Where The Boys Are (27 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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“Tell me something,” he’s saying, eyeing me. “Is it true you’re whoring yourself?”
I laugh. “Well, finally, Brent, you’re the last to learn a very juicy piece of gossip.” I level my eyes with his. “Yes, it’s true. I’m an escort. Big deal. I don’t care who knows anymore. All that’s different between me and everybody else here is that I actually
have
sex—and get paid two hundred bucks a pop for the effort.”
Brent smiles. “I pass no judgment on you, Henry. Don’t get all huffy. In fact, I think it’s awesome. More power to you. I’d do the same thing if it wasn’t for the thought of all those potbellied trolls who’d want to hire me.”
I feel defensive of my clients. “They’re not all trolls.”
Brent flicks his wrist at me like an auntie. “The point is, Henry, when I saw your photo on a Web site a few weeks ago, I was just hurt that you never told me.” He takes a sip of his drink. His blue eyes peer at me from over his glass. “I thought we were better friends than that.”
“Better friends?”
I make a face. “Brent, I’ve
never
confided anything to you.
Ever.
”
Brent frowns. “No, I guess you haven’t.” He sighs. “I wish you would, though. I tell you stuff all the time.”
“You do not.”
“I
do.
I tell you about who I trick with. Who I fall in love with. Which, granted, happens every other week, but still I tell you. I tell you
all
about every trip I ever take. I’m always telling you about the parties you miss, Henry. I’m always keeping you up to date.” He positions himself a little aggressively in front of me. “Who’s the one who’s always inviting you out to Geoffrey’s for breakfast or to Club Cafe for happy hour? Not Jeff O’Brien, Henry.
Me.
When I walk into a club, you’re always the very first person I talk to. Can you say that about
him?”
Our eyes hold each other. In his own way, Brent has a point.
“Henry Weiner, I consider you one of my best friends in the entire world.”
Brent sounds a little emotional. Sure, it’s the drugs and the alcohol, but in his own fucked-up way, Brent’s being sincere. And trying—as best as he knows how—to tell me that he
cares.
I smile. “Okay, Brent. I’ll confide something to you.”
“What?” he asks eagerly.
“If I found a husband tonight, I’d give it all up.”
“The escorting?”
I nod. “Yeah. And this, too. All this traipsing around to party after party. I’d settle down, watch figure skating on TV on Saturday nights, get up early on Sunday to go get doughnuts and the paper. Maybe get a dog.”
Brent shakes his head. “No, you only need the dog when you’re single, Henry. My pug, Clara, not only keeps the bed warm but offers the perfect conversation-starter walking on Tremont Street. I
adore
Clara, but truth is, once you’re married, you don’t need a dog anymore.”
I smile. “So how come
you
haven’t found a husband, Brent?”
He looks away. “Husbands before the age of thirty-five never last. They just break your heart.”
I try to find his gaze, but he keeps his eyes averted. Was there some pain in his words? Some hidden human experience to Brent Whitehead?
He turns back to me, cocky again. “I think thirty-five is the best age to settle down. I’ve got two years left to go. Then I’ll consider settling down. Not too young that I’ll be missing out on anything, but also not too old that I’m being forced into retirement.” He grins. “I want to go out when I’m still on top. Like
The Mary Tyler Moore Show.”
I laugh in return. “You know, under your nasty little exterior, Brent, you’re not such a bad guy.”
He beams. “You
see,
Henry? I can be a
much
better best friend than Jeff O’Brien.”
“Did I hear my name?”
It’s Jeff. He’s pushing his way toward us, slipping his torso past others just as buff and wet and glistening as he is.
“Only to say that here you come again,” Brent sniffs.
“Lookin’ better than a body has a right to,”
Jeff sings in response. No one laughs. He makes an exasperated face.
“Get
it? Dolly Parton?
