Chapter Two

I tried having a girlfriend only a couple of times in my life. Once in my early twenties and the other in high school. When Michael started dating Lisa, I felt the need to checkmate the situation, so I began dating her best friend who was the head-cheerleader. Take that. It didn’t last. I wanted it to, I think, but not because I was all that in to her. I wasn’t. I just wanted to be normal. I can’t say that I’m attracted to men either. I don’t consider myself gay, and if truth be told, I’m asexual if I’m anything, but Michael was different. I loved his form, the perfect specimen, like sculpture, the perfect art form in motion. I loved his style, his movement, and the intricate details of his long slender hands. I wanted to draw him, paint him, sculpt him – I wanted to devour him.

I was clueless on the streets, but after thirteen years of rigorous bible study, sexually frustrated nuns, and perverted priests, I’d had enough. I’d gone through six different foster homes and found that if they weren’t pedophiles, they were neglectful at best. The fifth one, though, actually looked promising. They were a nice young couple, unable to have children, who had already adopted a newborn from the orphanage. I’d been with them for about sixth months, the longest span yet, and plans for a straight-up adoption were in the works. Unfortunately, they were hit by a train before the paperwork was signed. The sixth and final foster home housed three other orphans, and it’s there that I learned how to make money on the streets as a young adolescent boy.

I was told by one of the older kids that Houston was a hotspot for male prostitution, and that most of the time it only consisted of oral sex. I’d already been exposed and broken in to the underground world of child sex. Forced to endure the act of sodomy at the age of ten, I figured getting paid for a blowjob was easy enough to handle. I wanted out of the system. I knew my fate. As soon as I turned eighteen, I’d be thrown out onto the streets anyway, so I reckoned I might as well get a jump on the inevitable. I snuck out with the older kids and frequented the bars that were well-known for catering to male prostitutes. Rich businessmen bartered with the young teenage boys, paying for their drinks while shopping for their desired lad. I started out as a watcher. I’d get paid five or ten dollars just for watching two other boys make-out while the businessmen masturbated, sometimes fondling them as they went along. After a few weeks of observing, I became an active participant. The honeymoon was over. I ventured out alone for the first time working the bars and striking deals on my own – the first of which almost got me killed.

I’d never ridden in a limousine before, but the businessman who picked me up insisted we arrived in style. We left the bar and pulled into a six-columned house located in The Heights, the hoity-toity, absurdly rich neighborhood in Houston. He escorted me inside where a party was in full swing with about twenty other boys my age entertaining the suits. It wasn’t about being gay with these guys, but rather, getting off to something taboo, something forbidden. It excited them, the ultimate sin and exercise of power. They were some sick bastards, the architects of the business world and the leaders of political circles – I was in over my head. Drugs were in abundance and doled out to us young boys like tainted candy on Halloween night. I snorted my first line of coke and slammed four shots of bourbon before being led into one of the back rooms by a chubby, red-nosed, balding, middle-aged man. Once inside, I panicked. Handcuffs dangled off chains hanging from the ceiling and another set was tied to the bedpost. A whip and blindfold rested on the middle of the bed. He locked the door behind us and pulled off his shirt.

Although taller than most thirteen-year-olds, I was scrawny and inexperienced when it came to physically defending myself. I knew I couldn’t take him, and as I pleaded my case, explaining that I didn’t do the kinds of things he wanted (I wasn’t that kind of prostitute), he backhanded me. Caught off balance, I fell onto the bed and kicked at his stomach as he stripped off my clothes, held my arms down with his knees, and reached for the dangling handcuffs. I screamed and cried for help but was met with laughter from the other room, mocked when someone else yelled back, “help me!” My attacker smiled, ran his hand up the inside of my thigh, and forced my hands into the cuffs. I was then lifted off the bed where my feet were anchored down by the other set of handcuffs. Grabbing the whip, he said, “I want to see your pretty green eyes,” and tossed the blindfold aside. The first lashing seared my skin and the rest that followed clouded my pretty green eyes, but as I dangled helplessly from the ceiling, I thought I saw the closet door inch open.

