Where The Boys Are (17 page)
Read Where The Boys Are Online
Authors: William J. Mann
Finally, however, I’ve found a clue. At least what
might
be a clue. Three days ago, while Anthony was still asleep, I’d looked into his wallet. He usually keeps it zipped up in his backpack, and I vowed to myself I wouldn’t snoop. But this time the wallet was on the floor between the living room and the bathroom. He must have dropped it. Lloyd says there are no coincidences or accidents. Everything happens for a reason. That’s what I told myself as I picked it up. It fell open, and I couldn’t resist. Honest, that’s what happened. I chalked it up to the universe giving me permission to pry.
might
be a clue. Three days ago, while Anthony was still asleep, I’d looked into his wallet. He usually keeps it zipped up in his backpack, and I vowed to myself I wouldn’t snoop. But this time the wallet was on the floor between the living room and the bathroom. He must have dropped it. Lloyd says there are no coincidences or accidents. Everything happens for a reason. That’s what I told myself as I picked it up. It fell open, and I couldn’t resist. Honest, that’s what happened. I chalked it up to the universe giving me permission to pry.
Inside, there was no driver’s license, which I’d known about: Anthony had told me that since he’d always lived in cities with good public transportation, he’d let his license lapse. Instead, he had a New York State nondriver identification card, complete with what looked to be a recent photo. There wasn’t much info on the card, just his date of birth—September 30, 1970—and an address, the same Nineteenth Street apartment in Chelsea where we’d spent New Year’s Eve. He’d told me he’d only been there a few weeks, but clearly he must have considered putting down roots if he went for this card. That changed, I figured, once the guy started “liking him too much.” Weren’t those his words?
I didn’t know what else Anthony’s wallet might reveal, but I looked inside. There were a ten, two ones, and three business cards: the florist’s, one from a local coffee shop with three purchases punched through it (with ten, you get a free cup), and Brent’s.
Eeew.
He must have given it to Anthony and said, “Call me.” I had to steel my hand against involuntarily pulling it out and tearing it up.
Eeew.
He must have given it to Anthony and said, “Call me.” I had to steel my hand against involuntarily pulling it out and tearing it up.
But that was it. Nothing else.
Except...
At first I thought it was a credit card. But as I slipped it out from an inside slot, I saw it was a laminated newspaper photograph. The photo of a man about my age: handsome, smiling, and obviously gay. Not queeny or anything like that, but there are some guys you can just
tell.
I can’t describe it, and it wouldn’t hold up as proof for a demanding editor, but I can always make out
something
in the smile, the eyes, or the haircut. This guy was smiling a little too girly, a little too sassily, and his hair was foofy in the way no straight man would wear it. Too combed. Too perfect. Very eighties, in fact, and he was wearing a shirt and narrow tie, vintage 1985. It looked like a corporate headshot. The caption under the picture read:
Robert Riley.
tell.
I can’t describe it, and it wouldn’t hold up as proof for a demanding editor, but I can always make out
something
in the smile, the eyes, or the haircut. This guy was smiling a little too girly, a little too sassily, and his hair was foofy in the way no straight man would wear it. Too combed. Too perfect. Very eighties, in fact, and he was wearing a shirt and narrow tie, vintage 1985. It looked like a corporate headshot. The caption under the picture read:
Robert Riley.
I flipped it over. The photo had indeed been cut out of a newspaper, for there was a section of an article on the back. It read like gibberish, with the beginning and the end of the column cut off, but I considered the words as
evidence
—the way I’d once considered evidence as a journalist. What information might these words, as mangled as they were, reveal?
evidence
—the way I’d once considered evidence as a journalist. What information might these words, as mangled as they were, reveal?
You can always learn
something,
even if it’s merely learning what a particular piece of evidence doesn’t tell you. I studied the words carefully. From what I could deduce, the article on the back was about oil prices, and it contained the end of a quote from someone named “Herrington.” I also took note of the typeface. It seemed familiar, although it wasn’t the
Globe
or the
Herald
or the
New York Times.
something,
even if it’s merely learning what a particular piece of evidence doesn’t tell you. I studied the words carefully. From what I could deduce, the article on the back was about oil prices, and it contained the end of a quote from someone named “Herrington.” I also took note of the typeface. It seemed familiar, although it wasn’t the
Globe
or the
Herald
or the
New York Times.
