggy at the audacity of my question and she responded.

“The reason why we must learn history is so that we NEVER repeat it.”

Perhaps she was just boring at teaching what had already passed. Looking back, though, I cannot imagine that was the case as she was one of the most passionate teachers I had in elementary school. So I’m thinking perhaps it was just the mind of child that couldn’t be preoccupied with things that happened prior to my birth. After all, they didn’t really affect me, why should I learn about it?

As I’ve grown older, I find history actually quite fascinating; especially if taught by someone who has a passion for it. They can make you relive it, feel it, embrace it. A professor in college made me feel as if I was there, on a slave ship, hearing the clank of iron and feel the shackles at my wrists and feet when teaching us about one of the most luridly disgusting times in our country’s infancy.

If a writer is good at turning his phrases and using words, he can make you feel it as well.

And, of course, movies can also transport you into an entirely different realm just by the sheer imagination and talent of the director, actors, writers and editors.

But here’s the tricky thing about history; and here is also where another song comes to mind. This time from the Broadway show Wicked, when the Wizard says to Elpheba, “Where I’m from, we believe all sorts of things that aren’t true. We call it – history.”

Regardless of whether history repeats itself or if it is a matter of perspective, there is no doubt that we are living in very dangerous times. Times, I might add, that are repeating themselves.

In October of 1929, only 79 years ago, the Wall Street stock market collapsed. It sent not only our country into a depression, but the entire world. One of the more vulnerable countries was Germany, due to their large amounts of loans and dependency on foreign trade.

Out of the rubble rose Hitler.

Hitler told the people what they wanted to hear. But first, he went to the German President and asked him to invoke Article 48 of the German constitution. This gave emergency powers to the president to rule by decree.

Is this starting to sound familiar?

The Germans, tired of the political haggling in Berlin; tired of misery, tired of suffering, tired of weakness, were willing to listen to anyone.

But of course, there had to be an enemy. Someone to blame for the horrible things that had happened to Hitler's beloved country.

And guess what happened next?

Over 6 million Jews, supporters of Jews, the physically and mentally disabled, along with the uncounted amounts of homosexuals fell victim to the atrocities we now know of as "The Holocaust."

I believe these events are happening again. Only this time, here in our country. Our investment firms and banks are failing or have failed while the CEOs of the huge corporation reap the rewards of the thousands, if not millions, of laborers across our great, sad nation. They are walking away scott free, while our government condones it. If any of you lost money because of Enron, you know what I'm talking about.

And yet we sit idly by.

Now the government, OUR government, wants to buy and invest in American banks. Bail out investment firms. Some will tell you that this will help save the economy. It may.

But I have a fear.

My fear is that when you leave the door to your house unlocked, a thief could come in. And I'm afraid the thieves have not only come in, they are taking everything they can; including our souls. No one is safe.

First the American government will take control of the banks. And then, we had best watch our step because the media will be next. Newspapers and television states will be broadcasting only those things the government WANTS us to hear!

And then, only whatever semblance of God or human decency remains is the only thing that will save us.

But all is not lost.

As a registered Democrat with strong Socialist tendencies, I am now making a plea to you. For everything that you hold near and dear to your hearts, do not let the Republican party take over for a 3rd term. I beseech you. I beg of you. Please.

McCain is a walking zombie. There is virtually no expression in his beady little eyes. I believe him to be a puppet of the Bush administration. And Palin, who knows next to nothing, is Eliza Doolittle; Pygmalion. She is simply the Republican party's carrot, thrust unto the American people while the current administration continues their policies and strip us bare of all that has made this incredible nation what it once was.

Now, I don't know much about politics, but I can see patterns; and the ones that I see here are not only frightening, they make my blood turn cold.

And just what do I see before me? The road to perdition.

I see a world where we will all live in fear. A great nation, once made strong by the many differences within it, including the paradoxes and contrasts, both beautiful and sometimes ugly, all come crumbling and crashing around us. Terrorism will not be squashed. It will never be eradicated in any way, shape or form. In fact, the only thing that we can count on, is that acts of terrorism will continue to occur. Atrocites from within our very own government, will rear their ugly head and by then it will be too late. We will be living a replica of the movie, "Vendetta."

Our country is in desperate need of a revolution, in desperate need of a new leader. And of course, now I'm hearing the Beatles in my head sing "Revolution."

Because desperate times call for desperate measures, I implore you to drop the blinders, drop the trivial, and see what is before you. Force yourself to truly see with your heart, and not the words that someone else has fed you and still continues to feed you.

If you're as pissed off as I am, make a stand. Let others know. We MUST take back control of our politics and our country. Let it be, once again, a government of the people, by the people, for the people. Organize. Protest. Write letters, sing songs, hold hands. Hell, march if you have to!

Invoke the spirit of our forefathers, rebel against the establishment in your own way. Let's all meet at the Mall; and I don't mean for shopping! I'm talking about the one in Washington, D.C. Let's meet there and just drop out. Where are the Leary's of the Woodstock era? Where is Bob Dylan? Where are the singers? The song writers? The ones who organized us and led us through the 60s?

I do not see a bright, sunny future for all of us unless we act now. Do . . . SOMEthing. Anything. Don't just sit there. Make your voice be heard. Let the politicians know how you feel. Join the ACLU and other organizations who can help us rally and topple the current administration so that we may face, together, a better and brighter future and start, "Walking On Sunshine." Yes. Like Katrina and The Waves.

And for those who are just coming of age, those in their 20s who are into partying and drinking beer and screwing anything that moves or think that there are easy, fast ways to make money and that it is best to simply roll over, remember what Professor Dumbledore said to Harry Potter. "The time has come to choose between what is right, and what is easy."

May whatever universal power you believe in protect us all.

$135.74

2008-10-06T21:36:00.004-04:00

My partner and I went grocery shopping today after work. We didn't buy a lot of things as we have just started the South Beach Diet. It's worked well for us before and since we've both put on a little weight we decided to try it again.

For those of you who haven't been on the South Beach diet or don't know about it, it's a bit of a challenge. The first two weeks you're mostly allowed only proteins. No carbs at all, such as rice and bread. Juice and fruit are out, as are carrots, sweet potatoes and even tomatoes. You have to retrain your mindset on the things you can eat and you force yourself to focus on that rather than the things that you can't.

So we're in Publix, our local chain supermarket. We bought some salad greens, sugar free Jell-o, sugar free puddings, cheeses, soy milk, beans, some Crystal Light and lots of frozen veggies. We picked up a few cans of tuna, dog food, Splenda, Pledge, some protein bars, mushrooms and several types of meat and fish. All in all, not a lot of food or anything extraneous. If we're lucky, the amount of food we bought will last us one week. Let me repeat that. One week. And we spent $135.74.

I never thought I would see the day when I, like my mother and grandmother before her, would be standing at the cash register saying, "I remember when." I swore I would never become that. Things change! Everything goes up.

But CHRISTALMIGHTY!!!! THIS much? And we're two people with no kids! What about the parents with children? For that matter, what about single parents? And what of the elderly who are on even more of a fixed income than WE are???

I'm incensed and appalled that our nation has gotten to the point that it has. It is absolutely revolting and disgusting. The political leaders in this country should all be strung up, lined up, and FORCED to work for minimum wage. They should be FORCED to live on a budget. They should be FORCED to work for a corporation and have to kow-tow to the bosses and stuck in a job that they don't like simply because they are working for medical insurance. They should be FORCED to live just like everybody else.

I'm sick and tired of all these filthy politicians making rules for the masses, living like parasites off the taxes WE pay, and lieing through their fucking teeth about . . . well, EVERYTHING!

Starting with the most local of commissioners, although they are probably closest to mainstream America and the aches and pains we feel, then continuing all the way up to the son-of-a-bitch who calls himself the "P" word; the man who stole office not once but TWICE! The idiot moron who has driven our country so far down the fucking toilet it'll take a hell of a lot more than Roto-Rooter, a plumber's snake and the entire Drano factory.

I can't wait for the madness of King George to end. The fascist dictator pig should be strung up by his balls. I pray to a God I'm not sure exists anymore, that we never honor Bush in any way shape or form, the way we have with Nixon, Reagan and other dead former "P" people who all of a sudden, just because they have died, are instant saints and everyone wants to canonize.

How stupid do they think we are? Exactly how bad IS our short-term memory as a nation? As a people?

Well, apparently quite stupid if they are feeding us McCain and Palin. Even dumber if we allow the Republican party to continue to destroy what I was always taught to believe was the greatest nation on Earth.

I'd like to see, not just Palin and McCain, but all the other politicians on BOTH sides, fighting to pay bills and struggling to put food on the table. I would really love to force them to look at our nation's poor, the civil rights they are stripping us of, yet touting Democracy in other countries we have no right to be in.

The problem is, that kind of change will never happen. The kind of change I want to see will be nothing short of a revolution.

I truly hope people wake up soon. I hope we realize that words don't pay the rent. Words, as important as they may be, don't put food on the table, they don't feed your kids, they don't pay your doctor bills, your medication. They don't pay for your gas. They don't put gifts under the tree at Christmas. YOU do.

So if you want to continue struggling, barely scraping enough money to get buy, let alone get ahead, go ahead, keep believing the false prophets and their false words. Frankly, with all that we have allowed and put up with . . . considering the state of our country, our economy, our great nation . . . our planet . . . I'm surprised that anyone can sleep comfortably at night.

Especially the politicians and lawmakers that have led us to where we are now.

Pissed off? You bet. Disgusted? Absolutely!

Aren't you?

Seriously. What else has to happen before you stand up and say "I've had enough and I'm not going to take it anymore?" How many more jobs have to be lost? How many more people have to die because they have no insurance and we have a tired, overburdened bureacracy that just doesn't care? How many hurricanes have to blow before the privileged few are FORCED to look at the poverty that exists in our own backyards and start fixing the things that broken and no longer work?

Wake up people! We are not battling these things as one single ethnic group, as men or women, as straight or gay, as one religion pitted against the other. We are ALL fighting these things TOGETHER. As one planet.

We must stand up and say something because if we don't, as Ben Franklin said, "We shall surely hang together." And personally, I can already feel the noose tightening ever more.

All of this just because my partner and I spend $135.74 for barely one week worth of groceries.

Signs

2008-09-28T22:06:00.003-04:00

I know what you’re going to think as you read this. At first you’ll think, why do I want to read this? But curiosity will get the better of you.

And then you’ll think I’m crazy. You’re probably right. Even I am doubting my own sanity and whether what I see truly happened, or if it was a hallucination as my partner says it was.

And now you'll think, "AHA! So there are drugs involved!" Well, there was a brownie involved. A rather large chunk of special brownie I might add.

So then you’ll keep reading because you might just be curious enough to find out what happens next. And when this is all over, you’ll have one of several reactions. You’ll either believe me or you won’t. You’ll think it was a hallucination and so what?

If you believe me, and I hope you do, then you just might find yourself here with me, understanding what I’m talking about. However, if you don’t and move on, that’s okay, too. What will happen will happen regardless of what you do. That's dangerous.

More dangerous still is this: what if you believe me and then decide that I’m dangerous? That I should be locked up? That for the better of humanity and all that is supposedly "American" and "Patriotic" and "for the right of the people" that I should simply not speak? Not be heard?

And that this should not be seen or read?

All I ask is that you keep an open mind. Try and put whatever you were taught, by your parents, your teachers, your neighbors, away in a box, just . . . brush it aside. Everything you’ve ever known about religion or God or the afterlife and what might be beyond. Don't think with your mind, but with your heart, the very core of your soul that is embedded in your very DNA; that part of you that is still very much connected to the Earth we come from but that you have buried and chosen not to look at.

Now, before I take the next step, there is something you must know, I am not a religious man. Not by any stretch of the imagination. I believe there is . . . something. I believe something keeps watch, but not for judgement. That, we do ourselves.

What is "out there" exists only to keep watch, so that we can continue in the way we are supposed to; interfering only when they absolutely must. To bring us back and align us to what our original goals were before we came here to this world. Before we were born. When we agreed.

Yeah. I know. Crazy. Totally. Like the Mad Hatter.

But let's suppose, for just a moment, that there are signs all around us; some subtle, easy to miss, some a bit more palpable, such as a message in the song you're listening to, the movie you watched last night, or your favorite television show, where you stopped channel surfing because something caught your attention and spoke to your heart. Or maybe there's a sign in the book you're reading.

Sometimes even these little signs, barely noticeable, are easy to dismiss as coincidences. But what if they're not?

What if the signs are there to show us the way, point us in the right direction? What if these signs are here to remind us of what we are here to do with our lives. What if these signs were real and you stopped to observe them? Would you take them seriously?

“What if,” like Joan Osborne sings in that song, “God was one of us?”

Remember. I told you. I’m not a religious man.

The signs are there. They have always been there. The trouble is, you either cannot see them, choose not to see them, or disbelief and go against your hunch.

You're not alone. We've all been there. We've all ignored the signs and paid for it dearly afterward. And we just say to ourselves, "If only . . ."

By now you’re asking yourself, “Where the hell is this going? What is up with this guy? Why am I even bothering to read this shit?” But you know the answer to that.

You’ve been just as troubled as I have been.

The signs increase in urgency if we ignore them for too long. And that is what we have done. We've ignored everything we have ever seen or felt, and believe the lies which we have been fed. Now, the signs are too obvious to overlook.

Our climate.
The state of our nation.
Our economy.
Our freedoms.
Our ability to choose and be freethinkers.
The earthquakes and other natural disasters.

We have been poisoned and continue to be poisoned. And we continue to allow it.

Sounds like a conspiracy theory, doesn't it? Sounds like one of those fantastical Hollywood movies where death and destruction bring about the fall of our nations, the fall of man, and animal, kind.

Life, as we know it, will all come to a crashing, cataclysmic, grinding halt.

That’s right. Everything will be gone and destroyed.

But what if you could stop all that? Would you do it? What if all you had to do for life to continue, was to do one simple thing that your loved one told you to do? Something they either hallucinated or perhaps -- remember you must keep an open mind -- perhaps they really channeled a message to you?

Now you’re thinking I’m crazy. Or that I’ve been watching too much television. Reading too many books, sitting in the dark watching too many movies.

Maybe I have. But the signs . . . they're all there. The time's come and we must do something. We can't just pretend that what we do has no consequence to the next person, nature, the world. The Universe.

Again I know what you're thinking. Even as they scream at their most urgent, the signs are still easy to push aside as insanity or the result of a hallucinogenic. But what it it isn't? What if there are some of us who can really feel what is at hand?

And what if I were to tell you there is an answer? A simple one.

Now here is where it gets really tricky. Here is where I will either lose you entirely and you’ll decide to click on that porno link or TMZ or Perez Hilton or some other tripe with absolutely no substance because like everyone else, you've been brainwashed to believe that the lives of those you read is far more important than you're own.

But if you believe that this "bullshit" is actually going somewhere, then please, read on. I need you to come with me even further.

What if a loved one, someone whom you have lived with for, say, nearly 13 years; someone who, hopefully, you love just as much as you love life. Or as you love yourself. Someone you would take a bullet for.

What if that person told you what you needed to do to save not only them, but yourself, your relationship and, in short, save the future of the entire planet and thus the entire universe with all it’s many layers?

Just by following a few simple rules that may or may not have been a hallucination.

Exactly what the rules are do not matter right now. I cannot tell you what they are anyway. Not at the moment. They were meant for one person and one person only. But he does not believe me. The future of our world rests in his hands and I don't think he believes me or will do anything about it.

You see, just like Dumbledore said to Harry Potter at the end of book 5, "Soon we must decide between what is right, and what is easy."

And I just need to know that I’m not crazy.

I really believe that what this one person chooses to do or not do, will alter the course of not just our planet, but the entire universe with it's billions of life forms and entities of all kinds.

I need to know how to persuade him, or the world WILL cease to exist. It's already near the brink. But it's not too late.

There is no, “That depends on what you want me to do.”

There is no, “What are you talking about?”

You either believe me or you don’t. You either understand or you don’t. You will either do it . . .

. . . or you won’t.

And then the world will end. Sooner than you think.

No. This is not fiction. It truly isn't. So please . . . come with me in the next installment. I really need someone to believe me. This was not a hallucination. I felt it, saw it. It was quite clear. There were too many specifics. Too many comments from entities all saying the same thing over and over and over. There were too many of them and they took great pains in getting here to warn him. Through me.

They risked much to tell one person what needed to be done. And that person is not listening. He does not believe me. I think . . . no, I know, he thinks I’m crazy. But he doesn’t want to talk about it anymore.

So I must tell someone else.

Again . . . I need someone to believe me. And better still, explain it to me when this retelling of my experience is over and I might understand what it's about.

I know you’re out there. I can hear you.

And I can feel you.

Disney Vacation: Day 2, Part One -The Park Formerly Known As MGM Studios

2008-07-24T18:42:00.006-04:00

Friday evening, 6:26 p.m.

We are now back in the hotel room. Niko is laying in bed watching Reba on Lifetime and I’m sipping my coffee and writing my blog entry.

After breakfast at the hotel cafeteria, our first destination was MGM Hollywood Studios. Oops! Excuse me. Disney’s Hollywood Studios. This is the park with Mickey’s large, cobalt blue sorceror’s hat as the centerpiece. The park itself is designed to capture the romanticism, spirit and glam of Hollywood’s Golden Age.

One of the most amazing things to me about Disney, aside from their dedication to service, is their attention to detail, detail, detail. And since the devil, they say, is in the details then Disney must be the King of Demons! Even now, as I think about it, I realize that out of all the pictures I took, nothing will do it justice. It's one of those places that simply must be experienced. Though I will certainly add photos to this entry, at the end of this piece will be a movie clip to give you a better idea of what it's like here.

And trust me when I tell, Disney is NOT paying me to write this!

I love it here, though. I would love to live here. Period. Okay, maybe not live here but perhaps an overextended stay at the hotels for about a month. That includes the parks since I’m a Park Junkie!

The wait for the “Hollywood Tower of Terror” was close to 90 minutes. So we decided to take the Fast Pass and return at the appropriate time. In fact, I will recommend, at all parks, Fast Pass it whenever possible for the more popular rides.

We walked around through the shops. We went to a Narnia “pseudo-ride” where we saw a specially edited, extended trailer for “Prince Caspian” and some props from the movie.

Then we went to the new Toy Story 3-D ride which was loads of fun. You sit in this little buggy type thing with 3-D glasses and shoot at an animated range. But the buggy doesn’t sit still. You’re at one location for like, maybe, a minute. Then you’re whisked along to another shooting range. Lots of fun!

Another ride we did at Hollywood Studios was “The Great Movie Ride.” The outside is done like Graumman's Theatre in L.A. Like many of the other rides, we've gone on this one before. Although they haven't changed it in a few years, it's another one of my favorites. You sit in an open-top trolley-like thing and you get pulled along from one movie set to another. If you get a tour guide that isn’t very exciting then the ride can be a bit dull. But if you get a good one, even when they’re corny, it makes the ride much more fun. The clip at the bottom of this blog entry will give you a taste for what it's like. It will also give you a clue on one of my favorite movies. And if you can't figure it out, I'll give you a hint: I'm a friend of Dorothy's.