I tried turning off my mind. I prayed to a God I doubted existed. I silenced my cries in the hopes that he’d lose interest, but the chubby, red-nosed businessman slipped on a pair of leather gloves and lathered up a wine bottle. When he paused to snort a line of coke, the closet door swung open exposing a dark-haired boy. A long wooden pole rested between his hands. My attacker spun around but had little time to react as the dark-haired boy swung at his head like a grapefruit. He stumbled back against the table and blocked his face with his arm, but Michael kept swinging, bludgeoning his head until he laid still on the floor. I didn’t know if he was real or if I was hallucinating, but as I watched him rummage through the desk drawers, I thought that somehow my prayer had been answered. He wrapped a blanket around my bloodied body, released my hands and feet from the handcuffs, and caught me as I fell limp into his arms. The party roared to a climax as he cracked open the door, grabbed my waist, and dragged me along until we made it, unnoticed, to the front door. Once outside, we jumped in one of the limos and drove away. To this day, I don’t know what he said or did to make the driver take us where we needed to go. Michael had a way of making things happen. I don’t know if he killed that red-nosed businessman or not, but at the time, as I stepped over his bloated body, I was sure he was dead. That night, holed up in Michael’s dingy hotel room, I tried heroin for the first time. The moment he injected it into my arm, I was instantly at peace.

I try not to think about my childhood too much. It’s not worth the pain of reliving it, or analyzing it, or working through the damage caused by it. Counselors want to talk about it, psychologists want to prescribe drugs for it, and priests want you to ask God’s forgiveness for it, but I chose none of the above. I chose to ignore it (as did Michael), but like any good head shrink will tell you, demons find a way to resurface. Sex makes me uncomfortable and forming any meaningful relationship with a significant other is impossible for me, except with Michael, but he went the other way. If not treated, sexual abuse victims tend to become closed off and prudish or wildly promiscuous. Michael took the latter.

I watched him bodysurf to shore and wade through the ankle-deep water until he collapsed by my side and folded his arms over his head. I sat down next to him and looked over his exposed body for needle marks or bruises. Thin and well-toned, his flat stomach heaved up and down as he slowly caught his breath. I scanned up his tattooed arms and leaned in closer to get a better view of his wrists. I noticed his scars that first night we met. Even after enduring such a traumatic event, I noticed his scarred wrists as he cradled me in the limousine. I couldn’t stop crying, trembling uncontrollably and uncertain of my fate or if I even had one, but I remembered seeing those dark scars encircling both his wrists. I assumed he’d experienced something similar to what I’d endured. Through the years, he never talked about it or provided any sort of explanation, but as he laid next to me in the sand, I noticed his scars had developed fresh scabs. I also spotted a couple of needle marks on his neck.

“Can we talk now?” I asked.

He arched his back and stretched his arms toward the sky while digging his feet into the sand. “Must we?” he asked.

I smiled and leaned back on my elbows. The sun attempted to make an appearance, but the early afternoon clouds gathered together and reinforced the gray October sky. I stared blankly at the ocean and forced the words out of my mouth.

“I can’t handle losing you,” I said. “If you die, you’re taking me with you.”

Michael covered his face again with his arms. “You’ll be fine,” he mumbled.

I wanted to hit him. I wanted to take him by the shoulders and shake him until his self-destructive indifference ebbed with the rolling tide. I did neither.

“I’m sorry, Ash,” he said, wiping the sand from his shoulder blades as he sat up. “You’re not going to lose me, okay? Everything’s fine.”

I shook my head and laughed before throwing his shirt in his face and walking back to the car, but he knew I wouldn’t leave him. I stood against the trunk of my black sports car and smoked a cigarette while Michael took his time gathering his things. He dragged his feet through the sand and slowly made his way to the parking lot, stopping along the way to pet a beachgoer’s shaggy wet dog. I tried to imagine not knowing him. I tried imagining him as just another stranger on the beach, no past, no bond, no shared secrets or inside jokes, just another stranger walking by. Would it have been love at first sight? I’d rather not say.

“Hey there tough guy,” he said, walking up with his antagonistic grin. I told him to go to hell, after which he laughed and threw his arms around my waist.

“What’s with the public affection?” I asked, squirming to free my arms. Michael tightened his grip and rested his head on my shoulder. We stayed like that for a couple of minutes before he lifted his head and asked, “It bothers you?” I shrugged and unlocked the car.

