They sat on the curb. Shirtless and glistening in the noon-day sun. They sat there—untied combat-boot-covered feet on the dirty asphalt of Park Avenue. They sat there. Waiting. They watched the cars: Mercedes, Mini-vans, old, dingy work trucks back from fishing trips to the lake. They watched with blank faces—masks to hide the hope within. You can’t seem too eager. Or that’s what they’d been told. They watched and they waited.

They might have been brothers—they looked enough alike. One taller, rougher, broader. The other—smaller, thinner, softer. The soft one wore glasses—small, rounded frames. The tall one—a Mohawk, defying gravity with Elmer’s glue and toothpaste, minus one small strand, braided and falling over his right eye. The soft one fidgeted—with his glasses, with his belt. The tall one leaned back against the hot concrete sidewalk, his long fingers extended. He stretched his back, a tattooed sun going supernova.

“I’m not sure how much longer I can take this, man”, said the soft one. “We’ve been here an hour and a half.”

“This was your idea.”

“Yeah, I know. I just don’t know what else to do. We need something, soon.”

“I know. I just want to get out of this heat. The bridge didn’t cut it, last night. I want A/C and a soft bed. Maybe some cable TV.”

“Yeah, Cable. That would be good. You still got that smoke?”

“Dude, you smoked it an hour ago.”

The soft one sighed and looked out across the street. They were sitting diagonally from the bandshell of a small park. Trees lined the walkways and flowering hedges surrounded a small groups of benches. People wandered in couples, walking dogs, enjoying the heat of the day.

They sat and glistened. The building behind them once housed a small but well known bar called Quinn’s. Young, attractive boys would come and order Cokes in blue cups. Men would circumnavigate the central bar, sharks searching for blood. They would start conversations with the blue-cupped boys. They would negotiate. When an agreement was reached, there were rooms for rent at reasonable rates—upstairs, to the right. A red arrow pointed the way. The boys offered themselves in exchange for money or drugs; cocaine, a C-note, whatever got them through the night. Boys with blue cups of Coke would blow–or were blown—for Blow.

Several years ago, the place was closed down after one of the regular boys was found dead in an upstairs room, covered in his own semen. The owner said he od’ed. The coroner concurred but also reported some bruising to the boy’s kidneys. He was beaten to death. Everyone knew it. The street still reeked of it—a psychic residue that drew men and boys looking for company or cash into the loop—driving around the block or waiting on the curb. Driving or Waiting.

They waited. In the hot, southern sun. The tall one, stretching. The soft one, fidgeting. They waited. They had no other choice.

Matt stood and stretched, fumbling with his glasses. He walked back towards the building, attempting to look through the rotting boards. He was trying to get a sense of something; he wasn’t sure what. He was new to this town. They both were. They’d met just a few days ago, up on the coast, in a pawn shop where Scott sold his last possession: a vintage Fender bass. Through the dirty glass, Matt could see the remnants of those few days.

It was raining—the hot, summer rain that turns to mist to thicken the damp air that coats you and weighs you down. Matt was watching from across the store as Scott cradled the guitar like a baby, caressing its long neck with his strong, able fingers. Matt could see a solitary tear make its way down Scott’s roughly shaven cheek as the stone-faced clerk exchanged Scott’s prize for a few crisp, green bills. An uneven exchange. A few pieces of paper can never equal what exists within that framework of wood and metal. Memories. Passions. Energies. Now, just a handful of change and some tears.

Scott walked out. Matt could see him sitting in the rain, his face held up in sacrifice to a sky that might wash away the tears. He removed his dripping wet t-shirt and squeezed the water over his tear-stained face. Matt waited for the ritual to end and then walked out, sat beside him and offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate it. I’m Scott.”

“Matt”, he offered his hand. “I know how hard that must have been. I had a friend who had an old Fender like that. She treated it like one of the family.”

“Yeah, she was my baby. But, you do what you gotta to survive.”

“It’s that bad, huh?”

“Yeah, pretty bad.” Scott took a long drag, eyes lost in puddles on the grimy, concrete sidewalk.

“Listen… I’ve got a hotel room for the next few nights. I could get you in if you need a place to stay.”

“Man, yeah… That would be cool.”

So, Scott stayed.