I replaced the wallet on the floor where I’d found it. By the time I got out of the shower, Anthony was awake and the wallet nowhere to be seen. I made no mention of the photograph. How
could
I, without admitting I’d snooped? But later that day, I hauled out my almanac and discovered John S. Herrington had been secretary of energy under Ronald Reagan from 1985 to 1989. That meant the photograph likely dated from that period. It fit with the guy’s clothes and hairstyle. So that means Anthony would’ve been between the ages of fifteen and nineteen at the time it was taken.
could
I, without admitting I’d snooped? But later that day, I hauled out my almanac and discovered John S. Herrington had been secretary of energy under Ronald Reagan from 1985 to 1989. That meant the photograph likely dated from that period. It fit with the guy’s clothes and hairstyle. So that means Anthony would’ve been between the ages of fifteen and nineteen at the time it was taken.
Who was Robert Riley? It’s a question that’s been haunting me these last few days. I’m barely listening to Taylor Dayne, not even dancing very hard, just staring over into Anthony’s eyes. He suddenly reaches over and begins kissing me. I kiss him back.
“You want some more water?” Anthony asks, pulling his lips free.
The old Ecstasy dry-mouth. I reach around and withdraw the bottle I stuffed down into the back pocket of my jeans. It’s nearly empty.
“Yeah,” I say. Anthony gives me one more sloppy kiss and heads off through the throng to the bar.
I took over at Henry. “Wanta take a break?”
He nods, following me off the dance floor while Shane glowers. “All he has to do is snap his fingers and there you go,” he bitches. Neither of us pays him any mind.
Still, Henry looks concerned about something. “Should we be at all worried that we haven’t seen Brent in over twenty-four hours now?” he asks as we find a piece of wall to lean against.
“Nah.”
Henry raises his eyebrows. “You think he’s okay, then?”
I sneer. “I think he’s probably lying in a ditch somewhere in a coma. But
worry?
I don’t think so.”
worry?
I don’t think so.”
Henry smirks. “Jeff O’Brien, you will feel
so
guilty if that turns out to be true.”
so
guilty if that turns out to be true.”
I dismiss him with a wave of my hand. “So what do you think about Anthony’s dancing? Is there a school somewhere for rhythmically challenged gay boys?”
Henry shakes that damn finger at me again. “That boy is in love with you, Jeff. I can see it happening.”
I sigh, wiping my forehead with the tank top I wore into the club but which has been pushed down into the back of my jeans for most of my time here.
“You just let it happen,” Henry’s scolding. “You knew it would, and you let it happen. Just like you did with that kid from Missouri. And Alexei, the flight attendant.”
I shrug. “Ooops, I did it again.”
He stands with arms akimbo. “Listen, Britney, you’re acting pretty smitten yourself.”
“Okay, Henry.” I roll my eyes, tired of this. “Lecture’s over.”
He meets my glare, nose to nose. “Look, Jeff. I like Anthony. But you still don’t know anything about him. Besides, there’s that little matter of that guy down in Provincetown ...”
“Who I haven’t heard from in almost
two weeks.”
I pull away. “I guess he’s too busy out buying drapes.”
two weeks.”
I pull away. “I guess he’s too busy out buying drapes.”
“Maybe
you
should call him. Did you send any flowers or anything when they closed on the house?”
you
should call him. Did you send any flowers or anything when they closed on the house?”
I look at him askance. “Why are you turning into Miss Manners all of a sudden?”
“I just worry about you.”
I laugh out loud. “This from the guy who’s a corporate honcho by day and a streetwalker by night.”
Henry crosses his arms over his chest. “I do
not
walk the streets.”
not
walk the streets.”
“No. Just the highways and byways of cyberspace.”