We rode with the music blaring for the first part of the trip, but as the Houston skyline drew closer and swallowed us whole, Michael turned down the radio and lit a cigarette. I quickly reminded him about my no smoking rule. He cracked the window and propped his feet up on the dashboard, exhaling smoke in my general direction. I sighed and rolled down my window. We reached the Museum District where Michael’s multi-million-dollar home sat nestled between two large oak trees, but he insisted we circle the block a few times before I dropped him off. He popped a couple of pills while I broke my own rule and reached for my smokes.

“Few nights ago,” he said, “the devil paid me a visit. Been awhile since I’d seen him, fucked my brains out just like the old days. Should have been there, Ash, had a real good time. He says it’s time to pay up.”

Long hard drag off my cigarette. “Who’s the devil?” I asked, knowing full well the reply I’d get.

“He’s this guy,” Michael said, “wears a lot of red, got a pitchfork tail, horns.”

We stopped at a red light, and I grabbed his arm and held up his wrist. “And this?” I asked. “Did the devil do this?”

Michael flinched his arm back and tossed his cigarette out the window. “You can drop me off now,” he said.

Lisa stood in the driveway when we drove up. Michael cursed under his breath and gave a little wave, but Lisa glared and crossed her arms. I threw the car in reverse and told Michael to call me later, but he hesitated before getting out. Gently grabbing my chin, he leaned in for a kiss. I flinched back and pushed him away.

“That’s what I thought,” he said, and slid out of the car.

I arrived home that night to find the entire place reeked of marijuana. An all too familiar car sat in my parking space and heavy guitars vibrated the walls. I marched upstairs and banged on Gabriel’s door until a bleach-blonde girl clicked the lock and greeted me with red eyes. She smiled and stepped aside as I stood in the middle of the room yelling for the music to be turned down. At twenty-seven years old, I felt like an old fart crashing the party. Gabriel smiled and handed me a piece of paper with illegible words scrawled out with a black marker.

“What?” he asked. “I took a message this time, just like you asked.” He giggled and pushed a homemade bong further out of sight behind his bookcase.

“Shop class?” I asked and stormed out of the room. A half-witted, “I love you!” followed me on the way out.

I sat outside on the porch with the cordless phone in my lap and a glass of red wine by my side. The Houston skyline hid behind low-hanging clouds, and the humid air fogged the windows of my newly constructed downtown loft. I lived only five minutes down the road from Michael but opted to rent instead of buy in the distinguished museum district. It’s easier to jump ship when you’re not tied down, and I always try to give myself an out. Never block all the doors. I stared out at the city I hated, the freeway traffic whizzing over the underpasses, the overpasses looping around each other in a maze of bridges and ramps, the high-rise buildings metallic and cold, void of color or character. Minimalist and modern, two art forms I loved but failed to appreciate in my own backyard. I owned a small art gallery not far from Menil Park on Richmond Avenue, and although I frequently traveled to New York where the art scene is by far the biggest and best, I admit to finding Houston’s scene more personal and inclusive. Go figure.

Gabriel’s voice bellowed from down the hall informing me he’d be right back. The little blond-haired girl waved goodbye to me from the window as they slammed the door behind them. I was tempted to ask Gabe to move my car but quickly decided against it when I remembered his red eyes and inability to drive a standard. At the fragile age of fourteen, Gabriel was one of the most intelligent people I knew. An absolutely beautiful boy with green eyes, dark hair, and a tender face and heart, he never seized to amaze me with his depth and wisdom. I honestly don’t know where it came from. Gabe began calling me “Dad” as a child, and although I consistently told him to refer to me as his brother in public, he refused. I’m still not used to the term.