And, of course, no trip to Disney’s Hollywood Studios would be complete without a visit to “The Muppets.” This is a 3-D movie and you sit in a pseudo-theatre to be a part of their usual Mayhem.

Lunch was at the "Brown Derby" and the food here was delicious! This is the second time we've eaten here and both times not only was the service impeccable, but everything they served was extraordinarily delicious. Even the dessert was a work of art!

Hint about food and restaurants: it's expensive here. I would highly reccomend one of the Disney Dining Plans. And another feature you want to take advantage of: Reservations!

For now, though, I'm signing off. I'm going to take a nap and rest up because tonight we're going to The Magic Kingdom!

Disney Vacation: Day 1

2008-07-22T21:53:00.004-04:00

Friday, July 18, 2008

It’s 8:34 a.m. We’re just beginning to stir.

We took our time yesterday in getting up here. The cast recording to Mamma Mia and Wicked were our travel companions. Even with a stop at one of the service stations for a bathroom break and to stretch our legs, we still walked into our room at the All Star Music Resort at 3:30.

The All Star Music is one of Disney’s “value” resorts; polite parlance for no-frills. The decorative theme here is anything and everything musical. We’ve stayed here many times before. Once, just to see how it would compare, we stayed at the Pop Century. Even though we liked the fun, decade-oriented decor, we opted to come back to the All Star Music. The layout here appeals more to us, it’s much less crowded, and the rooms are less noisy here.

The All Star Music Resort has a total of 10 buildings, each with it’s own theme: country, rock, jazz, calypso, and Broadway. Guess which one we’re staying at?

We always ask for the Broadway section. It's a bit further away from the lobby; especially after a day when we hit two parks and our feet are so tired they're burning, but it's worth the trip because it's away from the noisy pool which remains open until midnight.

After we rested for a bit, we hopped the bus to Downtown Disney to meet up with Larry (a co-worker), and his new boyfriend. We had dinner at Raglan Road, an Irish pub/restaurant that we absolutely love. They have terrific appetizers, great food and a fun atmosphere; especially when the band starts to play!

It was wonderful to see Larry again. He’s one of those people that you can’t help but like the instant you meet him. Warm, friendly and approachable with a smile that will melt anyone’s heart. We don’t get to see him often so when we do we like to make the most of it. Larry, if you guys are reading this, thanks again. We had a terrific time!

After dinner we hopped on the bus (one of the best things about staying on Disney property!) and came back to the hotel. As exhausted as I was, I couldn’t sleep. But that tends to happen whenever I’ve done a lot of stuff in one day. It’s as if my mind needs the time to absorb and process everything I’ve seen and experienced before I can finally shut down.

And now, it's time to get ready. We're going to MGM Hollywood Studios shortly.

Niko's gone to get us breakfast, and me some coffee. Can you imagine? Niko, who is the antithesis to coffee as I am to . . . well, collecting stuff . . . so to say that he's getting me coffee is no small thing. I guess maybe this place truly is magical!

Mickey Mouse, Music, M&Ms, and Mamma Mia . . . mmmmm

2008-07-21T22:00:00.003-04:00

This blog entry, though posted today, Monday, July 21st, was originally written Thursday morning, July 17, while Niko and I were driving north on vacation to Disney World. I was hoping to not only share with those who read the blog and have never been to Disney, but also for myself so I can read it at a later date, when it no longer felt as if we had actually gone there. Mind you, we've been there 7 or 8 times in the 12 years we've been together. I find, though, when you take pictures and write about it, that's when you truly remember the experience.

So, without further much ado, the first of various entries concerning our vacation. I hope you like it.

It’s Thursday morning, July 17, 2008. Like Muslims in the Middle East making their pilgrimage to Mecca, Niko and I are traveling north to the Land of Mickey Mouse and the Magic Kingdom.

The first part of our trip to Disney started off a bit wonkey, though. I woke up with a headache that is due either to barometric pressure and a storm headed our way, or perhaps ear wax build-up; it’s happened before. Add to that (I apologize ahead of time if I’m being gross) the fact that once I actually got up and out of bed I couldn’t stop going to the bathroom. It was like I was saving it up for days! Of course it doesn’t help that I went to bed at 1:00 a.m. because, like the little kid in the Disney commercial, I was too excited to sleep!

An hour and a half after we originally intended, we finally managed to get out of the house. There was a quick stop at CVS to pick up my ear was removal kit, Einstein's for coffee and a couple of breakfast sandwiches, and we were finally on the road.

Right now we are traveling north on the turnpike and it’s just a little past noon.

When taking a road trip, one of our favorite things to do is pack the CD case with music. Show tunes to be precise. As many show tunes as we can play in the car. It makes the trip more fun, no matter where we’re going, and puts us in a mental vacation mode.

Presently, we’re listening to the cast recording of "Mamma Mia." And you know? There were portions that illuminated me as though I had never heard the words before.

Now, you make ask yourself: “What illumination can you possibly derive from ABBA?”

Even in the fluffy, bubble gum, pop way that ABBA’s music is delivered in Mamma Mia, there are certain universal truths. And when a certain truth rings within me it rocks me to the very core. I get all goose pimply, my breath might catch and my eyes tear-up; as if I am recognizing a life lesson that I have long since forgotten and have just now reacquainted myself with it.

For instance: “I Have A Dream.”

There’s a line that says “If you see the wonder, of a fairy tale, you can face the future, even if you fail.”

I never really thought about it before but in a way our lives are a bit like a fairy tale with all the things we do, the strange encounters, the beautiful things we see and the joys we experience. And even if fail at something, the very fact that we try is wondrous. At least, that’s how it appears to me. And how appropriate to guide us to Disney World; the very land of Fairy Tales!

Then there’s “Thank You For The Music.”

There’s a line that says “Who found out that nothing can capture a heart, like a melody can?”

Again, I’ve listened to this disc a million times. I’ve always been grateful for music as it is the most perfect art form. But the bit about capturing a heart with melody struck me so brilliantly because that is exactly what happens. A piece of your soul is captured with the nuance of a melody. So I say, yes, thank you for the music!

I have seen “Mamma Mia” (the musical) three times now. And I’m sure I’ll see it again. Naturally, I’m also looking forward to seeing the movie. I know it will be just as much fun as the musical and the music. Mind you, I love to see a dark, deep-thinking movie that makes me numb and puts me in a funk. But I also love light and fluffy.

As far as Mamma Mia goes, you can’t get any lighter and fluffier. The difference between this light and fluffy, however, is that like Mickey Mouse, music, the M&Ms I’m eating as I write this, Mamma Mia reminds us that even through the myriad and mayhem of life experiences, there is fun to be had. No matter what.

So, what’s the wonder in your life? Mine is as simple as the ability to wake up in the morning. And although I might not be actually living in a fairy tale, that’s okay. The fairy tale is in visiting Mickey Mouse, letting the M&Ms melt in my mouth, listening to music that takes me to a different place and letting myself get swept off my feet by the fun and levity of Mamma Mia and other musicals.

Besides, how boring would life be if we all lived happily ever after? Now, making it up as we go along . . . what can be more of a fairy tale than that? Oh, wait. That's right. Going to Disney World where, or so they say, dreams come true.

Independence Day, or . . . What Freedom Means To Me

2008-07-04T20:39:00.003-04:00

Before you read this blog, I am placing a disclaimer. If you are a politician, conservative, republican, white supremacist, supporter of any of those already mentioned or any other form of member to any party or religion that does not allow the diffference of another race, religion, culture, or sexual orientation to be recognized, I strongly recommend and urge you to leave now.

You have been warned.

As a child, I never liked Independence Day. Now wait. Before you go calling me un-American, hear me out.

As a kid, Independence Day meant nothing to me. It was just another day revolving around a whole lot of loud stuff that went boom. And growing up in a Puerto Rican household, in the East New York section of Brooklyn, I didn’t understand the need or desire for those loud things that went boom. Maybe it was my upbringing and the culture. Or maybe it was the fact that on Independence Day, the people in my predominantly black ghetto neighborhood of Brownsville, could only get their hands on cherry bombs, firecrackers, and M80s. Either way, even as a child I didn’t understand how blowing up someone’s car, scaring the crap out of someone and possibly losing a couple of fingers in the process, was supposed to be celebratory or fun or even connected with a day that had so much significance.

Until I got older and history repeated itself.

And I’m thinking that maybe we, as a society, have forgotten what it’s all about. Independence Day has gotten lost in the shuffle. It's become the 4th of July, just . . . another day off; for most of us. Oh, sure the fireworks have become more sophisticated and prettier to look at but many have forgotten what it's all about. Independence Day is not about the loud things that go boom. It’s not even about the pretty things that explode in the air and make you go oooohhh and aaaaahhhh.

It’s about telling someone that you’ve had enough of their tyranny and you’re not going to take it anymore.

Indepence Day is about the simple act of a very young country telling King George that they had had enough of taxation without representation; enough of the British military knocking on your door and demanding to be housed and fed or you would be accused of treason to the Crown. Enough of the British police smashing through your door and arresting you . . . just because. Enough of the British and The East India Tea Company charging so much for something Americans had grown to like and depended on.

Any of this sounding familiar?

Thousands, if not millions, of bold and courageous men and women who dared to stand up in unison and tell King George to simply fuck off because we were tired of wire tapping, slowly being stripped of civil rights, getting screwed over by fat cats who charged triple for gas, something we all need, while the richer get richer and the poor get poorer with no hope in sight of national health plans to help millions of American men women and children and . . .

Oh, wait. I’m sorry. For a minute there my mind merged and the past 232 years disappeared. My bad.

Maybe, just maybe, it’s time for another revolt. Time to declare war on the political machine and tell them that we’re tired of their tyranny and lies and want our Indepence. No, not with guns and cannons or sparklers, but with words.

The old fashioned way.

Join the ACLU or Working Assets or any other activist group you support. Protest in your own way. Donate money if you can’t organize with them and raise banners or picket sings.

Write your Congress person. Tell them that you’re tired of having religion crammed down our throat; after all, it’s a choice, not a mandate. Wasn’t this country founded by people in pursuit of religious freedom? I’d like to think that by the same token we are free to pursue the lack of religion; after all, too many people have died at the hands of others because of religion.

Actually our country was founded because the prisons and poor houses of England were overflowing with people who had been arrested for protesting against the King and good old Georgie, tired of hearing his people, traitors that they were, how dare they, complain about him.

So, tell your representatives that you live in fear of losing you’re job because it’s going to be shipped out of the country. Tell them you’re tired of being hungry and not having enough money to get by and pay your bills. Tell them you’re tired of getting deeper and deeper into dark pits where the sun doesn’t shine. That you’re tired of our tiny, beautiful little planet being used, and pillaged and plundered. Don’t be afraid to ask for a National Health Plan! In one of the richest countries in the world there is no reason why thousands of people of all ages and from all walks of life, should die each year because they cannot get the health services and medicine they need.

Stand up for your right to marry, or not; to hold hands in public without fear of being killed; to be able to walk down the street and not worry about how you look at someone because now they have the right to shoot you if they think you looked at them cross-eyed.

I don’t mean to paint a grim picture. After all, we are very lucky. For the most part. We could be living in Iran or Iraq. But guess what? There are still several hundreds of thousands of people who still go to sleep hungry each night, do not have a roof over their head, do not know how they will survive one more day. And some day, if we’re not careful, it could be you.

Remember what Ben Franklin said, and please forgive my paraphrasing as I cannot remember the exact words. “We must stand together because if we do not, we shall surely hang together.”

I hope we remember over this 3-day weekend, as many of us enjoy time off from work and attend pool parties, barbeques, get-togethers with friends, that this freedom we enjoy is not a guarantee. We can wake up one day and it will all be gone because freedom, the choice to do pretty much anything you want, at almost any time, is the true meaning of Independence Day.

And freedom is something we must fight for. Not in another country pretending we’re fighting for democracy. But in our hearts, our minds, and yes, even in our souls. Some of us every day, some of us only every few years, when the embodiment of good old King George and his administration decide to take over again.

Remember that this government, our government, is of the people, by the people, for the people, and not just for the select few who are in the minority, making rules they can wiggle out of, but affect all of us. Perhaps our political figures should be wise and remember that the very guns they are fighting to allow are the very guns that can turn against them.

Now, in the words of the immortal Mork, “Fly! Be free!”

Go celebrate your Independence and your freedom; blog . . . and spread the word!

One Week and Two Days Later

2008-06-22T08:07:00.002-04:00

This post was originally written this past Friday, June 20, 2008.

So here I am once again, sitting at Starbucks, sipping on my still too hot Venti Pike Place Roast. It’s 8:09 a.m. and I’m due at work in less than an hour when I would rather be sleeping. I’ve been doing a lot of that since I got back from NYC.

I’m trying desperately to catch that same vibe I picked up on when I was there. The energy, the “real” weirdness rather than the faux, affected people I keep running across here in Fort Lauderdale. There’s some real weirdos, mind you, but the concentration is far less and much less effective. But it’s not even that. There’s a lot less people which only magnifies how annoying some people are. Like the guy sitting at the table next to me waving hello to everyone, laughing out loud, regaling everyone with his opinions and how he didn’t have enough money to get his second boat because of the market being so bad, blah, blah, fucking blah. WHO CARES????? SHUT THE FUCK UP, ASSHOLE!!!!

Jeez. I just can’t seem to get back with it. I feel . . . like I shark that’s stopped moving and is now slowly sinking to the bottom of the ocean floor. My mind is numb, my spirit dulled and my brain feels like it’s got cotton stuffed in the grooves and wrinkles.

Oh, fuck. Now the asshole has accumulated another loudmouth. No wait, there’s a 3rd who looks and sounds like Mr. Drummond!

I spoke with my mom last night. She is back home after surgery. After much debate and worrying and talking, she chose to go with the mastectomy rather than the removal of more tissue, radiation, and the possibility, years from now, that the cancer could come back to ravage her. It makes me wonder if I would be as brave as her if I were ever diagnosed with testicular cancer.

She’s in good spirits. When I spoke with her yesterday my cousin Noemi was with her as was my sister Gisela, and my nephew Chris. And mom was going to watch her telenovelas. Always a good sign! The rehabilitation will be difficult for her, though. At least I think it will be.

The stay at the hospital was, apparently, a horror. But then again, Coney Island Hospital appears to be the kind of place where you go to die. It’s oppressive and the people who work there don’t seem to care or know what they’re doing. The doctors who worked with my mom were good; she was very happy with both the surgeon who removed the breast as well as the plastic surgeon who did the reconstructive surgery. But the staff and administration leave a lot to be desired. They were supposed to have a room for but didn’t. Instead, they left her in the recovery room. They didn’t even have any pillows! I know hospitals are not hotels, but, come on! Not one pillow in the whole fucking place?

They pumped her full of morphine in order to get her to sleep but it caused her to throw up repeatedly. And, unfortunately, while throwing up, she peed herself from the force. The nurses were apparently very slow in getting her cleaned up and since she couldn’t really do it herself, she laid in it.

My frustration is and was immense. I find myself wishing I had been there, that I hadn’t left. But they jerked us around so much during the 6 weeks I was there. And then, the day before I was scheduled to leave, during the last appointment, the surgeon could not give us a definitive date because he needed to confer with the plastic surgeon. The “it could be’s” did me in and after talking about it with my supervisor, we both agreed it would be best if I came back to work at the Lauderdale office. This is the first time I wish I had not listened. But that’s all now over and I guess I just have to put it out of my mind. If my mom can do it, then so can I.

And now, I’m afraid I must end this rambling because I can’t take sitting here anymore. The lead asshole loudmouth has now accrued another 4 people; one of them a woman, and I can’t stand to listen to the verbal diarrhea of the ahem, non-ethnic people (a minority really) bitch and moan about their lack of money and yet talk about boats and Mercedes and Lexus and Porsche and all these things that conflict with their supposed lack of money. Oh and let me not forget the audacious comment, in a how dare he tone, about how Obama wants to put this tax on people who make all this money. Fucking bastards. Maybe they should be the ones left at Coney Island Hospital to lie in a pool of their own piss and vomit. Let’s see how quickly they’re humbled.

Don’t get me wrong. I don’t hate the privileged. Envious to a degree, perhaps, but I don’t hate them. It’s the ones that have the attitude that they deserve, the attitude that anyone outside their social circle is far less than they, the attitude that they are the chosen and the righteous that piss me off.

I love people with money who have no pretensions. They’re just people who happen to have money. When I come across that, it’s refreshing and delightful and, because I established a relationship with them as a regular human being first, the money is usually not an issue. Not that I know that many people with money, mind you.

But it’s the people with money who are loud about it, rub it in your face and . . . ugh! They make me so fucking angry I can’t even find the right words!!

Let me close my eyes a moment and breath. Like Gary said, "Have you meditated today?"

Heavy sigh.

Life, I’m noticing, in all it’s beauty, richness and grandeur, contains so many injustices. There are the prvileged and pampered who can afford to have people cater to their every whim. And then there’s the rest of us, swaddled in pampers with no one to change us. Fuck.

Leaving New York - Part 2

2008-06-14T10:49:00.002-04:00

The second leg of my journey back to Fort Lauderdale today was challenging, though fairly uneventful; nothing like this morning!

After saying my goodbyes to various people and sending out a general thank you e-mail to the entire New York staff, I gathered my belongings and schlepped downstairs to the train station. This time, no getting stuck in the turnstiles for me! Imagine that. Take THAT police lady!

The hike to 42nd and 8th, normally an obstacle course on a light day, seemed an insurmountable challenge with all the crap I was carrying; dodging the thousands of people that traverse the tunnels on a daily basis, the steep stairs and incredible speed with which everyone whizzes past.

But I finally made it through to the airport.

And again I repeat: how is putting our stuff into plastic bins supposed to keep us safe? How does taking off my shoes, my reading glasses, even my headphones (which I forget were draped around my neck) along with the iPod safe for everyone? Strange what travel has become. The things we do to give us that false sense of security and how quickly we buy into it. Still, I suppose I should be grateful. Perhaps in giving people the power of feeling like we are in control of “safety” we remain calm to some degree.

On the plane now and we’re scheduled to depart in about 15 to 20 minutes. I just wish I could find a way to drug ALL children and annoying LOUD adults who fly so that the plane is quiet and silent and the seat in front of me stops shaking. Thank god I’m in the very last row! Hopefully I’ll be able to get my good old DD coffee soon!

This time spent at the gate, waiting for everyone to board and stow their items while the crew gets the plane ready for flight is, for me, one of the worst things about traveling. Especially because it gives me way too much time to think, to reflect on the last 6 weeks I’ve experienced in New York. It’s been an adventure, filled with extreme highs and extreme lows. Very little, if any, in between stuff.