“Is this your way of telling me you’re worried about
me,
too?” Henry smiles. “Aw, Jeff. You’re such a
doll.”
He reaches over and kisses my cheek. “But I’m fine.”
me,
too?” Henry smiles. “Aw, Jeff. You’re such a
doll.”
He reaches over and kisses my cheek. “But I’m fine.”
I harrumph. “Guess
you’ve
been too busy to call me, too. I left you
three
messages this week and you didn’t call me back until we were getting ready to fly down here.”
you’ve
been too busy to call me, too. I left you
three
messages this week and you didn’t call me back until we were getting ready to fly down here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been working late.”
“At which job?”
Henry makes a face at me. “I’m not telling you
anything
anymore about what I’m doing. Not a word. Because you just broadcast it to everybody.”
anything
anymore about what I’m doing. Not a word. Because you just broadcast it to everybody.”
I put my arm around his neck and lock his head in a choke hold. “Henry, how many times have you done this escort thing now? Tell me the truth.”
“Let me go, Jeff.”
“Tell
me.”
me.”
“Five. I’ve done it five times.”
“Five times in three weeks!”
I laugh. “What’s the matter? Can’t make it an even six?”
I laugh. “What’s the matter? Can’t make it an even six?”
“Thought I’d save
something
for this weekend.” He grimaces, looking around. “Though it looks like the same old pattern. Everybody’s too twisted to have sex except on the dance floor.”
something
for this weekend.” He grimaces, looking around. “Though it looks like the same old pattern. Everybody’s too twisted to have sex except on the dance floor.”
“There’s always Shane.”
Henry gives me a look. “You know what I think it is, Jeff? Shane actually shed some light on this for me. He says two attractive guys sometimes don’t hook up with each other because each is waiting for the other to cruise him
first.
”
first.
”
“That’s fucked, Henry,” I say.
“Well, it makes sense to me. I’m starting to think it’s true what they say about circuit boys. They’re all a bunch of narcissistic posers.”
I scoff. “Are
you,
Henry? Am I?”
you,
Henry? Am I?”
“Sometimes, yes.” He shrugs. “I’m getting tired of the circuit. It’s the same old thing all the time.”
“You’re the one who wanted to come here,” I remind him.
“I know, I know.” He sighs. “But I’m sick of these boys twisted out of their minds. Like Brent. I mean, he didn’t come here to dance or have fun. He came to get fucked up. That’s all. You know, there was an article in some gay paper that said the circuit scene could be as damaging to gay men as the religious right—”
“Henry! What the fuck has gotten into you?”
He pouts. “I’m just tired of it all. I want something more.”
“Look, Brent annoys the shit out of me, too,” I admit. “He’s the poster boy for all the critics of the club scene,
exactly
what they rail against: a self-absorbed substance abuser who masks his lack of self-esteem with chemicals, who mindlessly makes his donation to AIDS Action or GMAC and then gets so twisted he’s willing to do anything.” That was for sure: the night I brought him home he would’ve let me fuck him without a condom if I’d been into barebacking. “But to say he’s as bad as Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s
fucked,
Henry.”
exactly
what they rail against: a self-absorbed substance abuser who masks his lack of self-esteem with chemicals, who mindlessly makes his donation to AIDS Action or GMAC and then gets so twisted he’s willing to do anything.” That was for sure: the night I brought him home he would’ve let me fuck him without a condom if I’d been into barebacking. “But to say he’s as bad as Pat Robertson or Jerry Falwell,” I say, shaking my head. “That’s
fucked,
Henry.”
“All I know is, I’m tired of bullshit. I think that’s why the escorting thing is such a rush for me. The guys are right there, no games. They put what they want right out on the table.”
I lean in close again. “Look, I do worry about you, buddy. I know the escorting is a real trip for you, and it’s way hot and everything you’ve told me sounds cool, but there’s just so much that could happen. Your job, your reputation, riot to mention getting ripped off by—”
“Hey, it’s
Celine,”
Henry says, recognizing the mix. “Let’s dance.”