‘Here you come again?’ ”
“And here I go,”
Brent sings back. He winks at me. “Ta, Henry. I’ll be in touch.” He moves off back to the dance floor, cocking his squirt gun.
“What’s up with
him?”
Jeff leans over the bar to order waters for the troops he’s left behind on the dance floor. He makes a face as he hands over the cash. “Christ, I’ll have to liquidate my 401k to pay for all this.” He moves in close to me. “So how come you’re not dancing?”
“Oh. You noticed.”
Jeff frowns. “Are you mad at me for something?”
I sigh. “I’m not
mad
at you, Jeff. What would be the point?”
“Oh, God, you
are
mad at me.”
“I’m not mad at you. Go
on.
Before Anthony trots off with someone else.”
Jeff smirks. “Not likely.” God, he can be such an arrogant fuck.
I shake my finger at him. I don’t care if he calls me an old schoolmarm. “Don’t hurt him, Jeff,” I scold. “He’s still too JV to understand you.”
“Look, Anthony
may
be a little junior-varsity, but he’s learning fast.”
“Then how come he’s not savvy enough to see that you and Lloyd are still just as entangled as ever?”
Jeff unscrews the cap of a bottled water and takes a slug. “I don’t intend to hurt Anthony,” he says seriously.
“You never
intend
to hurt
any
of them.” I pause, looking away. “You just do.”
“It’s over with Lloyd. Henry, I realized it that day at the opening party. He’s made his bed, and as far as I am concerned, he can now sleep with her and get it over with. He won’t even
listen
when I try to offer my insights into her. So it’s
over.
Anthony’s totally into me, and I should just be grateful for that.”
“But you don’t even know the first thing about him.”
Jeff begins ticking off points on the fingers of his left hand. “I know that he’s kind. He’s sincere. He’s smart. He’s compassionate.” He takes another swig of water. “He’s even dancing better, don’t you think?”
“Haven’t been paying attention,” I lie. “Okay, so he may be kind and smart and all that, but he still disappears once a week. Who knows what’s up with that?”
Jeff creases his brow, looking at me.
“Don’t do that,” I warn. “Wrinkles.”
“What’s going on with you?” Jeff asks. “Why are you trying to burst my balloon?”
“I’m sorry. But have you ever found out where he goes when he disappears?”
“I don’t want to know,” Jeff replies, but he doesn’t convince me. “Not until Anthony wants to tell me himself. You’ve got to trust somebody if you’re going to be in a relationship.”
I try to smile. “It’s so easy for you, Jeff. You know that? Let me tell you something. This guy hires me last week. He was just forty. Not all that much older than you.”
Jeff scowls. “Your point is?”
“He was good-looking, smart, successful. But
lonely,
Jeff. So goddamn lonely. Do you know why he hired me? No worship scenes, no kinky stuff. Not even any sex. He hired me just so he could
hold
someone. That’s all we did for the hour. Just laid there and held each other.”
“Two hundred bucks for just lying there?” Jeff smiles. “Give him
my
number.”
“You don’t get it.”
Jeff moves in close, nose to nose. “I
do,
Henry. I’m just trying to have fun. Why do you get all serious when we’re supposed to be having a good time?”
I glare at him. “The guys who hire me are so much more in touch with what’s
real
than any of these guys here.”
Jeff frowns. “Come on, Henry. The guys who hire you are closeted, scared—”
“Real,
Jeff. They’re
real.”
“The guy with the
shoes,
Henry.
He
was real?”
I pull away from him. “Look around you, Jeff. Look at these guys. Guys who don’t want to grow up. I mean, come
on,
Jeff. Isn’t it a bit odd that thirty-year-old men know the lyrics to
Britney Spears
songs?”
“You
own every one of her CDs,” Jeff reminds me, poking me in the chest with his finger. “And Christina Aguilera, and let’s not forget Destiny’s Child—”
“I’m including myself in this,” I insist. “I’m just tired off the immaturity. The narcissism.”