I think about my arrival here, the cool weather, almost to the point of being cold. I think about how long it lasted, soothing and refreshing and the extreme heat that has gripped the city this past few days; a reminder of what awaits me in Fort Lauderdale!

I think about Times Square, glittering and glowing like a jewel in the night, beckoning like a seedy whore in the light of day; one you cannot resist, even as it cleverly parts you from your money.

I think about all the people at our company’s New York office; a mini solar system all of it’s own. Sara Jane who will have her first CD out this November. Her website will be added to the list on the right. And I STRONGLY recommend you give her album a listen! Her voice goes from wonderfully coy, playful, wistful and romantic. Can’t wait for your CD Sara Jane! HELEN!!!!

I think also about the people who work for Broadway Across America, the company I work for, and how the executives, approachable and genuinely interested in their staff, pulled together for me and made it possible for me to help my mother during this trying time in her life by allowing me to work in the NYC office.

I think about my friend Gary who is helping to keep me inspired and continue with my writing and other projects. I think about his charismatic, French partner with an other worldly feel about him, a feel of an era gone by. I think of their beautiful apartment downtown Manhattan and the plays Gary took me to see, our conversations afterwards. I think of how he got me hooked to Wil’s blog and his candid writing.

I think about meeting Marsha Norman who wrote the book for Color Purple and Secret Garden, meeting Edward Albee as well as John Guare who wrote Six Degrees of Separation.

I think about the subway, gritty and sometimes smelly, yet a comfort as it rocks and rolls its way underground, making it’s way to the end of the line. It opens up on the B and Q, near my mom's house.

I think about all the handsome, sexy, boys and men next door walking about, taking the train, rubbing against you as the train barrels through from one station to the next, walking the streets as they get to work, go to lunch, enter peep shows.

I think about Union Square and the hordes of people enjoying one another, talking, laughing, kissing, holding hands, roller skating, skateboarding, selling their art. The beggars, the street musicians. All the people, so many people, each and every one their own little planets in their own little solar systems.

And the rush! No, the joy, of soaking up the atmosphere, their energy, grooving on all those people simply BEING or going about their business as if they didn’t have a care in the world.

I think about Niko, the walks we took during the time he visited me, along the West Side Highway where, in broad daylight, he gave me my first public kiss; the West Village and Pommes Frite in the East Village.

I think about my sisters; one out on Staten Island with her husband and autistic child, the other in Brooklyn with her husband, her 18 y.o. and 3-year-old.

And of course I think about my mom. My wonderful mother of 67 years who will be seeing the plastic surgeon this Friday to discuss the reconstructive surgery options after she undergoes the mastectomy she’s decided to have.

And I feel homesick. I am lonely for New York City.

Through tears I write this.

It’s not that I’m not glad to see Niko, our dogs, our friends. But Fort Lauderdale is just not home. It hasn’t been for many years now. In fact, I’m not sure it truly ever was.

I will hug and hold and kiss Niko fiercly when I get home. Hopefully neither one of us will be too tired to get a little sumthin, sumthin. But after that? Tomorrow when I have to go back to the Lauderdale office and get back on the phone? Back to a dull, boring routine? It will be a difficult adjustment to life back on the farm after having tasted and experienced the Wonderful Land of Oz and all the strange things it has to offer.

Yes, it seems that I’ve left my heart in New York. Well, maybe left it is not quite how I want to put it. You can leave your heart in San Francisco, willingly. But in New York, it is taken from you. I guess that’s how some cities are; they claim you. And, once claimed, you belong to them forever. I know this because no matter where I roam, no matter what I call home, this tiny piece of rock island will always be my first lover.

In their eyes is a place that you finally discovered
That you love it here, you've got to stay
On the bottom of the rock, an island
On which you find you love it when you twitch
Ooh La - THE KOOKS

Leaving New York - Part One

2008-06-12T08:01:00.002-04:00

This portion of blog was written yesterday, Wednesday June 11.

So I'm here in the office at Times Square. It's just past 8:35.

After hugging my mom repeatedly (she didn't want to let me go), more eye problems (goop leaking from my left eye) as well as congestion, thus far the morning has been more like Escaping New York rather than leaving New York. To make matters worse, at the train station where my mom lives, there were two very pale little girls (slavic? nordic?) with HUUUUUUUUUUUUGE roller bags obviously headed back home, where ever that was, and successfully blocking 4 of the 5 turnstiles. So while the police woman helped them, naturally i'm going to show them how much smarter I am at using my metro card PLUS getting my fat, hairy ass through the turnstile WITH a knapsack on my back, my laptop over my right shoulder AND my medium roller bag in front of me. You with me so far?

I got stuck.

The same police woman (trying to hide the smile on her face; bless her little heart) tells me: "You can't shove that big thing in that tiny space!"

Oh yes, she went there!

"Sir, you gonna have to put this bag down." She taps my laptop bag. I put it down on the other side of the turnstile.

"Okay. Now you gonna have to jump over."

"What?" I looked up at her. I've never done that in my life! Mind you, when I was a little boy I snuck underneath the turnstiles, back when they were huge wooden ones. In fact I bonked my head on it once, real hard, but that's a different story.

"Go on! Jump over. Don't worry. I won't arrest you." She's now full-on grinning. Obviously the kind of black woman that likes to give little latin guys a hard time. And we all know how black women sometimes LOVE to give little latin guys a hard time! Then she adds. "You DID pay your fare didn't you?"

I ignored the remark and jumped over.

So, after one of New York's finest showed me just how she good she was at pulling people out of jams, I managed to extricate my bag from the clutches of the nasty metal turnstile and humbly made my way down the stairs to catch the train. Even caught a seat!

And now here I am. I can't WAIT to see what adventures I'll get into next just trying to get back down to the subway and to the airport! I feel like I'm on an episode of Amazing Race! Well, probably more like Go, Diego, Go! Live!; much more my speed given my current energy level.

P.S. The photo at the top of the blog is courtesy of Kurt Russell, a still from "Escape From New York," and Shane Bell who thought he would humour himself and . . . well . . . you see.

Hurry Up and Wait

2008-06-06T15:40:00.002-04:00

Have you ever heard of the term, "Hurry Up and Wait?"

After my sister called and told me that my Mom had DCIS (ductal carcinoma in situ; polite parlance for early stage of cancer) I hurried to try and hop a flight to get up here as quickly as possible. I wanted to be here for her for anything she might need.

The time in between was spent making arrangments for bills to get paid, the suspension of certain things, and figuring out how to work while up here. I was lucky and I'm very grateful that I work for a company that allowed me the flexibility to travel up here, work out of the New York office, thus allowing me to be here for my Mom.

From the first phone call to my arrival, it was all rush, rush, rush.

And then I waited.

Hurry up and wait; it's all that ran through my mind. And that's kind of how I felt after about two weeks of being up here. Mom seemed fine. She was talking all upbeat and chipper. She sounded like she really had a good grip on herself and what was happening. Even after that first follow-up appointment 4 weeks ago (God have a I really been here that long?) she was totally, well . . . coolio!

Naturally she wasn't happy with the fact that they had to go in a second time to remove more tissue. She wasn't happy with the 30% probability of cancer returning, and more aggressively. She wasn't too happy with the fact that if the cancer did return, that she would have to undergo a full mastectomy.

But she was still coping. She still looked fine.

Then, after we started talking about all the aspects, trying to figure out the different variables; after she started taking the Tamoxifen, things kinda started to slip and get wonky. Usually it was late at night when fear has a habit of tapping us on the shoulder, whispering in our ear and settling in for the night.

There was one night in particular where I really thought she had totally lost her grip. It was the strangest thing to see my mom's confusion, frustration and fear bursting forth after all this time and spewing madly. I guess it was bound to happen sooner or later. She had been pretty strong thus far; I think she wanted to spare us some grief.

Her strength has been admirable but somewhat shocking. I would have been hysterical if it was me! But her tears were worse. I've seen her cry before but not like this. A part of me wanted to ask her who she was and what had she done with my mother. This was NOT my mother! Needless to say, she kinda wigged me out as well. I managed to calm her down and get her to bed. Later that night, in my room, I barely slept at all wondering what was going to happen next? I just couldn't turn the brain off; even after taking two Valium!

The following day, though, since our server at work was totally down, I left a bit early. It turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I got home and caught my mom off-guard. She was pleasantly surprised. In fact she was caught so off-guard that we just got into a natural conversation about everything that she been going through. We sat down and talked about her fears and worries. She told me about how she was home alone when, after a shower, she did the breast examination to find that first clear liquid, then dark blood, oozed out of her nipple. She was also alone when the doctor told her the diagnosis after the initial visit. She told me about the initial cold paralysis that took her and the overwhelming sensation that she was going to die, as well as many other things.

To make a very long story short, she cried, I cried, we held hands and she said she had made her decision. And as she told me her decision the church bells across the street started to chime and it was a very strange affirmation that some other hand, something greater and bigger than us, was at work here. It sent chills up and down my spine.

Fast-forward to yesterday. She is now fully healed from the previous surgery and the doctor has given my mom the Green Light to either go through with radiation and, eventually, further tissue removal or full mastectomy. We told him what she wanted and he just nodded and said okay. The date has not yet been set but he sent her to get another mammogram yesterday. I think he wants to check the margins, see if any further calcification has occured and, I think, make sure that she is sure this is what she wants. Of course, I'm sure he wants to cover his ass as well.

We see him again next Tuesday afternoon to review the results of the mammogram and set the date for the mastectomy. Unfortunately, I leave the next day and I'm not comfortable leaving. I almost feel like I need to see this through with her to the end.

There have been times when I wondered why I was here. There was nothing happening, no radiation since the healing took longer than the doctor anticipated. I SAW NO RESULTS!!!! In fact there are so many variables it seems as if any outcome is probable; do I stay? do I go? do I let the sisters take care of her now? Do I come back? It's all still kind of up in the air but one thing is certain; I needed to be here in order to help guide my mom and support her wishes. I do not regret for one moment having come up here. And I'm glad she wasn't alone the times she broke down in front of me.

What happens next? I don't know. It's a hurry-up-and-wait kind of thing. And since I can't rush life, I guess I'll just wait.

हैप्पी Anniversary

2008-05-30T17:28:00.003-04:00

His name is John Niko but I just call him Niko. And he’s my Niko. He will kill me when I get home for exposing him to you but that’s a risk I will have to take. You’ll understand why by the time you get to the end; assuming you stick through until then.

We met 12 years ago in Fort Lauderdale at, believe it or not, a leather bar. I still have the little gray “Trick” card the bars supplied back then where you write your name and phone number to exchange with . . . well, your latest trick! I carry that card with me to this day. It’s in my wallet warding off evil the way religious people carry cards with the Virgin Mary or Jesus Christ hanging on the cross for protection.

The night Niko and I met, I was a little depressed. Well, a little depressed, lonely and horny.

I had just gotten back to Fort Lauderdale from visiting my family in New York. My baby sister graduated College and it was a proud moment in our family. I was the first in our family to attend college but she was the first to actually finish. As I sat in the auditorium I remember thinking how wonderful graduations were. A perfect way to end a chapter in your life; a transition into another volume of the Encyclopedia of The Living Experience. I also realized that graduations weren’t just for the people who completed their education but for the families, friends and other loved ones who endured and supported that person while they went to school to get that little piece of paper we all place such value on.

Anyway, Manhattan was in full bloom that June. It was a city on top of the world. A city in love with joy, with freedom, with love itself. Hell, the city was even in love WITH itself; and I’m not talking the narcissistic type. It was a kind of love that was full of innocence and passion and totally into experiencing new things. It was a perfectly euphoric trip to sooth and embalm me in those emotions; especially after having ended a four-year, verbally and emotionally abusive relationship just a year prior.

On the flight back down my heart ached to the point I truly thought it would break. The little voice inside my head was screaming: WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING? WHY ARE YOU LEAVING? WHAT ARE YOU GOING BACK FOR?

“A job,” I thought weakly.

“A JOB!” the voice yelled, “NOT A CAREER! NOT YOUR LIFEWORK! YOU CAN ALWAYS GET ANOTHER ONE!!!!”

“My cat,” I retaliated defensively. “My things,” I added.

“SO YOU SHOVE HIM IN A BOX, PACK THE THINGS YOU WANT, SELL WHAT YOU DON’T NEED AND SHOVE OFF.”

“But I just signed a lease.”

“SO YOU BREAK IT! IF YOU TELL THEM YOU GOT A JOB OFFER OUT OF STATE THEY CAN’T HOLD YOU TO IT!”

“My car?” I started wondering. “What am I going to do with my car in NYC? Insurance is so high!”

“SELL IT!”

You get the picture. By the time I landed in Lauderdale that fateful night a dozen years ago, I had made the decision to come back to New York. I had not told anyone but my heart. I got to my apartment, unpacked and started to make a list of the things I needed to do in order to move back home. I was all set and prepared for my move back to New York. All I had to do was give notice at work, inform my landlady and start packing!

But as the evening wore on, I started to get lonely. And horny.

Forgive me for not endowing you with the details of the hookup that followed. As much as I would love to, FOR SURE, I know Niko would kill me.

So we dated. Several times. Minutes turned into hours. Hours into days. And days turned into years. Twelve years. That’s like 90 in Gay Years; you know, like Dog Years?

I wasn’t sure about him at first. He’s totally not what I normally went for back then. He wasn’t really into many of the things that I was into. I mean he didn’t even like coffee! Still doesn’t!!!!!! We were opposites; still are.

I warned him time and time again. I told him of the things I had done and apologized ahead of time for all the things I was going to do to him and put him through.

And yet he stayed.

Fast forward past 12 years of heartache and sorrow, seeing each other at our best, supporting each other through our worst; past all the friends and family who have died or moved away. Vacations together, weddings attended, sexual fantasies explored and that we are still exploring. Colds swapped back and forth, depressions, joys, dreams talked about, conversations we’ve had, dinners out alone or with friends, the beach, drinks, 3ways, 4ways and Moreways. The mundane, routine and ordinary as well as the fun and exciting things we've done.

And I still, after all these years, love him. In fact, I love him even more now than I did when we first met. Hell, I'd ask him to marry me if I believed in marriage.

He’s childish, he makes me laugh and makes me feel good even when we’re doing nothing; which sometimes there is plenty of. I can be myself with him and there isn’t much I couldn’t tell him. Almost anything I want to do, he’ll do with me. He has the soul of a curious child and the patience of a saint to put up with me and my insanity.

I know my mom has needed me as she prepares for a mastectomy. I do not regret for one single moment my decision to fly up here and stay with her for six weeks. Well, maybe there was that one frustrating night in the previous blog.

But I miss my Niko.

I text him constantly. Repeatedly, in fact. I’ve spoken to him every single day; sometimes several times throughout the day! I love hearing the sound of his voice but it's no replacement for being with him. Nothing beats having him in my arms at night, spooning behind him. That’s when I miss him the most because he helps keep the monsters under the bed at bay. Even when he’s sweating like a pig and I’m comfortably tucked under the blanket, we sleep butt-to-butt, the heels of our feet barely touching. It’s just enough comfort to know that nothing will happen to us that night. We will make through another day.

For the first three weeks I was here, I felt myself slowly gravitating in a dark direction. Not quite sure where or how. I only know that I was losing my center and my balance. And when, a little over a week ago, I left work to meet him at the airport, I knew exactly. I felt like a satellite that had lost it’s orbit and he realigned me. My life revolves around him, you see. He is everything to me and I cannot see myself with anyone else or even without him. He is the anchor that stabilizes me, the glue that pieces back together my scattered brain.

We spent 3 glorious days together when he came to visit me. We walked around Manhattan, shopped, ate at some cool, funky places in the East and West Village. We walked some more, took in a Broadway show: Young Frankenstein (which was awesome!!!) had dinner with my mom (who calls him her son).

But the best was the Saturday before he left to go back to our house, our pugs (Emma, Trinket and Googie) and our cats (Max and Wild Thing). Niko and I sat on a concrete wall on the pier along the West Side Highway. And we did something we had never done before, something I had always wanted. He gave me a kiss. In public. It wasn’t the kiss to end all kisses nor was it filled with burning passion as it once was. But it was the first time he had ever shown me any kind of public affection. We held hands, my head resting on his shoulder, his head resting against mine. And I cried. I didn’t want the moment to end. It was the single most perfect moment in all of my almost 46 years of existence.

For that, and for many other reasons (some listed here, some not) I will love him and be IN love with him until the day I die; which I hope will be with him, together, holding hands, in bed.

My desire my stray, I may look at other menus and sample many appetizers, but it is to you I will always return to.

And as Frodo Baggins once said to Samwise Gamgee (please forgive my paraphrasing as I do not have the book with me and cannot remember the exact words): “Gandalf has chosen a perfect companion for me. Come, let us see what adventures the road holds for us!”

My dearest Niko, if you are reading this right now, I sincerely hope you know how much I love you and need you. I don’t care how you look, or how much weight you think you may have gained or how . . . anything. It's all bullshit. Because the only that matters to me is that I love you, I need you, I desire you. And that you love me, too. Stay with me always you dumb little shit because if you don’t I’ll hunt you down and slap your sorry ass! Oh, wait, I think I hear the patter of feet receding in the distance. Damnit! Now I'm going to have to chase you!

Seriously, though. Happy Anniversary. I am worth much more when I am with you for without you, I am worth nothing.

A Most Unlikely & Unwilling Parent

2008-05-28T22:35:00.002-04:00

Have any of you loved your mother SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO much that you would do anything to protect her and help her and save her from the maws of death? Only to find yourself in a large moment of frustration where you just want to . . . well, tap her EVER so lightly and just . . . best to not even say it in jest.

Last night my mom started in with, "I don't know if I'm doing the right thing." Okay. Totally cool and understandable."

So I asked her, "What is it that you're not sure about?"

"Getting my breast removed. The doctor," she says. "The hospital. Do you think he's even a specialist?"

And I just looked at her. "I don't understand, Ma. What is it that's confusing you?"

And she proceeds to go off on a litany of things such as, "What if he's not a real doctor? What if he's not licensed to perform surgery on my breast? Am I going to the right hospital? I haven't taken my pills."

Mind you, it was extremely frustrating because I wish this outburst had happened sooner. This is how I know I probably wouldn't be a good care giver. But then if I didn't have other things to worry about, perhaps I would feel differently.

Needless to say I had a rough night. After managing to calm her down about the doctor, I wrote down the numbers on the back of her Medicaid and Medicaire cards and made her promise me that she would call to find out if Sloan-Kettering accepts those two types of insurance. Then I made her promise that if I get her one of those pill-minder thingies that she would keep it out and take them and fill it as it empties.

I am ashamed to say that I yelled at my own mother. I even counted the Tamoxifen pills she's supposed to be taking. She's only taken about 6 from a bottle of 60. I can't say I blame her. Considering the side effects of the medication I'm not so sure that I would take them if given that option.