Celine,”
Henry says, recognizing the mix. “Let’s dance.”
I frown. “You’re doing exactly what you accuse me of doing. Avoiding the topic.”
Henry smirks. “And I’ll say exactly what you always say.
We’re here
to
dance.”
He grabs my hands. “Come on, Jeff. It’s
Celine.”
We’re here
to
dance.”
He grabs my hands. “Come on, Jeff. It’s
Celine.”
“I want you to
feeeeed
me,” I sing, using our own special lyrics to the skinny diva’s song.
feeeeed
me,” I sing, using our own special lyrics to the skinny diva’s song.
Back in the middle of the crowd, we fall into a group of friends. We form a little huddle, Henry and Eliot and Oscar and Adam and Billy and Rudy and I, swaying to the music, pawing each other’s chests. I feel that surge of brotherhood, of connection. Narcissistic posers? Right now Eliot’s passing out bracelets he made for all of us, with our names spelled out in little beads. I picture him stringing them all on his kitchen table back in San Diego in advance of this weekend. At the White Party he gave us all customized visors, with our names and home cities stitched onto the front. I watch as Rudy tells Eliot he loves him, and they lock in an embrace.
Okay, I’m not discounting the alphabet soup of G, K, T, or X that may be contributing to this happy little lovefest, but the connection is nonetheless real. Eliot slips my bracelet over my wrist and I kiss him. We might not be intimate friends, knowing all of our secrets and hopes and fears, but we’re
family
nonetheless: part of that big extended gay family that has sustained me over the last few years, with the sense of belonging that comes with it, a feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself. Community exists only where you make it. I think about how events like these transform the places where they’re held: the middle of the desert, the Olympic Stadium in Montreal, the streets of Philadelphia. The guy in the gym was right: we
do
take over a place. We turn them queer for a weekend: the restaurants, the subways, the gyms, the parks. I laugh when I read the phrase “gay community” to describe the gay population as a whole—a necessary fiction, I suppose, to empower a movement. But here’s where community is
real:
here in our little huddle, the seven of us exchanging bracelets and sloppy kisses.
family
nonetheless: part of that big extended gay family that has sustained me over the last few years, with the sense of belonging that comes with it, a feeling of being part of something bigger than yourself. Community exists only where you make it. I think about how events like these transform the places where they’re held: the middle of the desert, the Olympic Stadium in Montreal, the streets of Philadelphia. The guy in the gym was right: we
do
take over a place. We turn them queer for a weekend: the restaurants, the subways, the gyms, the parks. I laugh when I read the phrase “gay community” to describe the gay population as a whole—a necessary fiction, I suppose, to empower a movement. But here’s where community is
real:
here in our little huddle, the seven of us exchanging bracelets and sloppy kisses.
Narcissistic posers? My friends here have been called a lot worse, actually. Drug abusers. Misogynists. Immature children. Murderers, even, because of their supposed cavalier spread of the AIDS virus through unsafe sex. I watch Eliot’s face as he slips his little gift over the last wrist. I watch Henry embrace him, kiss him on the lips. I think about the time I slept with Eliot: how he labored to roll that condom over my cock, how I lost my erection in the process, and how we ended up just falling asleep in each other’s arms. “This is the best part anyway,” he said to me.
The best part.
Look, of course there are guys like Brent, who has been known to have crystal blown up his ass. Of course there’s unsafe sex and bad drugs and attitude queens, and probably even within this little huddle there have been moments of transgression. I remember once how Billy freaked out, having been fucked bareback at one party. Billy’s already got HIV, but he worried about new infection, and how much of a risk he’d been to the guy who topped him. He searched in vain for him the entire rest of the weekend, constantly on the lookout. “What are you going to say to him?” I wanted to know, but he had no clue. He just wanted to find him. The guilt Billy assumed, appropriate or not, eventually led him to leave early that weekend. He just couldn’t have fun after that. Even now I’ll occasionally see him glance around, scanning the crowd for the face of the man he still carries in his mind.
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