SEX OFFENDERS:Chapter Five

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:Interlude 1 - Elvis Is Leaving The Building

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

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

And yet, he lay there, unable to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you!” Elvis snapped, defiant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Away.” Elvis shoved everything into his knapsack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m 19, Ma. I’m a grown-up now.”

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

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

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

“Not going to college.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But this is your home.” Lydia protested.

There was a moment of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none came.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEX OFFENDERS: Chapter Three

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Sex Offenders: Chapter One

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