Perhaps she just had one of those moments where everything was hitting her at the same time; this came on way too soon after I reminded her that I'm leaving NYC in two weeks to go back to Fort Lauderdale. It's also an awkward situation because I'm uncomfortable suddenly being thrust into the role of "family leader" and making decisions for my mother. That's not supposed to happen!!!!!! She's still quite alive and breathing and very vital; despite the fact that she's acting like she's friggin' 80! I mean, I have enough problems taking my own life into my hands, taking care of my health (or trying to) balancing work, relationships, friends, family. When did this become so hard? When did I become the one that reminds her to take her pills? And someone please tell me HOW the fuck do you transition from first-born son in a latin family to ALMOST become a surrogate dad/husband/brother?

FUCK!

Heavy sigh.

Welcome Back, Benny

2008-05-26T10:33:00.005-04:00

Brooklyn Bridge. Don't know who took the picture, though.

So here I am. Back in Brooklyn. I’m staying at my mom’s apartment. She’s been here since Labor Day of 1977. We were supposed to move in that Monday but the elevator was broken and the movers refused to bring our meager items up five flights of stairs. They came back the next day and I missed the first day of school that year.

A lot has happened since then in this old, two-bedroom Brooklyn apartment in Flatbush.

There’s been a lot of bad memories; bickering, arguing, yelling, crying, screaming and misery. A lot of late nights unable to sleep (like now while I’m writing this; it’s 1:57 a.m.). There’s a lot of ghosts here. My stepfather got sick in this apartment and had nightmares that death was coming for him before he actually died. There’s a part of me that still believes he’s still here; making fun of me, taunting, tormenting. He wasn’t a very nice man.

But there’s a lot of good memories here, too. Birthdays and celebrations like first communions and graduations. Baby showers and Bachelorette parties. Easter, Mother’s Day, Thanksgiving and Christmas dinners; some lean, some not so lean. Aunts, uncles, cousins; all putting aside our differences for a while, rejoicing in the sheer moment of being, eating and drinking. Spending time together doing absolutely nothing but talking and existing.

A slew of people have come and gone; some for a short while, some for a long time, some repeatedly. And then there were the weeks and months, if not years, of Spanish soaps, movies, t.v. shows.

And of the hundreds of shows we’ve watched here as a family, one of those shows was “Welcome Back, Kotter.” Not necessarily the best of shows but one remembered because very few were supposed to have taken place in Brooklyn. Unfortunately for me, now that I’m here, the theme song to the show just keeps playing itself over and over and over again in my brain.

Welcome back, welcome, back, welcome back.

As I retrace the steps I once took between my sophmore year of high school and the year I moved out on my own. Walking past the building where I had my first apartment, on East 18th Street and Newkirk. Walking up Foster Avenue to the bagel shop for my heavily buttered Bialy and Yoo-Hoo. Crossing Newkirk Plaza to the candy store for a pack of Violets. Taking the Q train (once the QB) past Avenue M and my old Alma Mater, Edward R. Murrow High. Passing Kings Highway where I used to cruise the parking lots late at night. Barreling past Neck Road and my last apartment before finally moving away from New York and to Fort Lauderdale; to a different life. One on hold for another few weeks, if not more.

Much has changed between then and now. Waves of immigrants have come and gone; latins, koreans, russians. Neighborhoods once known for dangerous gangs, loud music blaring on the street in the summer, racial altercations and the seediness of the prostitues, their pimps and the drug dealers, have now been regentrified.

Like the Atlantic Avenue and Pacific Street area that now have a Target. Park Slope, which was THE place to move to back then because Manhattan was becoming so expensive. Flatbush, which now boasts a Target as well. Kings Plaza, once home to Alexander’s, Orange Julius and some other department store I can’t remember (Korvette’s?) now home to Macy’s, Sears, Old Navy, Victoria’s Secret, Bath and Body Works.

And let me not forget Redhook.

Once upon a time, you would never want to be caught dead there. Well, okay, maybe you would be FOUND dead, but you certainly wouldn’t want to be caught dead there. Once a whore and drug infested, flea-ridden dog of a neighborhood, it’s now up and coming. An Ikea set to open in June and a huge, I mean HUGE Fairway Market stuffed to the rafters with people from all sorts of neighborhoods now anchors that regentrification. Above the supermarket and around the immediate area, where empty warehouses once stood falling apartment, gloomily facing their doom, there are now luxury condos along the water.

Condos over Fairway Market on Van Brunt.

You can see Staten Island in the distance and the Statue of Liberty. Ellis Island just beyond and the gap where the Twin Towers once stood.

Like mother, like son. Enjoying a cup of joe.

But as many changes as there have been, much has also stayed the same. The people are rude, crude and rough around more than just the edges. They don’t speak properly, they sure as hell don’t enunciate and have absolutely no manners to speak of. Blacks, Latins, Russians, Middle Easterners and Asians now fight against the newest wave of immigrants . . . Causcasians . . . for the right to breath against a certain . . . complacency that still exists here in Brooklyn. It's a complacency that is almost stifling. And yet, strangely comforting . . . like an old pair of jeans where the material has been worn soft and fit just right . . . because it borders on acceptance. And of all the things you can say about Brooklynites, we are who we are and that is all. There's no pretense.

Yup. Brooklyn is still here. Once, it mocked me. Now it just sits and waits to see what’s going to happen next. To see if I’m going to run towards something again, or away from it. And like my mom’s old apartment, Brooklyn is still filled with ghosts. The difference is that THIS time, the ghosts can no longer harm me.

I guess like parts of Brooklyn, I’ve changed too. I feel . . .

. . . clean.

Now if only I can get that damn song to stop haunting me!

Welcome back. Your dreams were your ticket out.
Welcome back. To that same old place that you laughed about.
Well the names have all changed since you hung around,
But those dreams have remained and they're turned around.

Who'd have thought they'd lead ya, here where we need ya.
Yeah we tease him a lot cause we got him on the spot, welcome back.
Welcome back, welcome back, welcome back.

Bird & Dog

2008-05-18T09:57:00.000-04:00

The Thursday morning after i got the call about my mom, I sat on the metal bench outside the building where I work. It was a beautiful, clear day; the kind that is rare for April in South Florida. The air was a bit crisp and the sky was so blue it hurt the eyes. But I loved it! I had spoken to my Mom the night before; her spirits were up; and I had slept well. I was feeling good and peaceful.

Then, while eating an Einstein’s breakfast sandwich, I watched in amazement as a small bird whizzed by, darted left, then right, and smashed head first into a plate glass door. It fell to the ground, somewhat comically, on it’s back. Then it rolled over, it’s wings spread, and didn’t move. I was stunned. I didn’t know what to do. I looked around at first to see if anyone else had seen what I had just witnessed. But there was no one. It was just me. And the bird.

I thought to myself, “Am I being punked?” Actually, if truth be told, I thought of Candid Camera. Alan Funt was WAY before Mr. Deh-me Ashton Moore, often with funnier results.

Someone walked by a moment later, looked at the bird, or I thought they did, and kept on going. And suddenly it hit me; the panic. Oh my god, this poor bird was dying and I was the only human who witnessed it.

I dropped my sandwich and went to pick up the bird. His eyes were closed but his little body was warm and still breathing. And as I walked back to the bench I just wanted to die with sorrow. He was so beautiful. I don’t know what kind of bird he was but his feathers were almost a sage green with a tinge of white at the edge of his wings and two tiny black ringlets around his neck.

I stroked him gently, trying to comfort since there was nothing else I could do. The bird seemed to almost gasp silently and I choked. I really didn’t know what to do for him. I felt utterly helpless, useless and vulnerable.

“Don’t die! Please don’t die!” I murmured to him, covering him with both hands and willing him back to life the way they do in the movies. But I guess my life is not a Hollywood film and I don’t seem to have any kind of live-giving power.

Looking back now, a couple of days later, I realize there was something tragically poetic about holding such a tiny living creature in my hands; a creature with no boundaries, no home but the world. It’s only power the wings it was born with to simply take flight and soar to where ever he wanted, when ever he desired. I wondered where mother bird was, where had father bird disappeared to. Was he an only bird? Did he have brothers and sisters? Did he feel? Did he have emotions? Did he know what had happened to him? And I thought, how terribly sad to have no one, not even another bird, beside him while dying. And worse still, how horrible to have simply taken flight, taking for granted he would return from whence he came, or alight somewhere new, only to smash unexpectedly into something he didn’t see coming, let alone understand.

Realizing I was starting to panic, I pulled my cellphone from my pocket and called my partner. He works for a Veterinarian. I thought HE will know what to do! He couldn’t possibly be at work yet; I had left him only moments before as we left for our respective jobs.

But there was nothing he could do. The best I could hope for was that he was simply knocked unconscious. I would have to pray that he would come to eventually, and take flight again.

I don’t remember all the things I said to the bird. There was a part of me that felt kind of silly trying to explain to him why I had to leave him, that I was running late for work and could not stay watch him recover, or watch him die. I truly felt horrible as I placed him on the ground behind the bench, near a bush so he would be protected.

And then I stupidly decided that he would need food. I plucked a piece of bagel, egg, cheese and bacon (more food than a bird that size would ever need) and dropped it beside him.

I went to talk to the security guards (both women and hopefully, or so I hoped, a bit more sympathetic) about the bird. I told them what had happened but they said had witnessed it before. It wasn’t the first time; it would not be the last. I wanted to die. Didn’t anyone care about this poor little bird?

And to prove that it wouldn’t be the last time, one of the building maintenance guys, whom the security guards had been talking to before I showed up, pointed and said, “There’s another one!”

I hurried back out with one of the security guards and my heart sank. It was the same little bird. I didn’t understand. I looked towards the corner where I had laid him, hoping it was perhaps another one. But it wasn’t. Apparently another bird, big and raucous, has caught a whiff of the food I laid down for the first one. And I guess out of fear, the other bird simply took flight in the direction I had placed him and repeated his first mistake.

He was still alive when I left him to go upstairs to work. But I don’t think he made it. And I haven’t had the balls to ask the security guards about him. The image of the little bird’s tiny, broken body still haunts me. I don’t know why this should be. Perhaps because he looked so fragile? Because it was a reflection of our own fragility? A reminder of how quickly it could all be over? Or was it because watching those last few moments of the bird’s life reminded me of how life still marches on no matter how we feel?

The end of the day was no better I’m afraid. While on the way home from picking up dinner at Boston Market, my partner’s cell phone rang. It was a friend of ours. One of her neighbors, a gay couple who take their dog to the vet where my partner works, had to rush their dog to an emergency animal hospital.

There was no debate or question on what we would do. We were on our way to her house immediately. But in the 4 minutes it took to get there, the dog was gone. He lay in the back seat of their SUV covered with a green sheet not unlike the green of the bird from that morning.

I didn’t know the dog, nor his master, but I understood their grieving. And everyone, I mean everyone, in that small complex was outside comforting the two guys and crying along with them; even me. And here again, it was oddly poetic, tragically beautiful; yet inspiring all at the same time. Perhaps because it reminded me that there is still compassion in the world and that even in our sorrow we must reach out to one another to better understand our feelings.

A few minutes later, in an empty vet’s office with lengthening shadows, I helped my partner bag the dog. I tried hard not to think of our own dogs, the cats, my mom. Everyone I’ve ever known.

“This is what it comes down to?” I wondered.

We had our supper in silence while watching TV. I tried to make sense of what happened with the bird, the dog, and what lesson I was supposed to have learned from the days events. But all I could think of was how sad and beautiful it had all been. How horrible, yet inspiring to know that people had all reached out to one another. How wonderful to have witnessed first hand, the passion with which we must live each moment.

I don't remember ever crying the way I did that night, while Niko held me. I felt so numb, so pained. Every ounce of sorrow in the world seemed to have poured through me. I felt ashamed for the things I had wanted to do but kept putting off for one reason, excuse or another. And yet, strangely, I felt so alive! I don't remember feeling so passionate about the life I have yet to live.

Even now as I sit writing this, I’m not quite sure about the lesson I was supposed to have learned last Thursday. I only know that is Saturday morning. Well, almost noon. I am sitting in front of the computer, taking breaks to look out the window and watch the tree branches sway. The sky is so blue it hurts to look at it. The dogs are downstairs, out in the patio barking at passers by as morning doves croon their mournful song and the washer and dryer are going.

In a few minutes Niko will be home and I will go downstairs and hug him and squeeze him. And no, I will not call him George. But I WILL be grateful, as I am now. Grateful for him and our life together; in all it’s glorious mundaneness, in all it’s brilliantly hopeful opportunites, and all the crazy, impossible dreams we have yet to hatch.

Gratitude. Hmmm. Being grateful. Maybe that was the lesson?

Something Different

2008-05-10T22:33:00.005-04:00

Some of you who have come to my website in the past have become accustomed to reading the chapters from a novel I've been working on. I took a hiatus for several months because the novel, "Sex Offenders," originally meant to be a simple thing following the 12-Step Program, had become a bit dark, lonely, and uncomfortable. You see, as writers, we write about what we know. "Sex Offenders" was perhaps hitting a bit too close to home in certain aspects. I'll leave you to speculate on which parts.

So, for many months I have just let it lie.

Now, many months later, I have picked it up again. However, I won't be posting it on here; at least not right now. Instead, I've decided to do what everyone else is doing and just blog. Journal. Whatever you want to call it, i'm writing about my experiences; the things I see and do. I want to show the world what I feel and think and that I'm here! I know there are some that might say, who cares? Who the hell are you?

But somewhere deep down inside I know I'm important. At the very least, I have something important to do in life, something to say. something significant to contribute. We all do! I just don't know what mine is. I have been told that it's my writing. I don't know. If that's true, wouldn't I be published already? Wouldn't I be in the New Yorker? In my local community paper? It's okay, you can laugh.

Truthfully, though, I guess I just haven't pushed hard enough. I haven't motived myself to stay focused enough to see something through to the very end. I can only tell you that lately I've been journaling like a mad man. The old fashioned way; blank book and pen. It is through my writing that I have begun to experience a catharsis very similar to the catharsis I feel when I have sex.

And speaking of sex.

I have two other blogsites. Many of you will probably consider it a porn blogsite. And that's cool. I'm sure that's what it is.

At first I thought to keep them separate because it deals with explicit issues on trying to start a gay, amateur porn business, because it's about sex, because sometimes there are pictures some might consider to be vulgar or obscene. I chose it also because I did not wish to be censored in any way shape or form.

But then I thought: why not unite them? If nothing else, link this one with that one. I'm still not sure that's such a good idea but I'm going to do it anyway. Here's why: because sex is an integral part of my life that helps define who I am. Because sex is an integral part of ALL our lives. And although I do not condone censorship, I will be doing it to myself because I would rather be the one to choose what I delete as opposed to having someone else do it for me. We're all adults. We can all decides for ourselves.

I'll see how it goes. After a while, depending on the response, who knows?

As for the second blog, like everyone else it seems, yes, I have a myspace page. I hardly every use it, though. Therefore I will not place that link here.

And so, without further ado, one of the blogs posted previously where I combine both of my worlds. The original title was, "Speed Bumps." And in case you're interested in the more adult version of my blog, the site is: www.hellopenis.com/blogs/horndawgz/.

SPEED BUMPS

Just when you achieve the appropriate speed for Cruise Control on the Highway Of Life, it throws you a curve and you wind up hitting a speed bump. As a result, sometimes you spill your coffee and other times you miss your exit only to wind up on a side road.

Here I've been hoping to shoot a scene where some big-dicked skull fucker grabs Chase by the ears, fucks face and shoots his load all over the guy's face, lips and tongue. I've also been hoping to shoot one final segment where some top, or bottom, comes in and either rides Chase's hole or his cock. Either way is fine by me and I don't think Chase would mind either! I've even upped the ante a bit; I'm actually offering people money (though I'm probably going to have to sell my ass to do it!)

To no avail. So I kinda feel like Max Bialystock in "The Producers." WHO DO I HAVE TO FUCK TO GET A BREAK IN THIS TOWN?!"

Because I'm SOOOOOOOOOO close to finishing my first DVD I have been growing anxious. Then I thought, "Why am I pushing so hard? I know I'll get there. Maybe not at MY desired speed, nor in the car I want to be seen in, but, I WILL get there."

So, just when I decided to step out of the way and let Life take the wheel and drive, I hit that speed bump. My mom has to have a lumpectomy and undergo 6 weeks of radiation treatment. Once the intial shock wore off, I did some research, had a hear-to-heart with her (as much as you can have a heart-to-heart over the phone) and decided to take time off from work to fly up to NYC and help her. Since then I've gone from moments of extreme worry, to zen-like bits of peace. Somehow I know in my heart that she will be fine. She has a great positivity about her and is in terrific spirits. They caught it early enough where she is expected to make a full and complete recovery (minus a portion of her breast, of course.

And yet, it's my mom. You know? I mean, this is the woman who has not just brought me into the world, but raised me to be the man I've become. And this is the very first time she's ever had anything reallly serious with her health. I guess there was a small part of me that still saw her as the invincible mom who made me lunch every day to take to school, helped me with my homework and kissed me good night before going to bed. I know we will all one day leave this earth. People come and go in our lives. But Mom's are forever. At least, that's what I wanted to believe. This has been an eye-opening experience and a fantastic opportunity to remember that we must take life a moment at a time and appreciate where we are, who we've known and embrace life.

I don't know what I'll do for money. I know bills will pile up; I still have lots of calls to make and arrangements to make. I will miss our pugs, Emma, Trinket and Googie. Hell, I already miss my partner so much it feels as if my heart is being wrenched and squeezed within God's bony, arthritic hand!

But all will be well. It has to be. So, even though I'm not happy to have to take this detour, it is nonetheless a very necesary one. And once the side road ends I will get back on the highway and finish my first movie, "Sunday Afternoon With Chase."

In the meantime, though, until I leave for NYC, I look forward to David (HTG) coming to Fort Lauderdale again, having dinner and maybe shooting a session for him.

I leave you with the following thoughts: Do what you want, what brings you joy, what makes you feel good. Because it is all over way too soon.

Peace.

SEX OFFENDERS:Chapter Five

2007-10-29T21:07:00.000-04:00

Confession, I’ve heard, is good for the soul. It cleanses the spirit and relieves you of guilt. In recovery, at Step 5, we admit to ourselves, to another, and to God, the exact nature of all our wrongs.

But what if you feel you’ve done nothing wrong? What if the things you’ve done are a direct result of the things that have been done to you?

And what of the poor soul you confess to? Do they, then, carry the guilt of your burden? What if they already have their own cross to bear, so heavy it cripples them? Who do they confess to?

What if you don’t believe in God? What if you have no one to confess to? And worse still, what if no one cares?

“Boss.” Someone called as if from a great distance. I didn’t realize they were calling for me, though. I was in my own little world, watching the boys on stage.

