Welcome Back, Benny

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then came his Line:
Only one. My Dad.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But I passed out before anything further developed.

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.” Elvis mumbled and lowered his head.

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

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

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

“Or lack of,” Elvis muttered.

“What was that? I didn’t catch it.”

“Nothing.”

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

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

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

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

“Nothing.” I said, shaking my head.

“Well, then? Why are you laughing?”

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

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

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

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

“What do you mean?” I asked impatiently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I don’t know.” I shrugged.

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

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

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

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

“You’ll think I’m crazy.”

“Try me.”

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

“Randy? Are you sure?”

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

“Firebird convertible.” We both said in unison.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do I? Turn you on?”

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

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

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

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

“But I thought you already had a father?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why?”

“For crying like this after so many years.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so it started. A longing. A craving.

And I listened.

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

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

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

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

And he was making his presence known.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“For crying. In front of you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Elvis said nothing. He merely held me.

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

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

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

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

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

But addictions always win.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SEX OFFENDERS:Interlude 1 - Elvis Is Leaving The Building

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

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

And yet, he lay there, unable to move.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Fuck you!” Elvis snapped, defiant.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Away.” Elvis shoved everything into his knapsack.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m 19, Ma. I’m a grown-up now.”

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

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

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

“Not going to college.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“But this is your home.” Lydia protested.

There was a moment of silence.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But none came.

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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