We found him, Michael and me, at one of the parties we attended while working the streets about two weeks after we met. We’d spent the night at one of those parties in The Heights but awoke the next morning to find everyone gone. The place had cleared out as if some sort of reverse rapture occurred overnight. Michael got spooked, really spooked, and dragged me off the couch toward the backdoor, convinced that the place was surrounded by FBI agents. I followed behind but stopped when I heard the sound of a baby crying from somewhere upstairs. Michael was un-phased and adamant about vacating the premises, but I couldn’t ignore it, nor could I leave it behind. I crept upstairs and followed the cries until I found a newborn baby wrapped in a towel on the floor in one of the back bedrooms. The infant was placed in the middle of a pentagram drawn out in chalk and surrounded by candles. Blood coated the hardwood floor from a dead cat that lay next to the child. Without thinking, I scooped him up and ran downstairs. Michael insisted we drop him off at the hospital, but I refused. I knew his fate as an orphaned child. I wouldn’t let it happen. He stopped crying as soon as I picked him up. He’s been mine ever since. Weird thing was, as he aged, he began resembling me.

I decoded the message scrawled out on the piece of notebook paper and prepared to call Billy back, but before I could dial the numbers, the phone rang. Michael’s number popped up and I held the phone to my ear, surprised to hear Lisa’s voice on the other end. I stopped myself from hanging up. The conversation, for lack of better words, lasted less than two minutes with Lisa telling me to keep my male anatomy away from her husband. I denied our sexual relationship just as I always did and bid her goodnight. This little exchange between us was nothing new, though it always took me off guard, nonetheless. I often wondered why she bothered staying married to him, and while money seemed like the most obvious choice, I knew it was the wrong one. Lisa came from money, her father being the CEO of a major bank and her mother a doctor. Lisa didn’t need money, and as much as I despised her face, she had a pretty one. Nice figure, fun personality (if she liked you), intelligent (when she wanted to be), but she refused to walk away from her marriage. She fought for him over and over again, playing the fool in such a pathetic and desperate way that one might’ve actually thought she loved him.

I set the phone aside and lit another cigarette, no longer in the mood to talk and emotionally spent from my time with Michael. I didn’t know how to help him, and it seemed the more our relationship revolved around sex, the further apart we grew. He used to tell me everything, no holds barred, but lately, I felt more like his bimbo wife than his best friend. It repulsed me. I repulsed me, but Michael, as much as I wanted him to, Michael never repulsed me, and that repulsed me even more. I forced myself to switch gears. The sound of the front door opening and closing pointed me in the right direction. I suspected that Gabriel had smoked pot before but walking into his hazy room and seeing him stoned stupid, shocked me. I had to give him a talking to, right and proper like any good father would. I had to address the situation. I sipped my wine and prepared a speech in my head.

The sun had long set on Houston when I jerked myself awake. Disoriented and confused as to how much time had passed, I checked the cordless phone for a charge and figured I’d only been out for a short while. Our fat tabby cat hissed and growled from somewhere inside as I grabbed my empty wine glass and peeled myself off the chair. I stumbled through the darkness and dropped my glass on the wooden floor, cursing aloud as I felt around for the nearest light. The cat brushed against my leg, and when I clicked on the kitchen light, Gabriel stood in the darkness of the hallway. At least, I think it was Gabriel. His thick dark hair covered most of his face, and his arms hung limp at his side. I called out to him, but he turned on his heels and disappeared into his room. I followed. Calling out his name again and flipping on the hallway light, I came to his door and gently pushed it open. The loud box fan rattled away in the corner as I stood in his dark room staring at the bed. Must be playing a trick, I thought, some sort of Halloween prank. I said his name again and walked over to his bed, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him over when he failed to answer. His eyes popped open and his groggy voice asked, “What’s wrong?” I jumped when the phone rang.

The green glow from the cordless phone lit up my hand as I checked the caller ID. Unknown name. Unknown number. I answered with apprehension in my voice. Someone whispered on the other end. Spanish? French? I couldn’t tell. I held the phone closer to my ear until I heard a click. Staring at the phone, I waited. For what? I don’t know. Gabriel sat up in bed and asked me again what was wrong. I asked him how long he’d been asleep. The phone rang again. Unknown name. Unknown number. I shut off the fan and answered. A child’s voice came through on the other end. Broken, distorted, and speaking in a foreign tongue, the rhythmic chant strangled my breath. Static ended the call.

Gabriel glanced around the room, wide-eyed and halfway smiling, he asked, “Dad, what’s going on?”

“Prank call,” I answered. “Were you just out in the hallway?”

With watery eyes, he shook his head “no.”