Elvis stood surrounded by three scantily clad dancers: Xander, the smooth blonde, college frat boy with a swimmer’s build who gave a mean lap dance; Daniel a deep, chocolate brown Haitian boy who liked to whip patrons in the face with his 12-inch cock as he whirled past them; and Tonka, the Asian Muscle God whose reckless dancing forced us to first double, triple, then quadruple-reinforce our dance poles in less than one year.

“Hey, Boss!” Someone called out again. It was Troy. I was vaguely aware of the bald, tattoed bartender beside me. I had been helping him prep for what was sure to be a very busy night; the first Saturday of the month. Old men, anxious to drop a portion of their social security check, would soon come waddling through the front door. Our boys were only to eager to oblige them.

It was also Elvis’ first night on stage.

“Christ! Would you look at that?” Troy muttered. “It’s almost like watching Natalie learn how to dance from Miss Mezzepa and those other two broads.”

Randy had offered to pay our three top dancers extra if they agreed to help Elvis get a routine together. Eager for the cash, as well as the desire to know the new guy better, it was no wonder they jumped at the chance. And after only a couple of weeks, Elvis appeared to be more than ready.

“They’re fucking beautiful together. Aren’t they?” Troy turned to me. The boys already had my rapt attention. “Are you even listening?” Troy asked impatiently. “Heh-low! Earth to Mars!” He snapped his fingers in front of me.

“What?” I spat, unwillingly yanked out of my reverie.

“Are you okay?” Troy eyed me curiously.

“Of course! Why wouldn’t I be?” I replied, a bit annoyed. I held a rocks glass in my hand and began wiping it with renewed interest.

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it was the glazed look in your eyes that gave it away. Besides, you’ve been wiping that glass for nearly ten minutes now. You can put it down. I’m sure it’s clean,” Troy said mockingly.

I threw the rag over my shoulder and put the glass down with the stack Troy had already set in place. “Sorry. I guess I have some things on my mind.”

“Anything you care to share?” Troy offered, his voice a bit warmer and inviting. I opened my mouth to speak but couldn’t find the words.

“I . . . no.” I shook my head. Since that day at the beach with Elvis, a little over two weeks ago, memories had begun to crawl to the surface from the depths where they had been buried.

Sleepless nights spent waiting for my father to come home, slip into my room and take me while I whimpered and sobbed from his force. Falling asleep when he was done, nestled in his big, strong arms; feeling needed, protected.

Trips to the beauty parlor with my mother, or the A&P, where she would flirt shamelessly with the owner until he grew red-faced, pants outstretched. A simple touch; usually just-made nails lightly grazing hairy forearm. Her lilting voice. “Oh, Mr. Antonelli. If only I wasn’t married. Now you make sure your handsome son delivers my groceries by 2:00 p.m. sharp!”

How could I tell Troy about the arguments my parents had in the middle of the night? Muffled words. Muffled sounds. Doors opening, closing. The crunch of gravel as my father left, never to come back.

How could I confess that I would accompany my mother to the liquor store only to witness her disappearance into a room behind the counter with the tall, dark-haired owner while his son and I watched; hands inside each other’s pants? She would eventually emerge, patting down hair, adusting boobs, smoothing her dress; while the owner stepped out after, checking his fly, running a hand over his slick, Vitalis hair. He would then proceed to fill a cardboard box with bottles of booze for his son to deliver.

And if I couldn’t confess to Troy about those things, then how could I confess to him that I enjoyed the afternoons after the deliveries were made. I enjoyed watching my mother through the keyhole after she disappeared with one of the older boys, sometimes both, into the room she once shared with my father.

“C’mon, Boss. I’m a bartender. Everybody tells me stuff.” Troy nudged.

“Sorry, Troy. I’m not everybody. Besides, this isn’t a confessional. It’s my cross to bear.”

“These . . . things you have on your mind. They wouldn’t have anything to do with that new boy, would it?” Troy asked snidely.

“Who, Elvis?” I felt myself blush unexpectely.

“Yeah. Him.” Troy replied shortly.

I avoided his gaze, momentarily angered by my own reaction. To disguise it, I glanced at the boys on stage. The four were now boisterously laughing at a fumbled move by Elvis. They started horsing around, their own unique sort of foreplay; comparing muscles, slapping each other on the ass, snapping the waistband of what little article of clothing covered their genitals. All of them in various stages of arousal.

“What makes you say that?” I asked, tearing my attention away from the live wetdreams on stage. “Don’t you like Elvis?”

“It’s not that.” Troy cleared his throat, suddenly nervous. “I like him just fine. Who wouldn’t? He’s fuckin beautiful!”

“But . . . ?” I asked, perhaps a bit too defensively.

“I know that look.” Troy replied after a moment of hesitation.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Remember Alex?” Troy asked cautiously, trying a different approach.

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about.” I busied myself rinsing out things that didn’t need it.

“You can’t have forgotten Little Alex,” Troy continued. “Remember? He was the one that was supposed to be a one-night threeway between you and Randy. The one who played both of you behind each other’s back. The one who . . . ”

“Alright! That’s enough!” I put up a hand, irritated that Troy was throwing my past up in my face. “I remember Alex,” I said bitterly. Barely standing over five feet in height, he was the sexy-backed boy who looked like he had just turned sixteen though he was already in college when he came to Hotties.

“If you ask me, he was the start of all your troubles.”

“He had nothing to do with it. My troubles with Randy started years before Alex ever showed up. We would’ve split up eventually.”

“Maybe so, but, it wouldn’t have been as fucked up as it was.”

After setting up house in a swanky pad on the beach and shacking up with Alex, I bought a brand new, top-of-the-line Mustang convertible.

But the joke was on me. And Randy I suppose.

Eventually, Alex drove away in the middle of the night with the bouncer before Moondog, along with several thousand dollars he’d stolen from each of us.

“Randy blamed it all on you. Remember?” Troy pointed out.

“Yeah. I remember that, too. But I fail to see the connection you’re trying to make,” I said indignantly. “The two boys are totally different,” I pointed out. Troy chuckled and shook his head as he wiped down the bar.

“Boss. I’ve known you a long time. We’ve never been close buddies and all, but . . . I recognize that look in your eye. That boy up there on stage? He may look innocent, but he’s not. And he means trouble for you. Big trouble.”

Troy and I looked in each other’s eyes a moment.

“I don’t even want to think about what Randy will do to you this time. When he finds out you’re screwing Elvis.” Troy added quietly.

“But I’m not! I haven’t!” I protested, shuddering at the memories of a month-long hospital stay, broken ribs and reconstructive surgery on my face.

“You? You haven’t fucked Elvis?” Troy stated in disbelief.

“Well . . . not in the traditional sense. I mean . . . we . . . you know . . . ” For the first time in a long while, I was at a loss for words. Telling Troy about the two stolen moments Elvis and I had together felt . . . wrong.

“Just . . . do us all a favor. Do yourself a favor. Stay away from him. Far away. At least . . . until Randy grows tired of him. Okay?” Troy sighed, waiting for me to promise. I looked back on stage. The boys were now showing Elvis how to oil his body just enough so the stage lights showed him off to his best advantage. Six hands, aside from his own, rubbed every exposed part of his body.

“They really do look beautiful together, don’t they?” I said vaguely.

“I’m serious, Boss.” Troy mumbled. “None of us here want to see you get hurt. Promise me you’ll stay away from Elvis.”

I remained silent a moment before responding.

“You know what, Troy? I’ve done a lot of stupid things. I’ve done . . . some bad things. Hell, I’ve even wronged a lot of people. Hooking up with Elvis would be . . . just one more of those bad, stupid things. But,” I looked away, avoiding his gaze. “Staying away from him is also something I don’t know that I can do.”

Troy made a sound of exasperation.

“But I can promise you I’ll try.” I turned to him and smiled. “And thanks for sharing,” I added, trying to be humorous; but it didn’t work. Troy scowled at me, grunted, then turned his attention to the liquor bottles behind us.

“We’re almost out of vodka.” He mumbled coldly and brushed past me.

“You might want to get some extra cases of beer from Randy’s office. I haven’t hired a barback for you yet. Oh, and Troy?” I called out as he walked away. He stopped and turned to me. I gave him a shrug and a bit of a grateful smile. “Thanks. For the warning. I . . . I appreciate it.”

Troy thought a moment, nodded, then turned and disappeared.

“Okay, boys!” Tonka hollered on stage, directing them. “We’re gonna start off with Sick by Utah Saints. Elvis, after we rip our shorts off, Xander, Daniel and me are gonna jump off stage. We’ll dance through the audience, then head backstage to get ready for our solo numbers while you warm up the audience. Everybody ready?” The boys nodded. Tonka trotted to the tiny d.j. booth hidden behind the curtain and started the music. He raced back to his spot, clapping to get in synch as the other boys began their routine.

I watched, mesmerized. It was like watching a naked boy band bump and grind in perfect unison. From a distance, Elvis seemed to lock eyes with mine. It was as if he was dancing only for me. Even as the song blended into another, his gaze never wavered.

I was vaguely aware of the other boys as they jumped off stage, gyrated through the tables and chairs, then stopped to watch Elvis strut. His face was etched with the cocky arrogance of youth. His lips were red. Puffy. Pouty. Elvis dove to the floor as if to do push-ups, then seductively undulated his entire body.

“Learned fast, didn’t he?” I said absently as Troy slowly trundled up beside me. He was pushing a dolly laden with cases of beer and vodka. He watched silently before leaning towards me.

“It’s kinda disgusting, really,” Troy muttered.

“What’s that?” I leaned towards him, my eyes never leaving Elvis. He now rolled around, then jumped to his feet, legs spread. With his back to the stage, he looked coyly over his shoulders, leaned slowly forward, and gave everyone a good look at his hairless crack. On the floor, the boys cheered and whistled.

“Elvis . . . and Randy.” Troy moaned beside me. “It’s disgusting how that dirty old man fawns all over Elvis. And the way Elvis seems to have eyes only for that twisted, perverted mother fucker.”

On stage, Elvis licked his lips, sucked on his fingers, then paced like a cat in heat from one end of the stage to the other and back to center.

“I walked in on them the other night,” Troy continued. His voice was slow, methodical, hypnotic. “He was giving Randy head. You shoulda heard him . . . slurping . . . moaning. Then . . . last night . . . I peaked through the window of Randy’s office . . . I was checking the gas tanks out back; Cook said he heard them hissing when he was getting into his car. What do you think I saw?”

I shrugged, all the while watching Elvis, as if drugged. The latin boy teasingly ran his thumbs along the elastic of the blinding white jock strap he wore.

“Elvis was on his back, on Randy’s desk. I couldn’t see his face but, from the way he was yelling, he was really enjoying the screwing he was getting.”

I made a face at the images that flittered through my mind and swallowed back what I thought was disgust. But it wasn’t. I knew what Troy was doing. He was purposely trying to make me forget about Elvis, push him away. Only, instead of disgust or revulsion, what arose within me was a little green monster called envy. One of the many addictions that had waited patiently for me to crumble.

And after being away for so long, he was hungry.

I heard Elvis in my head, that day at the beach: This might be the last time we can be like this. Instinctively I knew it to be true. Elvis was simply doing what he had to in order to find out what he wanted. But in my heart, something foul had crept in. It filled my veins slowly, like a reverse leak.

“He’s . . . faking it.” I managed.

“Faking it?” Troy pulled his back as if he were looking at the oddest thing he had ever seen. “What do you mean?”

I sighed heavily and looked around even though I knew there was no one around but the boys on stage. I turned to Troy.

“Can I trust you?”

“You’ve trusted me for nearly ten years, Boss.”

“Alright,” I replied with another sigh. “I have . . . a confession. Just between us. You can’t tell anyone.”

“I promise,” Troy answered, a serious, intense look in his eye. It took me a moment to find the words. It wasn’t like it was every day I went around making confessions to people; let alone people I worked with.

“Remember Philip?” I asked. Troy nodded. “Well,” I continued. “Elvis is . . . Philip’s . . . he thinks Randy set me up. You see, Elvis is . . . Philip’s brother.”

At first, Troy looked stunned. Then he looked as if he thought I may have been joking.

“Who told you that?” Troy chuckled.

“Elvis,” I said flatly.

“You actually bought that?” Troy broke out laughing. “I think he’s feeding you lines. He’s taking you for a ride just like Alex.”

“I . . . I believe him.” I looked away from Troy and back at the boys on stage, a flatness in my voice.

“Suit yourself.” Troy countered, unconvinced. “All I know is what I saw. And what I saw was a boy who looked like he was thoroughly enjoying . . . everything . . . Randy was being done to him. Even Moondog saw them. Ask him. He’ll tell you. He walked in on them in the men’s room; Elvis . . . Freddy . . . even Randy. Elvis was in the middle . . . Moondog said they were rutting. Like pigs.”

“Okay, okay! I get it!” I finally blurted. “I know what you’re doing.” I cast a sideways glance at Troy and thought I saw a small smile of victory on his face. I looked back on stage as the music started to climax. Elvis rotated his hips as he felt himself up; chest, neck, back to his chest, down to his belly, his ass, crotch. Then, on the last beat, Elvis reached for his waistband and yanked off his jockstrap. A slightly engorged, fat cock swung back and forth, balls bouncing.

I sighed and felt myself shiver with an uncontrollable desire.

The boys clapped, whistled and hooted. Elvis grinned sheepishly as he pulled on a black pair of Speedos, then jumped down to join the others. They surrounded him instantly.

I watched them approach as if in slow motion, as if in a dream; but I only had eyes for Elvis. His thick, compact, muscled body, was shiny with oil and sweat. His dark hair curled around his face. His thick, suckable lips were pulled back in a grin that exposed perfect, white teeth; his chest, biceps, his flat belly; the fat cock and large balls bulging in his Speedos; his muscled legs. All of him. Moving. Flexing. Burgeoning.

I had never wanted anyone so badly. Not even Philip.

I was breathing heavily as they stepped up to the bar. I slammed a shotglass on the bar, splashed bourbon in it, tossed it back in one gulp. The burning sensation down my throat helped me focus.

“That was great!” Daniel said, smacking Elvis on the ass.

“Great? Are you kidding? That was fucking awesome!” Xander threw an arm over Elvis’ shoulder and clapped him on the chest.

“They’re gonna love you.” Tonka added admiringly, tweaking Elvis’s nipple.

“What about you guys? What did you think?” Xander beamed at us.

“Elvis, you’re gonna make a shitload of money!” Troy said as he picked up the empty, red plastic racks and walked away, an odd smile on his face.

“What about . . . ?” Tonka started. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Of course he is!” Xander broke in. “He’s just panting from the excitement of seeing us all dance together! Aren’t ya, Daddy?” Xander rubbed a hand over Elvis’ chest, then down to his belly.

I tore my gaze from Elvis as a snorty, gaspy kind of chuckle escaped me. “You boys . . . are definitely hot.” I croaked and cleared my throat.

“You know what I think would be even hotter?” Xander undraped his arm from Elvis and leaned against the bar suggestively toward me.

“No, what?” I leaned into him, grateful for the distraction.

“You, Daniel and me, taking a shower together . . . in your apartment.” Xander grinned, kissed passionately, then pulled away. He tasted good.

“You taste nice and salty.” I made a show of smacking my lips. I reached into my pocket and handed Xander my keys. Daniel was already rubbing himself. “Why don’t you boys go on ahead and get started. I’ll join you in a little bit.”

“What about me?” Tonka whined.

“C’mon! The more the merrier!” Daniel replied in his Haitian accent.

“What about you, Elvis?” Xander deftly slid a hand inside Elvis’ Speedo.

“Ahhh!” Elvis gasped. “No, thanks.” He gently, but firmly, clutched Xander’s wrist and pulled his hand out.

“You sure?” Xander teased, tweaking Elvis’ nipples. The latin boy moaned softly and shook his head. “It’ll be loads of fun! Daddy’s really good at . . . well, everything!” He glanced in my direction and tossed me a wink and a grin.

“That’s okay, boys. I’m sure Elvis has better things to do than play around with us. Besides, he’s currently . . . spoken for.” I reminded them.

“What Randy doesn’t know won’t hurt him,” Tonka teased.

“Sorry guys.” Elvis shook his head.

“Oh, well. Your loss!” Xander stuck his tongue out lewdly at Elvis, tweaked his own nipples, then smacked Daniel and Tonka on the ass. “Fastest one up gets to fuck me first!” Daniel and Tonka nearly killed each other as they sprinted past Xander and out of Hotties.

Elvis climbed up on one of the stools and turned his attention to me.

“Ginger ale?” I placed a glass in front of him, not bothering to wait for his response. As I grabbed the drink gun and filled his glass, I felt his eyes burning into me. I cleared my throat, avoiding his gaze, then dressed his drink with a cherry and a straw.

“Thank you,” Elvis mumbled. I nodded.

“You nervous about tonight?” I poured myself another shot of bourbon.

“A little.” Elvis wrapped his hands around his ginger ale. I tossed my shot back. “What about you?” Elvis asked after draining nearly half the glass.

“Me? Why I should be nervous?” I asked curiously.

“Shouldn’t you be getting upstairs?” He asked flippantly. “You don’t want to leave the boy’s waiting.”

“You know . . . if I didn’t know any better . . . I’d say you sound almost jealous.” I finally looked Elvis in the eye.

“Yeah, right!” Elvis spluttered and gave a little laugh. He looked down into his glass as if something interesting had suddenly appeared. There was an awkward moment of silence as he slurpily finished his drink.

I placed my forearms on the bar and leaned forward, my face close to his. Elvis looked up at me expectantly. I wanted to warn him about Randy. I wanted to tell him about the misery he would encounter by Randy’s side. I wanted to coax him out of his plan, convince to run away somewhere, anywhere, with me.

But I also wanted to kiss him.

Then, quite suddenly, forgetting the promise I made to Troy, I found myself leaning towards Elvis. For a moment, he looked as if he might kiss back. He also leaned foward. I closed my eyes.

The slap caught me by surprise. It stung my face and rang in my ear. I looked at Elvis, confused and angry. He looked up at me with mixed emotion and rubbed at his hand as if he had hurt himself.

“And if you ever say anything about Randy again I’m going to tell him to fire your sorry ass!” Elvis jumped off the stool just as Randy walked up to him. “Oh! Hello, Daddy! We were just talking about you.”

“Oh, really?” Randy replied with slight amusement.

“Well, he was.” Elvis jerked his chin in my direction then wrapped his arms about Randy and flagrantly kissed him. I watched -- confused, disgusted and surprised -- as Randy responded to Elvis’ tongue ministrations just as ardently.

Randy pulled away and grinned lustfully at Elvis. Then he looked at me as if he had just remembered I was still standing there.

“So, talking about me behind my back again?” Randy asked playfully as I rubbed my face.

But Elvis didn’t give me the chance to reply.

“He was. And . . . you know what else? He tried to kiss me! But I slapped him and put him in his place!” Elvis lay his head on Randy’s chest. “Just like you told me,” he said in the voice of a child.