“Uh, hello? Who’s made a career out of his own narcissism?”
“That’s not what it’s about anymore for me. It’s changed. Jeff, what I want is something
real.
Some basic human interaction. Half of these guys here won’t talk to you, won’t say hello. It’s all attitude.”
“That’s not so, Henry, and you know it. You’re just feeling sorry for yourself.”
“It
is
so. Everybody’s so self-absorbed. ‘Look at me, look at me.’ Don’t deny it, Jeff. You’re caught in that same body image trap. You can’t have sex with somebody unless you feel your body is in perfect shape. That’s
fucked,
Jeff.”
“I thought you felt the same way,” he says.
“I’m thinking it’s time I wake up. This scene is all about guys with too much time and too much money on their hands. Privileged white guys who can afford to jet-set around the continent—”
“Hold on just a fucking minute, Henry.”
Okay, I know I’m tapping a nerve here. So much nasty stuff has been written about circuit boys and circuit culture that Jeff has long had an immediate, visceral, defensive reaction.
“These are
not
all white guys here,” he snaps. “And yes, I wonder sometimes about priorities, too, about how I’m spending my money. And yes maybe our body image has gotten fucked up. Maybe we
can
be narcissistic posers at times. I’ll look at that about myself, Henry.” Jeff pauses. “But don’t assume all these boys were born to privilege.
I
wasn’t.
You
weren’t, either.”
I stand my ground. “But we’re privileged
now,
Jeff. Even if we struggle, we find the cash for airfare, for hotel rooms, for drugs.”
Jeff has no reply. I know I’ve stumped him with that one. Jeff’s always been so sensitive to class stuff. Especially now, with the bank account Javitz left him. I keep going.
“And everybody pumped up with X or K or G or whatever they use. Ambulances routinely parked outside clubs. Is that craziness or what?”
“I say it’s taking realistic precautions. Like passing out condoms.” He’s being stubborn.
“What goes up,” I warn,
“must come down,
Jeff.”
He looks at me with concern. “Is that what this is all about? You did some K, didn’t you? You’re going into a K-hole.”
I just sigh impatiently. “Jeff, I’m going back to the hotel. I’m tired of coming to these things and not meeting anyone. At least when I escort I connect with someone. There’s
contact.
There’s
intimacy.
”
Jeff puts his arms around me. “You just need to come out and
dance,
buddy.”
“Yeah, for what? So that some guy can paw me and we can suck each other’s tongues and then once the drugs wear off we’ll each go home alone and realize our Prince Charmings were just fucked-up, nameless party boys?”
Jeff rests his forehead against mine. “You want to get all cerebral here, buddy?” he whispers. “You want to talk culture and theory here on the sidelines while they’re mixing in Pepper MaShay out on the dance floor? Okay, Henry, let’s do it, then. I’ll go there with you. I’ll admit to you that gay culture celebrates the ephemeral while always yearning for the eternal. But one does not necessarily nullify the other. Maybe it’s just fleeting, and maybe a lot of it
does
have to do with the drugs, but you know as well as I do that what happens out there on the dance floor is just as
real
as anything you’ve experienced with your johns. Go ahead and lump all circuit boys into one big, fleshy mass just because you’re feeling lonely. But you know it’s not true. You can either stand here and feel sorry for yourself or go back to the room and jerk off to a Falcon video, or you can come back out to the dance floor with me and get back into the swim.”
And then he kisses me. Mouth to mouth, lips to lips, even a little tongue—Jeff kisses me. He’s never done that before. The X must be really having an effect on him. I blink back my surprise.
He pulls back, staring at me. “Well, what’s it going to be?”
I have no idea. I have no idea why suddenly I’m so depressed. Maybe I
am
having a bad reaction to the X. It happens sometimes. Maybe Jeff’s right: I
am
out of the swim, out of the loop, having spent too much time standing on beds while my clients adored me.

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