“Well! Aren’t you a good little boy?” Randy gave a nasty little laugh. He looked at me and said, “They learn so much more quickly these days than when you were young. Don’t you think?” Randy asked teasingly and quickly ushered Elvis away. Randy grinned over his shoulder and winked before they stepped into his office. I flipped my middle finger at Randy but the door had already closed.

Troy sauntered casually up to the bar, cash box in hand.

“Did you see that?” I asked in disbelief.

“See what?” Troy replied, nonchalant. He avoided my gaze as he moved past me and unlocked the box.

“Elvis!” I spat. “The little fucker actually slapped me! And then he fucking lied to Randy about it!”

“Yeah. I saw.” Troy tucked the box out of the way.

“AND?!” I hollered, annoyed at Troy’s noncommittal tone.

“And what?”

“Mother fuck!” I muttered, quivering with anger.

Troy put his tip jar out then gave a cursory glance around.

“Question is,” Troy said quietly, finally looking at me. “Do you still think that boy’s not gonna give you any trouble?”

But before I could answer, our first customer of the night walked in. Troy turned his back on me to serve him.

I walked slowly out from behind the bar, then found myself hurring towards the front door. I nearly bowled the d.j. over as he came in to start his shift. And as I stepped outside, I almost knocked Moondog on his ass while he propped himself up on his stool.

“Damn crazy fool! What? You running from the devil?” Moondog called out after me. “No place to hide once he comes knocking, you know!” But I ignored him. I was already racing up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

I burst into my little apartment and made my way to the bathroom. I stood in the doorway, watching as Xander, Daniel and Tonka cavorted with each other in the large shower. It was the only luxury I afforded myself when the club was first built; and it was just for moments like these.

I stripped and let my clothes fall to the floor. I approached the shower and pulled the door open. The swirling mist of hot water surrounding the boys coiled around me, pulling me in.

“It’s about time!” Daniel cried.

“What took you so long?” Xander demanded.

“We thought you stood us up for Elvis!” Tonka sounded indignant.

“With hotties like you three, who needs Elvis?” I smiled and stepped into the shower. The beautiful young boys descended upon me. They ravaged my body and wrapped themselves around me like a much needed balm.

But the memory of Elvis still plagued me.

“Fuck you,” I muttered softly to him. But it wasn’t enough. I repeated myself, each time louder and more forceful. “Fuck you, fuck you, FUCK YOU!”

“Goddamn! Take me!” Xander moaned deliriously, gave me his back and grabbed his ankles.

And so, I allowed myself to get lost in the sweet abandon of lust, immersing myself in their wanton pleasuring of me; as I tried, unsuccessfully, to push Elvis from my mind.

SEX OFFENDERS:Chapter Four

2007-08-25T16:29:00.000-04:00

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

2007-08-07T20:14:00.000-04:00

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.

SEX OFFENDERS: Chapter Three

2007-07-12T22:12:00.000-04:00

Everyone has at least one addiction. It burns like fire in your veins. For some it’s obvious. Alcohol. Food. Drugs. You can see those. Others aren’t so easy. Some people go shopping, gambling. The less adventurous become couch potatoes, living their lives through reality tv bullshit. Or they take up scrapbooking. Stamp collecting. Others smoke.

Or they look for sex in dark alleys with strangers.

Some addictions are socially acceptable, like work. Others are not. We’ve all known people whose job takes them from city to city, only to be surprised when they finally settle down and find their children have grown and their spouse has either cheated on them or left them for another. Where do you draw the line between the career-oriented and the obsessive sports fan? What about celebrity stalkers?

What about the person so codependent, so . . . in love . . . with their partner that they murder, or worse, destroy them, if they even think of another?

Me? I’m an alcoholic, sexaholic, coffee-drinking, cigarette smoking, boy-fucking, man-fucking pervert. I’m a pig. A glutton. I like . . . no, love . . . those things. No. That’s not right either. I crave.

But it’s more than that.

I yearn and lust for something so strong and so bad I shake when I don’t get it. The very thought of them sends me into spasms of pleasure. The thought of never getting them again sends me into a choking panic.

Booze. Smut. Getting off. My addictions offer me comfort. Indulging in them affords me escape, the opportunity to take life a moment at a time. A chance to live in the now.

And when I can’t have them, there’s always the internet.

Yeah. You know what I’m talking about. Don’t pretend you’ve never come home from work with a hard-on for your computer. You follow your erection to that corner, the one that holds all your secrets. You spend hour after hour in the darkening room, staring at the computer screen. You’re vaguely aware of losing time as you stroke the internet for porn, downloading images of cock, balls, hairy holes, smooth holes, spurting cocks, outstretched tongues, fingers poking, big cocks ramming.

You sit back and watch in specialized chat rooms; Married Men 4 Men, Straight But Curious, Wet And Raunchy. You filter past the bullshit and dig straight for the smut. Maybe others watch you as you coax strangers, with pictures you hope are theirs, into cybersex backrooms. Or to your home. You set the stage and tell them you’ll leave the door unlocked. The lights will be off. You jerk, you stroke, you stop just before you spurt. You want to make the buzz last even though you know you’ll be left feeling empty and yearning, wanting more.

And then it’s 4:00 a.m. You drag yourself to bed, bleary-eyed. And you wonder; why do I spend so much time wasting time? You vow never to do it again. But tomorrow comes and it starts all over.

When the monster beckons, all you can do is follow blindly, drown yourself in the arms of your dark lover.

You can try and tame it, hose it down. But the flames will only burn higher, licking ever closer to a destruction you know must eventually come. And yet, you are powerless to stop it. There’s a bizarre, tragic sense of beauty in watching your own destruction. It leaves you almost paralyzed. You hold your breath.

And wait.

It will consume you.

Which addiction owns you?

The sound of two boys arguing lured me from the fog. I gradually came back to the present, slowly becoming aware of my surroundings. I was in my small apartment, above the nightclub. The curtains were drawn but the room was lit by the sunlight that pierced through cracks in the limp, dark drapes. Across the room, a snowy television filled the background with white noise; the cable company must have cut me off again. At least the electric was working; the place felt cool.

On either side of me, Elvis and Freddy continued their heated debate. Their voices sliced directly through to my brain.

“It’s not my fault.” Elvis sounded tired of the accusation.

“Like hell it isn’t.” Freddy snapped. “If it wasn’t for you . . . ”

“Look. If it’s anybody’s fault, it’s his.” Somehow I knew Elvis was pointing at me.

“You know boys,” I managed. “This is flattering, but, you don’t have to fight over me.” I grinned up at them, blinking against the dim light.

“We’re not!” Freddy folded his arms on his chest.

“That’s too bad.” I struggled to sit up, still woozy. “How long have I been out?” My head felt heavy, my neck made of rubber.

“Almost 24 hours.” Elvis stood and went to prop a pillow behind me.

“I’ll do that!” Freddy rushed to help as well. “What did you come here for, anyway? You wanna take him away from me, too?”

“Really, boys. There’s more than enough of me to go around.” I teased. “Now, why don’t you fellas strip and climb into bed with me. We’ll fuck like bunnies.” They dropped me and I fell back with a thud and a wince. I propped myself up.

“I didn’t come here to take anybody away from you, Freddy.”

“Then what did you come here for?” Freddy sulked.

“I need to talk to you.” Elvis said to me, ignoring Freddy. “Alone.”

Elvis looked me in the eye. In his large, brown gaze I saw a familiar path. It was a path to something that thrilled, yet frightened me; the road to perdition.

“I’m not going anywhere.” Freddy snorted.

“Can’t this wait, Elvis? I’m just coming outta this shitty blackout and I’m not thinking straight. I’m all fuzzy and thirsty.”

Elvis took the few steps from my bed to the window. He yanked the cur-tains aside. Intense bright light suddenly filled the room. I recoiled like a vampire.

“That should help you clear your mind.” Elvis countered.

“You little prick.” I muttered.

“I’ll get you some water.” Freddy said helpfully.

“No water. Bourbon. Straight up.” I sat up.

“You’re out.” Freddy said apologetically.

“That can’t be. I always have a stash. Take a look in the . . . ” I stopped short and looked around. I wasn’t exactly Pigpen from the Peanuts cartoon, but I wasn’t the neatest or most organized person in the world either. The place was immaculate. “Wow. Who cleaned?”

“I did.” Freddy piped in quickly, as if daring Elvis to take credit.

“Sorry, Elvis. If you’re vying for my attention, so far he wins.” I turned my attention to Freddy. “There’s a hip flask in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom. Will you get it for me?” Freddy moved reluctantly.

“What’d you wanna talk about?” I asked Elvis when Freddy left the room.

“Us.” Elvis sat. We could hear Freddy rummaging noisily through the medicine cabinet.

“There is no us, kid. We shared a ride on the way up. That’s all.”

“That’s not all we shared.” Elvis leaned in and dropped his voice to a near whisper. Freddy returned and Elvis sat back suddenly. Freddy handed me the flask and shot Elvis a dirty look.

“Thank you, Freddy.” I unscrewed the cap and drank lustfully. I turned my attention back to Elvis. “It was a blowjob, not a marriage proposal. Just a blow-job. Like any other.” And yet, the memory of him, his mouth connected to me, made my dick stir.

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” Elvis said petulantly and crossed his arms before him.

“Then what are you talking about?”

“Nothing. Forget it.” Elvis sighed. He got up to leave. “We’ll talk when you get back to the club.”

“No. We won’t.” I answered and screwed the cap back on the flask.

“What do you mean?” Elvis asked.

“What he means,” Freddy interrupted, “is that you’re Randy’s boy now. As long as you’re with him, if he even thinks you’re eyeing other men he’ll be plenty upset. So. You can never be with another man. Until he grows tired of you.”

“What are you talking about?” Elvis laughed. “He’s not like that.”

“That’s cause this is your first week.” Freddy gloated. “Give it a while longer. The honeymoon will be over just as soon Randy finds the next “It” boy. Or until Daddy here finds him a new Boy. Until then? He’ll keep you. But you’ll be under his thumb at all times. He’s gonna keep such a tight watch on you.”

“Especially if he thinks you’re anywhere near me.” I added.

“You two make it sound like I’m his property or something.” Elvis joked.

“Just about. Freddy’s right, Elvis. You’re job, as dancer, is to tease and play only with the patrons. You’re job as Randy’s boy, is to play with Randy or anybody he tells you to play with.”

“Especially other boys. Randy likes to watch.” Freddy added.

“I hate little boys.” Elvis shot Freddy a look.

“I’m glad you came, but, you really have to go now, Elvis.” I said.

“But I need talk to you.” Elvis cleared his throat.

“I told you. We have nothing to talk about.” I shook my head at Elvis.

“Yes we do! Daddy-O.” Elvis insisted, trying to piss me off.

I threw back the covers threateningly but succeeded only in revealing my nakedness. The boys were suddenly quiet. I was well aware of their stares as I climbed slowly out of bed. For a man nearing 50 I wasn’t doing too bad in the physique department. I managed to keep my weight down and still had a flat belly. The equipment wasn’t bad either. It was a good size and it worked when I needed it to. Without the help of little blue buddies.

“Which one of you undressed me?” I asked.

“I did.” Freddy answered softly, almost sheepishly. I gazed at him. He returned it with a soft, shy smile I had never seen before.

“Did you have fun?” I teased. Freddy shrugged. He suddenly found an interesting spot at his feet. “Too bad I wasn’t awake, huh?”

“We can do it again.” Freddy taunted. “When Elvis leaves.”

“We’ll see. Where are my clothes?” I looked around for my jeans. Freddy snatched them from a nearby chair and handed them to me.

“Like I said before . . . Kid.” I turned my attention back to Elvis but made sure not to look him in the eye. “There’s nothing between us.” I stepped into one of the pants leg.

“Ha!” Freddy exclaimed. “Now get out.”

“Freddy?” I said softly, turning to him.

“What?”

“Be quiet. I’ll deal with you in a minute.” I sighed. Freddy snickered, but backed off.

“As for you,” I turned back to Elvis. “I’m sorry, but, you really have to go.”

Elvis stared insolently at me.

“You’re nothing more than a commission to me.” I added.

“Look me in the eye and tell me that.” Elvis said quietly, almost daring me to submit.

My life skipped a beat as I braced myself with dark hardness against the bright frankness of his youth. I stepped into the other pants leg.

“Elvis?” I said, looking into his eyes. “It was just . . . a blowjob.” And a damned good one I thought. My dick stirred again. Elvis registered the movement and bit his lower lip as I pulled on my jeans. “I’m truly sorry.” I added.

“I know about him.” Elvis leaned in towards me and muttered, trying to keep Freddy from hearing. Only I didn’t realize what he was doing at first.

“You know about who?” I asked, fingers on the zipper tab.

“About the Pup,” Elvis continued, trying to keep his voice low. “Latin Pup. The boy from the internet.”

I yanked hard on the zipper and howled as the teeth sank into my flesh. I felt my eyes roll back into my head as I doubled over on the bed.

“Oh my God! What did you do to him?” Freddy came towards me.

“Nothing! I didn’t do anything.” Elvis stood rooted to the spot, a confused look on his face.

“Ice.” I managed after a deep breath, rolling onto my side. “I need ice.”

Freddy ran to the small refrigerator across the room and looked inside. “You don’t have any,” he called out.

“Downstairs!” I moaned.

Freddy ran to the door that led down to the club and tried the handle. “It’s locked!” He cried.

“Just . . . get some! There’s a . . . owww . . . a gas station down the road.” I groaned as Freddy ran out. I tried to sit up but Elvis put a hand on my chest. He pushed me back and leaned over my crotch.

“If you’re trying to . . . seduce me,” I joked, “it won’t work.”

“Jesus! Is that all you ever think about?” Elvis grabbed my zipper and yanked it down. Hard. I let out another howl.

“Fuck! What the hell did you do that for?” I managed with a grimace. Elvis stood and I cupped myself protectively, afraid he would cause further damage.

“Sorry. It was the only way. Your skin was caught in the zipper’s teeth,” Elvis explained.

“I know! It was my skin, remember? You sick, twisted bastard!”

“What are you doing with foreskin, anyway?” Elvis asked. “I always thought old, white geezers like you were cut.”

“You know, you could do with taking some lessons in sweet talking. Get me my flask, will ya?” I asked.

“We don’t have much time.” Elvis sat beside me on the bed.

“Just shut up for a minute and get me . . . my flask!”

“Fine! Alright. Damn. You drink too much.” Elvis said accusingly.

“I’m an alcoholic. It’s what I do.” I retorted. “C’mon.” I said after a while. “I’m hurting over here.”

Elvis sighed impatiently but got the flask for me. I sat up and took a few swigs. The booze coated my throat like nectar. It pushed the dull throb away. I stood slowly and gingerly pulled up my zipper.

“So.” I finally managed after another deep swallow and an even deeper sigh. I capped the flask and shoved it in the back pocket of my jeans. “How do you know about Latin Pup?”

“He was my brother.” Elvis replied simply.

“What?!” My throat suddenly went dry and I felt the floor spin beneath my feet. As a little boy, one of my cousins, twice my height and weight, punched me square in the stomach with all his might. He knocked the wind out of me so hard I couldn’t breathe for what felt like a very long time while I rolled around on the floor. It was how Elvis made me feel at that moment.

“He was my brother.” Elvis repeated.

“I . . . I heard you.” I gasped and stepped away. But I couldn’t shake the image of the dead boy that rose, like a ghost, from recent memory. I could still feel his warm body against me, just before I passed out, hear his laughter at something he thought funny. “What . . . what exactly do you know about that?” I asked after a moment of silence. “About what happened, I mean?”

“Only his side of the story.” Elvis replied softly. “Well . . . maybe just the things he chose to share with me.

I nodded slowly as something flickered in my mind. I had only known him by his screen name. “What was his real name?” I asked. “I can’t remember it.”

“Philip.”

“That’s right. Philip.” I repeated, tasting him on my tongue. A vision of the boy, in my mind, beckoned with a soulful smile, a lustful look, a slight nod of his head. “That was . . . seven years ago.”

“He would have been 22.” Elvis said quietly. “Tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow? Are you kidding me?”

Elvis shook his head.

And then it started. An uncontrollable shiver. I tried to fight it. But it came on fast and furious. I began to sob. Ashamed for what they said I’d done, for all that happened, for my poor excuse of a life. A huge wave of regret flowed and overwhelmed me.

A private message popped up in my brain. His instant message. Philip's. Latin Pup. All I had to do was click on the X in the corner of the window. Just one little click and my life would have been a lot different. Hotties, the money, the harem of beautiful boys catering to my every whim. It would all still be mine.

“I didn’t know.” I said, deeply ashamed. I could still hear the cameras, feel the hollow rush of adrenaline fear as I was manhandled by the police and shoved into the back of the squad car that smelled of vomit and dried blood. Then there was the shouting mob outside the courthouse. The angry murmuring of the jury as more and more evidence was pulled out by prosecutors. The sound of a hammer, somewhere in my brain, driving deep the nails into my coffin.

The DNA testing proved I never touched him; at least not sexually. But once accused, always convicted. The fact remained that I was an adult and he was a minor. Despite the evidence to the contrary, they said I lured him to me. They said I was still a sex offender. A sex offender with an alcohol problem and an even larger debt. And then there was the fact that he had died in bed, naked, beside me.

So much for the boy voted most likely to succeed. This is how it ends, folks. A broken man in a broken dream, existing in a broken world.

“He came to me. I never asked him to come and see me. I wanted him to. God, how I wanted him to! And then he did. But I never . . . ” Elvis drew near me and put a hand on my shoulder. Something within me broke. The intensely volatile emotions that come with the knowledge that a boy’s death was on my hands came forth uncontrollably.

“I’m so sorry.” I said softly. I didn’t know what else to say. I sagged into the boy before me, seeking all the things I yearned for all my life. Acceptance, redemption, forgiveness. Love.

Elvis wrapped his young, strong arms around my numb, jaded body and held me. I held him back while I sobbed. Strange thing is that I wasn’t sure who was clinging to whom. Feelings I thought long dead and gone slowly flared like a softly struck match. The lost soul locked in my heart, still treading water in the depths of my past, latched on to his warm embrace as if he were my personal life preserver; a glimmer of hope and rescue, still miles away, but visible.

I buried my face into the crook of his neck, enjoying the scent of him.

But it wasn’t sexual. Not at that moment.

“Thank you.” I said and hugged him tight.

Elvis pulled himself gently out of my embrace and stepped away. I stood, arms outstretched, hungry for more. I craved his warmth.

“I knew something was wrong when Philip didn’t come home that night.” Elvis explained. “I was the one that reported him missing. A few days later, the cops came to tell us they found his body.”

“Here. In this room.” I shuddered. “In . . . that bed.” A heavy silence fell between us. “I don’t know how he got there. I mean, he was there, in my bed. But I thought I remembered him leaving. Said he . . . couldn’t go through with it and he just . . . left. I thought he was gone before I blacked out, but, when I came to, he was right there, beside me.”

“Please. I need your help. I need to know what happened between you.” Elvis pleaded.

“I’m sorry. I can’t go through that again.” I said automatically, barely listening to myself. I turned from Elvis with a heavy soul. The wisp of a deeply buried memory tickled at the edge of my sanity. It threatened to pull me back to a past I didn’t want to look at. A past I chose to ignore with a lot of help. I pulled the flask out from the back pocket of my jeans and drained the last of the liquor.

“But you have to! Please. Before Freddy comes back.” Elvis demanded. His statement was punctuated by the sound of feet clambering up the wooden stairs. “Fuck!” Elvis muttered and drew near. He took my face in his hands and forced me to look at him. His eyes searched mine.

“I’m Philip's brother. I have a right to know.”

Against my will, I searched his gaze and knew it was too late; I was lost in the promise of his youth, from the first moment I saw him at the book store.

“Wait a minute.” I started, pulling back slightly. “How is this even possible? Out of all the people that ever walked into my life, how is that you . . . ?”

But Elvis did not allow me to finish. He leaned into me. His lips found mine. There was a bit of tongue and a slight trace of peppermint on his breath. At first, I tried to protest. But my body betrayed me. It gave in to the possessing desire of him. My arms wrapped themselves around the boy and I kissed him with furious desperation.

The door burst open and Freddy barged in.

I pulled away from Elvis. “Tonight. After the show.” I whispered, dizzy, as if feeding a fix. “We’ll talk then. Okay?”

“I can’t tonight. Randy’s taking me out to dinner. Tomorrow.” Elvis replied. All I could do was look into his eyes and nod. “At the bookstore. Where we first met.” Elvis added and pulled away from me. He brushed past Freddy and disappeared down the stairs. Freddy stood there, a bag of ice in each hand.

“What the fuck was that?” Freddy gaped at me. I relished the feelings in my body a moment longer before responding.

“None of your business.” I took the ice from Freddy. I emptied one of the bags into the cooler by the refrigerator and threw the other bag into the sink.

“You know better than to mess with Randy’s boys.” Freddy pointed out.

“You may not know this, but, they were once all mine. Before Randy stole Hotties out from under me.”

“What are you talking about?” Freddy countered, hands on hips.

I sighed. “Pack your stuff, Freddy.” I said quietly, fixing myself a drink.

It took Freddy a moment to respond. “Oh, this is just great. First Randy. Now you.”

I made myself busy so I wouldn’t have to look at the boy.

“So . . . this Elvis character. What’s his story, anyway? What’s he want from you?” Freddy paced back and forth.

“I told you. It’s none of your business. Just pack your stuff and leave.”

“I don’t trust him, you know.” Freddy sounded exasperated as he started about the room. He huffed and clicked his tongue, quickly gathering his few possessions. “He’s up to no good!” Freddy continued.

“Whadda you know? You’re just a . . . ” I stopped myself, realizing that maybe I wasn’t giving the kid credit for knowing his own feelings.

“Don’t you even care about yourself?”

“No.” I replied. “Do you?” I looked up at Freddy. There were tears in his eyes. I avoided looking at him. Instead, I reached into my pocket and pulled out whatever money I had.

“Here,” I held the money out to him. “It’s not much. Take it. You’ll need it.”

“No, thanks.” Freddy turned and started walking away.

“C’mon. Take the money.” I walked over to him and shoved the bills into his back pocket.

Freddy turned suddenly and clung to me frantically. “Oh, please let me stay! Just a couple of days until I can find another place. I have nowhere to go!”

“Freddy . . .” I put my arms around him hesitantly.

“I was on the streets before Randy picked me up. I don’t wanna go back to that. You don’t know what it’s like!”

“Living on the streets? No. I can’t possibly imagine what that’s like.” I said sarcastically as I tried to pry his fingers and arms off me. Freddy held on with a fierce desperation.

“No! Don’t! I’ll do anything you want! Please!” Freddy rubbed his hands and his body all over me. “I’ll clean. I’ll cook. I’ll do your groceries. What do you say, Daddy? Huh?” Freddy thrust an eager hand down my pants and his tongue down my throat. We kissed ardently for a moment before I came back to my senses.

“Freddy, stop it.” I pulled my mouth away from his.

“I can make you very happy.” Freddy’s lips stretched to meet mine.

“I said . . . stop it!” I grabbed his wrist firmly and pulled his hand from my pants. “You have to go, Freddy. I’ve got enough problems of my own. I can’t afford to take on yours, too.” It would have been so easy. So easy to pick him up and slam him down on my bed. Far too easy to just pin him down and use him.

“But you’re hard. You want me.” Freddy continued to protest.

“No. I don’t. My dick wants you. It’s a sucker for a cute kid that knows how to handle meat.”

“That’s cold.” Freddy stepped back as if I had slapped him. He threw his head back and glared at me. He squared his shoulders and approached the door. He put a hand on the doorknob.

“I wish things could have been different, Freddy.”

“They can be! Just change your mind!” Freddy took his hand off the knob and took a step toward me in a last ditch effort. I shook my head. “You will regret this.” Freddy promised quietly.

“Too late, son.” I stepped past him. I turned the knob and opened the door. “My life’s already full of regrets. At this point one more isn’t going to make that much of a difference.” I stepped aside. Freddy brushed past with a look of hard, dangerous resolve on his face and an evil glint in his eye.

SEX OFFENDERS: Chapter Two

2007-06-25T22:59:00.000-04:00

When a strip joint goes up in a white, suburban, middle-American neighborhood, the media wastes no time in telling you how long it will be before pimps, whores and filthy drug addicts come to your street to corrupt your children, drive property values down the toilet and destroy the sanctity of your boring, married life to the old ball and chain.

If it’s a gay strip joint, you’ll hear shrill cries of shame and disgust erupt from the hypocritical mass. The religious right will be there to steer anyone wishing to be saved from the road to damnation and perdition. They will tell you that drugs and alcohol will pour through the streets, rampant pedophiles will swoop from the sky like so many vampires to prey on all the innocent little children. Militant homosexuals will roam the street, hungry to convert anyone bold enough to go out after the bewitching hour.

Maybe the women who cry out against such perversities already suspect their husband’s inclinations but are afraid to face them. If they only knew how many straight, married men, hang out in chat rooms, porn theaters, video stores looking for a guy who will go down on them. It’s probably best the wives don’t know. They might fall apart. Their secure world would crumble. They would finally realize the false security that bubbles their . . . our . . . miserable existence.

I should know. I’ve had more than my share of straight men. Straight, married men who valued discretion more than they valued the sanctity of their precious marriage. Many of them have known their weakness. They’ve seen themselves reflected in the eyes of the cocksucker. Unfortunately, sometimes they are the ones that scream the loudest. They know that curiosity, as it did to the cat, will get the best of them. Maybe they know that sooner or later, they’ll wind up in a dark corner of that gay club, getting a lap dance from someone else’s valedictorian son; the one voted most likely to succeed.

Driven by sex and urges, we’re nothing more than base animals caught up in the dependency to the spurt; getting off. Digging the faggot that’s on his knees swallowing your piece, your life giving load, your juice. All those beautiful little seeds, swimming down someone’s throat. Hundreds, thousands, millions of babies that will never see the sun, never know heartache or disappointment. Babies that will never grow up, never experience the joy of being the first to deflower a virgin or corrupt an innocent. In some twisted way, one might say that we’re doing all those unborn babies and, perhaps humanity, a favor.

When I first set up the strip joint in a remote backwoods road, no one came. Nobody gave a shit. Why would they? It was a poor, black neighborhood. Only one poor bastard who called himself a community leader, a religious figure . . . a man of the cloth with firm beliefs and hard convictions . . . he alone stood with a few of his sheep. Eventually, even he came, out of curiosity, to see if our religion might not have offered something more.

Countless greenbacks greased the palms of the right people so they would turn their backs on those that know poverty and politics are about more than just the color of someone’s skin, or the color of green. It’s about the blackness of the human soul and the green hypocrisy that masks it. Society complains about having pedophiles living near them; but what about the politician that can be bought by some self-interested group or individual? Pedophiles may prey on young children, but, politicians play a mutual masturbation game, passing laws that eventually prey on all of society. Not just children.

In the end, you and I are not all that different. We all prey on one another. You want something from me. I want something from you. We all take perverse pleasure in using others. We’re all obsessed with sex. We’re all sex offenders.

Only the newly born are innocent.

I parked in the lot behind the strip joint I started, the business I once owned. I climbed out of the car and dug into my pants to rearrange myself. I pulled on my zipper as Elvis stepped out. He wiped his puffy red lips with the back of his hand.

“Hotties? What is this place?” Elvis asked curiously.

“It’s a private strip club.” I answered matter-of-factly.

“A strip club?” Elvis screwed up his face. I couldn’t tell if he was insulted.

“Yeah. You said you needed money.”

“Yeah, but . . . stripping?”

“You said you needed a job and that you’d do anything. Didn’t you?” A sneer escaped me.

“I never thought . . . like . . . I’m not a dancer. Okay?”

“You don’t need to be. You don’t even need a big dick, though it helps. All you need is to be young and have a great big smile to cover you when all those old fuckers come at you like rain. You’ll make a lot of money. I guarantee it.” I searched Elvis’ eyes for a reaction. There was none. “C’mon. Let’s go inside. I’ll show you around.” I walked away from Elvis and towards the club.

“Evening, Boss.” Moondog, the black bouncer with rheumy eyes and Jack-filled flask in his back pocket nodded as we approached.

“You own this place?” Elvis asked curiously as we entered.

“No.” I replied a bit too quickly and, maybe, bitterly.

“But that man called you Boss.” Elvis explained as we stepped inside.

“Yeah, well, he suffers from delusions.” I quipped.

“You run it?” Elvis raised his voice against the raunchy, raucous music playing. He looked around nervously, but with curiosity.

“I used to.” I muttered. But I don’t think Elvis heard me. If he did, he made no acknowledgment. Something else caught his attention.

“Oh, wow! Who’s that?” Elvis pointed.

“Anybody ever tell you it’s not polite to point?” I commented.

“But . . .” Elvis started, and trailed off, his attention back to the Asian frat boy dancing on stage. The Asian boy, a steroid junkie with a tight red thong and an even tighter bung hole, swung from the shiny dance pole in total, reckless abandon. We drew nearer to the stage. Behind us, in a dark corner that led down a hallway and to the restrooms, a tall, slim blonde boy glowed in the black light. He was busy demonstrating to the local community religious leader just how worship was truly done.

“My God! What are they doing?” Elvis turned and his eyes flew open at the penitent sinners before him. Elvis moved towards them for a closer look.

“Praying.” I grabbed Elvis by the arm and pulled him away.

“Praying?”

“Just leave ’em alone. And do me a favor. Don’t ask so many questions.” I let Elvis go but my fingers burned from the heat of his burgeoning bicep.

“Okay. Fine. It’s just that I’ve never been to a place like this.”

“Right.” I smirked.

“Besides, I was just trying to make conversation, Daddy-O.”

“Do me a favor, kid. Don’t fuckin’ call me Daddy-O anymore. Either you call me Daddy or nothing at all. Understand?”

“I’ll stop calling you Daddy-O when you stop calling me kid. I know more than you think I know.”

“Oh, yeah. That’s right.” I snickered. “You’re a teenager. You do know everything, don’t you? Well, guess what. I was a teenager once, too. I thought I knew everything. And you know what happened? I found out I didn’t know jack shit.”

“What’s that supposed to mean? And what’s it got to do with me?” Elvis stopped and crossed his arms.

“It means you’ve got a lot to learn. Kid.” I added, and walked away.

“What is your problem?” Elvis followed. I turned to looked at him. And I wondered. What was my problem? But I knew. The moment I laid eyes on him I knew what my problem was.

What I wanted to say was that he totally grabbed me. He got me in every way possible. There were light switches going on inside me I never even knew I had. I sighed instead, saddened with the knowledge that I was about to deliver Elvis to the Big Bad Wolf.

“Listen, Elvis. I’m sorry. I’m not normally like this.” I searched his eyes, scanned his face, burned the image of his lips to my memory for those solitary moments when I needed to focus on something to get off. I continued. “You said you needed a job. Hotties is always looking for new . . . talent. You’ll make a lot of money for not a lot of work. You’ll have to put up with a lot of old men groping at you now and then, but . . . ah, never mind. C’mon, now. I’ll introduce you to Randy. If things don’t go well, I’ll take you back home. Okay? Whadda you say?”

Elvis appeared to think a moment, then shrugged. “Alright. Sure.”

I turned my back on Elvis and led the way.

“Evening, Troy.” I called out as we walked past the bald, tattooed bartender. Troy nodded his approval and gave a lopsided grin when he saw Elvis.

“So who’s Randy?” Elvis asked following behind me like a puppy dog.

I stopped just outside an unmarked door at the other end of the bar.

“Randy is . . .” I tried to find the most diplomatic way of responding. “He is the sleazy, mother fucking ex-lawyer that stole this joint out from under me.”

Elvis raised an eyebrow at me. “And you want to introduce me to him? No thanks. I don’t need a job that bad. Take me home.” Elvis shuffled uncomfortably and looked down at his feet. “Besides . . . what if . . . what if I told you that I lied and that I’m really six . . .”

But I didn’t hear the rest. Panic clutched my chest and choked the air from my lungs. I couldn’t breathe. Without realizing it, I reached out and grabbed him. My hands wrapped around his throat. For a moment, everything went electric blue. I felt myself falling into an abyss as a stabbing pain shot through the right side of my brain.

Then I felt his hands on my forearm.

“You little shit!” I released him, realizing what I was doing and that there were people around. “You told me in the car, on the way up, that you were 19!”

“Relax Daddy-O! I’m only joking. I’m totally legal. I’ll show you my I.D. if you want.” Elvis massaged his neck while I ran a hand through my hair and sighed heavily. “What are you, anyway? Bi-polar or something? You were so nice in the car on the drive up here.”

“I told you earlier. I’m not nice. Especially when little shits like you lie to me about their age!”

But I wasn’t all that bad. Not really. Not all the time, anyway. At least, that’s what I liked to think. I knew how it must look from his point of view. Only, how could I tell him I was in lust with him from the moment I saw him? How could I tell him that sometimes people acted as if they hated someone to mask their attraction to that person? How could I tell him that the minute he walked through the office door I would no longer be able to touch him even if I was lucky enough to have him beg and plead? How could I tell him that he would belong to Randy until Randy grew tired of him?

I felt something I had not felt in a long time; an intense pity mingled with sadness. But I had to take care of myself first. No one else would do it for me. Another jab of pain stabbed through my brain. A migraine approached, threatening to possess me.

“I’m sorry, Elvis. I really am. But I have issues. Lots of them. I told you the truth in the parking lot outside the bookstore. I’m really not that nice. Not matter what you think.”

Then he did something that took me by surprise. He kissed me. It wasn’t anything passionate; there was no tongue and we didn’t swap spit. But it was sweet and gentle and it burned my lips.

“I don’t think, Daddy. I know.” Elvis said. “I know you’re a good man.”

At that moment I would have done anything he asked; it didn’t matter how old he was. I turned from him quickly and barged into Randy’s office.

Freddy, the latest addition to Randy’s twinkie collection, scrambled to cover himself and get away but one of Randy’s wrinkled, meaty hands, at the small of the boy’s back, held him in place.

“Son of a bitch!” Randy bellowed, running his hands through his pure white hair. He got up off his knees with an agility that belied his 75 years. “Don’t you ever fucking knock? Get the hell outta here. I’m busy!”

It was a good thing my fists were in my pockets. It took every ounce of determination to keep from punching his lights out; but I had to keep my cool. The man may have stolen Hotties away from me, but, at least he’d managed to keep me out of jail.

“I have something for you.” I stepped aside. “This is Elvis.”

“You didn’t tell me he was old!” Elvis turned to me and muttered.

“Shut up . . . Kid!” I said under my breath and nudged him forward.

“Elvis, huh?” Randy approached, mesmerized. His eyes twinkled like those of a young boy looking at his first girlie magazine. Elvis stood as though he were in the military, at ease; but I could tell there was a part of him that was repulsed by the old buzzard circling him like a hawk. Beside me, Freddy tied the sash from his robe around his waist and tossed his nose up in the air.

“Where’d you find this one?” Randy rubbed his chin and licked his chops.

“A book store.” I replied.

“Book store, huh? You a hustler?” Randy asked Elvis.

“Excuse me?” Elvis looked insulted.

“A legitimate book store.” I added.

Randy tsked and tossed me a look. He turned his attention back to Elvis.

“Strip.” Randy commanded.

“What?” Elvis and Freddy chimed together.

“You deaf or something? I said strip. Pronto.” Randy shouted.

“What kind of interview is this?” Elvis glance at me. I looked away. Another shot of pain stabbed through my brain. My vision started to sparkle at the edges.

“Randy.” Freddy piped in and explained. “You don’t need any new dancers right now. You got me.”

“Shut up!” Randy barked. “This isn’t about dancing.”

“It’s not? But I thought . . . ” Elvis started.

“Will you please strip for me?” Randy said quietly, almost hypnotically, changing tactics.

“But Randy . . . ” Freddy whined and stepped forward. I grabbed the boy and pulled him to me. Freddy yanked himself free and watched unwillingly.

“Go ahead, Elvis.” Randy coaxed.

There was a moment where I thought Elvis would bolt. He looked revolted; not only by Randy’s suggestion, but the mere sight of him. But Elvis was a good boy. He stayed rooted to the spot and did as he was told. Randy admired the mini strip show while Freddy looked vaguely uncertain about his future.

Elvis dropped his pants and kicked his clothes aside. He stood boldly naked in the center of the room, as if he had just stepped out of a Caravaggio painting. His muscled body glistened with a light sheen of sweat. His olive skin intoxicated me. Images of golden bourbon, turgid nipples, fingers teasing, lips and tongues, filled my mind. My mouth watered, longing to lick every square inch of his flesh and drink of his youth. Elvis was . . . beautiful.

His growing erection only made matters worse.

I cleared my throat. Then I spotted the open bottle of bourbon on Randy’s desk. I snatched it up and downed a couple of shots.

“You’ve outdone yourself this time.” Randy said absent-mindedly as he circled Elvis a second time. Elvis winced as Freddy cupped his pectorals then traced a line down his belly to his cock. I watched as Randy wrapped a hand around Elvis’s meaty hard-on.

“What a fuckin’ beautiful cock.” Randy looked up into Elvis’ eyes and licked his lips. Then he released the boy’s erection and cupped his hairless balls, feeling their weight.

Beside me, Freddy whined like an ignored puppy dog.

“You’re heavy with cum. How long has it been?” Randy asked softly as if there were no one else in the room but them.

Elvis shrugged and cleared his throat. His breath was ragged.

“Young, hung and fulla cum.” Randy growled and chuckled. “Just the way I like ‘em.”

Another stab of pain jabbed inside my head and a spasm nearly choked me. I could tell it was going to be a bad one.

“He play with you on the way up?” Randy asked, his eyes still on Elvis.

“No, he didn’t.” Elvis turned to me. “I wanted him to, but . . . he didn’t.” I figured there was no point in arguing. Randy would only get pissed.

“Really?” Randy arched an eyebrow. “You know the old gray mare just ain’t what she used to be.” Randy traced a line from the heavy balls, up across Elvis’ hip, then to his round, taut, plump ass. You could have bounced a quarter off it. Randy cupped the solid, muscled glute, then spanked him.

“Oh, God!” I moaned and rolled my eyes. I could have shot in my pants.

Randy looked up at me suddenly as if I had just appeared.

“I suppose you’ll want your usual commission?”

“Commission?!” Elvis turned to me.

“Your friend didn’t tell you?” Randy chuckled. He turned to me. “Shame on you, taking advantage of such a sweet, beautiful, innocent young boy like Elvis.” Randy grinned maliciously then turned back to Elvis. “He brings up boys he thinks I might like, or, that I could use on stage. And for that service, I pay him a . . . finder’s fee. It’s one of our many little . . . agreements.” Randy turned back to me. “So? The usual?”

“I want double.” I managed, taking another swig. The music outside was starting to bother me. The light made me wince.

“Double?!” Randy eyed me curiously.

“He’s worth it. Don’t you think?”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” Randy turned his attention back to Elvis. “Bend over, son.”

“Uh, Randy?” Freddy squeaked. “What about me?”

“There is no you.” Randy replied, dismissing Freddy.

“But Randy!” Freddy protested.

“Shut up. Get out. You can spend the night with Prancer. And make sure you pick up your things tomorrow.”

“But . . . ” Freddy started again.

“Get him outta here before I throw him out.” Randy snapped at me, then flipped his hand dismissively. He turned back to Elvis, placed a hand on the boy’s face and caressed him. My stomach turned.

“C’mon, Freddy.” I took a final swig of bourbon and put the bottle down. “Let’s go.” I walked toward him and put a hand on his shoulder. He pulled away from me.

“But I haven’t even been here three months!” Freddy blubbered. “You . . . you promised I’d be top dancer! You told me you’d take me to Disney World! Please, Randy. Don’t do this to me. I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll make those movies you want me to make. I’ll even let you pimp me out like we talked about last night when we were fucking!”

“C’mon, kid. Don’t make it harder on yourself.” I grabbed at him again.

“Stop it! Don’t . . . touch me, you . . . you . . . pervert!” Freddy fought me but I managed to twist his arm behind his back, even with the exploding pain in my head. I pushed Freddy out into the hallway and locked the door.

“Now that it’s just the three of us, will you please bend over for me, Elvis?”

“C’mon, Randy.” I started. “Can’t you do this later?”

“No. I want you to watch.” Randy replied maliciously, then turned back to Elvis. “Now, Elvis. I’d like you to bend over.”

“What for?” Elvis asked nervously, slowly hunching forward. “What are you gonna do?”

“I want to see if you’re worth what your . . . friend . . . is asking.” Randy glanced over at me. “Before he passes out that is.”

Elvis turned to me with what I thought was a worried look.

“Oh, don’t worry about him.” Randy assured Elvis. “Just pretend he’s not even here. Now . . . will you be a good little boy and bend over for Randy?”

Elvis leaned over with trepidation, hands on his knees. Grinning wickedly, Randy sucked on the length of his middle finger with relish, then rammed it up Elvis’ ass. The boy grit his teeth against the sudden intrusion and did his best to keep from crying out. I shook my head and felt like the most insignificant piece of dirt. I hated myself and what I’d become. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

I watched through my pain as Randy pulled his finger out, sniffed it the way he would a fine cigar, then sucked on it.

“Hmmmm. That’s a yummy hole.” Randy pronounced his approval.

“Jesus!” Elvis complained. “Next time use some fuckin lube, man! I need a little more than just spit.”

Randy ignored the remark and stepped behind his desk. He sat down and pulled a green ledger from a locked drawer.

“Please put your clothes back on and have a seat, Elvis. We’re going to have a lovely conversation just as soon as I take care of business.”

Randy turned to my page in his book. He traced a finger down the long list of figures I knew he’d written there and finally stopped. He looked up at me.

“You’re almost all paid up.” Randy stated.

“I know.” I managed, my eyes on his.

“How’s about a little deal?” Randy leaned forward on his elbows.

“What kind of deal?” I asked suspiciously.

“I’ll forget about your balance, right now, if you sign the rest of the club over to me and walk away. I’ll even throw in five thousand dollars. Cash.”

“Fuck you, Randy.” Then I moaned from a deliciously wicked brain spasm that threatened to take me down.

“You’ll be free and clear.” Randy pointed out.

“Fifty grand. Right here, right now. And I walk away.” I countered through the oncoming fog. But Randy was not to be swayed. He got up dramatically from the chair behind his desk and stepped to the small safe in the corner. He fiddled with the dial, opened the door and pulled out several stacks of lovely greenbacks. Randy purposely left the safe open and tossed the money on his desk. The bundles made an impressive thud that was more than tempting.

“Don’t be stupid. It’s a generous offer for a man who has nothing.” Randy explained as if speaking to a child. I glanced at the open safe. From what I could see there was a hell of a lot more than fifty grand. I wondered briefly if Randy had been cooking the books. A sharp twinge of pain quickly pushed the thought from my mind. I managed to swallow and stand my ground.

“Fifty grand.” I insisted, feeling myself start to sway. The pain shook me to the core but I refused to go just yet.

“Ten grand.” Randy countered, still seated. “That’s my final offer.”

“Fuck you, Randy!” I held on to the edge of the desk, but I could feel myself begin to sway. Somewhere in the growing fog I heard Elvis gasp as the blackness closed in on me.

“Why don’t you go home and sleep on it?” Randy said, his voice dripping with what sounded like concern. “I don’t think you’re in any kind of position to make decisions with that bad headache coming on.”

“Suck my dick, old man!” I managed.

Randy laughed. “You are one stubborn mother fucker.”

“And you’re an asshole!” I muttered as I finally let go of Randy’s desk.

And then I passed out.

Sex Offenders: Chapter One

2007-06-13T23:34:00.000-04:00

Once upon a time I was voted most likely to succeed. But that was a long time ago. It actually meant something to me then. I was fresh. Young. I believed in fairy tales. I don’t anymore. I’m too jaded and way too much time has passed in between. Now, I sit in the cafe of yet another bookstore chain, drinking yet another cup of overpriced coffee whose name I can’t even pronounce.

But, at least, it’s something I can believe in. Something I can touch. That’s all I believe in these days. Things I can touch. Things I can feel with my bare hands. Love? Ideals? Dreams? Fuck ‘em. Fuck ‘em all.

And you can keep yours. I don’t need them. Besides, I had my own once. They’ve all long since faded. I no longer have dreams. I no longer believe in love. And the only ideal left to me is the present. It’s all I have left.

So I sit in the cafe.

And I slurp on my coffee the way a cocksucking sugar junkie slobbers over a long neck bottle of Mountain Dew. And I wonder. What the fuck happened? I was going to live large and breathe easy. I was going to have the fat bank account, the swanky bachelor pad, the freedom to jet myself all over the world. I was going to write the great American novel, hobnob with cool cat jazz artists, mingle with the Hollywood elite. I always saw myself with a drink in hand, a fine, handmade cigarette dangling from my lips, pulled from one of those fancy silver cases.

And hotties.

Troves of beautiful boys parading in and out of my apartment. All that beautiful, smooth, young flesh; brilliant, hopeful eyes, barely touched body parts that I would be the first to devour and spoil. All of them looking up to me, touching me, sighing and moaning with delight in my ear as I played their naked bodies the way an expert musician strokes his instrument.

Instead, I sit in the cafe, staring out into space, thinking.

I was no where I had intended to be. Hell, I wasn’t even close. I was no place, feeling useless and insignificant. That’s why it’s good not to think about things you once looked forward to, things that might have been. You don’t want to fill your head up with too much upbeat crap; none of it ever comes to pass.

And none of it is ever as satisfying as you thought it would be.

I guess that’s what happens when you have too much future on your hands to reflect on the past in your mind. Sad thing is that life pretty much sucks. And yet, I don’t have the balls to end it.

The boy most likely to succeed. Jesus. What a load of crap.

Now, success meant getting out of bed in the morning without too much effort, waking up without something hurting or scraping together enough money to buy a pack of smokes. True success was coming home and flipping a light switch or picking up the phone and getting one more day of service before they cut you off.

And so I sit. In the cafe. With my nearly empty cup of coffee. And I just wait for the parade to continue passing me by.

I pulled a cigarette out from the pack on the little, round table and lit up. I closed my eyes, took a deep, lonnnnnnng drag and instantly felt myself unwind.

Nearby, someone clicked their tongue; another muttered under their breath. I tuned the fuckers out. I exhaled and opened my eyes. That’s when I saw him.

A hottie.

I’d only seen him everyday for nearly a week, yet something about him seemed oddly familiar. He was a short, dark haired, latin beauty; stacked firm, round where he needed to be and fully packed. My mouth watered at the sudden images that filtered through my mind, the burning sensation that made my fingertips twitch.

“Sir?” Someone asked insipidly beside me. I ignored him.

The latin hottie stood between the two magazine racks, flipping pages, pretending to be interested in what he was reading. I imagined what his youth would taste like, the sounds he would make.

“Excuse me, Sir!” The owner of the voice stepped in front of me, blocking my view.

“What?”

“You can’t smoke in here. This is a non-smoking establishment.”

“Is that so?” I asked nonchalant. Christ, it was getting so a man couldn’t pick his own poison anymore. At least not in public anyway. Do what you want, just don’t tell them about it and don’t let them see you. Go away and crawl into a hole so no one sees you die. Then, when enough time passed and you stink up the place, they’ll come knocking on your door. If you’re lucky, you’ll have a couple of minutes on the evening news and some stupid schmuck will have his moment of glory by telling society what a nice, quiet person they thought you were.

I took another deep drag.

“I’m sorry, Sir. If you insist on smoking I’m going to have to ask you to leave.” The little piss ant crossed his arms, trying to look managerial. And all I wanted to do was laugh. Throw him over my knees and spank his sorry ass until he realized that he was no better than the tattered, yellowed, cum-filled rags I used to clean myself with every time I jerk off.

The dying boy took a step back as I stood and gave him the once over. I could tell he was cute once. Full of ambition and dreams. Maybe he, too, had been voted boy mostly likely to succeed.

Now, he was at that age, well on his way to becoming a zombie. I could see it in his eyes. The needy, clingy, pleading look as life pushed him further into his dark little box and sucked the life juice out of him. Already the silent scream, the one that would one day be so fucking loud it would wake him up in the middle of the night, was building inside him. It was a scream only he would hear. You know the one. You have one, too. You hear it in the still darkness of night when doubt, fear, negativity keep you awake and pacing in the deepest, darkest hour of your soul.

We all share in that silent scream.

Strangely, I actually felt sorry for him. If he hadn’t been so prissy he could have been a hottie. Under different circumstances, I might have even thrown him a bone. Instead, I looked him square in the eye and exhaled cigarette smoke in his face. He stood and blinked at me, forcing himself not to choke or gag. The little fucker’s defiant stance aroused me for a brief moment.

“If you ever feel like a good fuck, come up to Hotties and look for me.” I smiled and winked at him. His mouth opened and closed, stunned into silence.

I picked up my coffee, the battered pack of cigarettes and strode past him. I felt the stares behind me, but more importantly, the latin hottie looked up and stared before me. He stood, feet firmly planted, rock solid. His head was cocked to one side, like a curious puppy dog. He went back to his magazine, but not before I detected a coy smile.

Cockteaser! I snarled to myself. He was ripe and needed to be broken. But he was too young; just learning the truth at seventeen.

I brushed past him.

“Excuse me.” He said uncertainly.

I felt his heat and sniffed at the air around him. He was like a deep hit of fresh poppers; his aroma made my head spin. The boy was definitely ready to be juiced.

Jailbait! Jailbait! A tiny cricket voice went off somewhere in my brain. And I listened. I couldn’t put myself through that again.

I walked out to the parking lot and made my way to the beat up Mustang convertible I called Rusty. It was an eyesore but it still chugged and purred; like a young boy after his first orgasm, after Daddy takes him for his first ride.

I threw the car in gear, ready to pull out, when the latin hottie approached. My heart pounded, my breath shortened, my dick stiffened. The boy looked down at me and smiled. In the setting sun, with that beautiful smile, puffy red lips and pearly whites, I almost felt myself shiver. My eyes nearly rolled back into my head with the untold, perverse pleasures I just knew he could fill me with.

But I said nothing because nothing good ever comes out of speaking first. My words always got me in trouble no matter how well intentioned. I remained silent and let the boy speak his mind first. There was an uncomfortable moment where he put his hands on the door and his fingers brushed against my forearm. The hairs stood up on end.

“Nice car.” The latin hottie finally managed.

I nodded in response. Inside, I was boiling. My throat was parched and he was my lemonade, my refreshment. I licked my lips without even realizing I was doing it, longing to drink from the fountain of his youth. The boy pressed his bulge against my skin. I glanced about nervously.

“Kid, if you’re looking for what I think you’re looking for, you better take it elsewhere.”

“How do you know what I’m looking for?”

“I’ve been around. I know what you want.”

“Oh yeah? Wanna tell me what I want?” The boy teased. I looked up into the big, brown melt-my-heart-eyes. I bit my lower lip and looked away.

“What do you want?”

“Actually, I’m kinda looking for a job, Daddy-O. I need some money.” The little pup leaned into my car and flashed a million dollar smile at me.

“Forget it, Son. This Daddy doesn’t pay for flesh and I’ve long since run outta Sugar.”

“C’mon, Daddy-O. I’m not like that. Not at all. I just need a job. Really.”

I sighed deeply. Something didn’t feel right, but, you know that moment when you know you shouldn’t say yes? The moment when you know that if you give in you’re only going to make matters worse for yourself? And in that split second, I knew my life would change forever. I couldn’t help it. I had no control.

“Okay. I’ll bite.” I looked him in the eye and caved. “What kinda work you looking for?”

The latin hottie gave it some thought, then shrugged.

“I dunno. Maybe you need something painted? Or something? Or . . . maybe you got something that needs fixing? I’m real good with my hands.” He lowered his head. “Anyways . . . that’s what my Dad used to say.”

“Used to?”

“I don’t wanna talk about it.”

“Do yourself a favor, kid. Cut the drama. This isn’t The Young and The Restless.”

I put the car in gear and pulled out of the spot.

“Wait!” He called out. I hit the break and stopped short. Rusty didn’t like that. He gurgled and rumbled like an empty stomach. The latin hottie approached again. “Please. I really do need a job. Help a guy out?”

“If you need a job why aren’t you pounding the streets the way other normal people do it?”

The kid smiled and shrugged.

“Okay. So I lied.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“Well, not about the job part. I really do need one! I just . . . well, you seemed like a nice guy.”

“I’m not.”

“I wanted to meet you.”

“We’ve met. Now goodbye.” I took my foot off the break and the car started to move. The boy held on. He was hungry. That was good, intoxicating even, but it was scary.

“Take me home?” He practically pleaded.

I stopped the car.

“Where do you live?”

“Oh . . . uh. I kinda meant . . . your place.” The boy licked his lips.

“Don’t you have a home of your own?”

“Not anymore.” The boy turned his head and looked off in the distance as if he were trying not to think of something.

“You don’t look homeless.”

“I’m not.” He turned his eyes back to me and stared through to an exposed part of my soul. I fought back.

“There’s gotta be another twink you can shack up with.”

“Twink?” I couldn’t tell if he was insulted or just didn’t know the word.

“Listen, kid. Take my advice, for whatever it’s worth. Go find yourself a sugar daddy or frat boy ‘cause I can’t help you.”

“Can’t a guy just be out to have some fun?”

“Fun is one thing, but, kid . . . you’re trouble. With a capital T. I can smell it all over you.”

The latin boy looked down at my crotch and gave a slow grin.

“Yeah. And I can tell you just love trouble.”

He looked into my eyes. Something inside me bubbled and boiled.

I didn’t believe him. I knew there’d be hell to pay. But, I’m a sucker for young, fresh smiles and thick batting eyelashes on my latin boys. I thought a moment. It would be good to see him swinging from a dance pole. He’d bring in a lot of old men with social security money burning through their pockets. Who knows? If I was lucky I might even get a hefty finder’s fee.

“Tell me something, kid. Exactly how old . . . ” I started. But there was really no point in asking his age. Half the time they lied anyway. Other times, it was best not to know. That way, later on you could deny it ever happened; just in case they ever got to feeling guilty about something they instigated and slapped you in the face with their embarrassment decades later, when you’re too old to remember.

“So?” Hottie looked down at me with those large, questioning brown eyes.

“I know I’m gonna regret this, but, shut up and get in.”

He scrambled around the front of the car and jumped into the passenger seat. I looked at him sitting there, smiling eagerly, anxious to go. I couldn’t help wonder about his age. I had to ask though I was afraid what his answer might be.

“Are you . . . legal?”

“What if I’m not? You just gonna leave me by the side of the road?”

“You got here somehow. You can get back to where you came from on your own, I’m sure. You’re not gonna mess up my life.”

Hottie sulked and looked away from me, his arms across his built chest. Somehow, his pouty lips made him even hotter and I weakened completely. Like the first step of my recovery process, I realized I was powerless and my life had become unmanageable. I pulled out of the parking lot and peeled down the road cutting off a bunch of geezers older than me.

“What’s your name, kid?” I asked.

“Elvis.”

“Elvis?” I laughed. Christ. Only latinos could name their kids Jesus or Elvis and get away with it. “You mean like The King?”

“The King?” The boy let his youth and inexperience show.

“Yeah. The King. You know. Elvis Presley?”

“I guess.” Elvis shrugged and grinned. “Something wrong with my name?”

“No, kid. Nothing, wrong with Elvis. Absolutely nothing wrong at all.”

“What about you?” Elvis asked.

“What about me?”

“What’s your name?” The boy asked.

“Call me Daddy.” I replied after a moment.

“Okay. Anything you say. Daddy.” Elvis smiled and put his hand on my thigh. Two old geezers in a convertible ogled us as they drove past.

“So, Elvis. Are you? Legal?”

Elvis smiled as he lowered his head to my lap. He unzipped me. To my left, keeping pace, the old men grinned and gave me the thumbs up.

I took a deep breath, then slowly exhaled as Elvis began to please me. I only hoped I didn’t spin out of control and into oncoming traffic.

Sex Offenders: An Introduction

2007-06-13T22:38:00.000-04:00

"Sex Offenders" is a work in progress. It tells the story of a man pushing 50; a man with a lifetime of broken dreams and denied expectations. I have purposely left him nameless.

I look forward to your comments and feedback. And if any of you reading this blog are literary agents or publishers looking for new material, I'm looking for a contract!