For six days, they slept in a drafty, moldy motel room in one queen-sized bed. They would look for work during the day. But, it was summer and they were strangers in a small, coastal town. Scott tried day labor, but there was nothing. Just one day of sweeping at a construction site for 30 bucks and a come-on from a greasy clerk named Shirley with too many missing teeth. Money was scarce. Food was scarce. But, they had each other’s company and a liter of Jack Daniel’s that Scott lifted while Matt tried to cash a fictitious Western Union.

They spent a few nights drinking on the beach, watching people go by. On the third night, a guy asked to join them. He was ordinary-looking and quiet, in his early thirties. He introduced himself as Jim. After some small talk, he invited the boys to his hotel room to ‘watch some TV, drink a few beers, and get out of the heat.’ They accepted. Anything to break the monotony.

He had a small, clean room on the beach in one of the modest tourist hotels. It had twin beds, a refrigerator, and a TV with a VCR. He opened three bottles of beer and sat down on a small couch across from the TV. He pulled out a pipe and a bag of weed.

“You guys smoke?”

“Yeah, dude. Cool”, answered Scott.

Matt smiled.

The evening continued, with beer and pot and intermittent conversation. Jim asked the boys where they were from and what their plans were. He seemed concerned. He offered them some sandwiches. He was quiet for some time watching them.

“I was wondering… I could offer you some money if you’d do something for me.”

Scott raised his head from his food.

“I would pay you money… I have some porn… if you guys would get naked and get off for me so I can watch. I’ll pay whatever you want.”

Scott started to get up, but Matt pulled him back down.

“Dude, we need the money,” he whispered.

“I’m not into this, man. I have no problems with queers as long as they keep their hands to themselves.”

“He didn’t ask to touch you. He just wants to watch. Man, we need the money. We only have enough for one more night.”

Scott sighed and sat back down. “Okay. We’ll do it—for $50 each.”

So, Jim put in a tape and the boys took off their clothes and sat down. They watched the video. Lesbian porn. Attractive young girls—one that Matt was sure he knew. They watched for some time. As hard as he tried, Scott couldn’t get excited. He felt the weight of the world on the head of his penis. Jim asked if he could help.

“All you have to do is close your eyes and think of some girl.”

“It’s cool, man, let’s just get this over with.”

Scott closed his eyes and sat back. “I want $100 for this”, he said as he felt the warmth of a wet tongue down his length. To his astonishment, he found himself enjoying the attention. ‘Any kind of touch I think is better than none’, he thought, wondering where he’d heard that. Wondering why it was so hard to let this happen previously. He’d had offers before. Lots of times. In clubs. On the street. But, he couldn’t do it. He always said no. And it was so good. Girls couldn’t do what Jim was doing. Taking it all the way down. Yeah, man. No girl could ever do that. Several have tried. He’s been around. Wow, that feels good... God, watch the teeth, wow, yeah, that’s it, dude. So good, man. The way it sounds. The suction. The popping when it leaves his mouth and he licks just under the head. Like that Yeah, like I do to a girl’s clit. Just like that. A little faster maybe, yeah. Yeah. He sure knows what he’s doing. And if he keeps doing that I’m gonna cum. Right in his eye. That would be too funny. God, wow. I’m gonna cum. I’m gonna…

And he came. And so did Matt, watching the whole thing and feeling a little betrayed. He wasn’t sure why. But at least they had $200 between them.

They were safe.

They went back to the beach. Scott met a pretty, young punk girl named Amy with a pierced eyebrow and a pierced tongue. He asked her back to the room while Matt was using the bathroom. They walked back to the motel holding hands and twirling, like they’ve known each other for a hundred years, Matt following behind. They went inside and Scott was on top of her and inside her faster than he could unzip his pants. He fucked her, hot and animal-like while Matt watched. She motioned Matt to her and offered her mouth, but he refused. Something was wrong. He poured himself a Jack and Coke and left the room. He couldn’t stay, but as hard as he tried, he couldn’t get the picture of Scott’s face out of his mind. The look in his eyes while he came in Jim’s mouth. The vulnerable mask of orgasm.

Outside, in the misty night air, Matt sat with his head against the door, sipping whisky. He could hear the rhythmic thumping of the headboard. He could feel the invasion. Nine inches inside of her. Inside him. He was starting to get hard. He was starting to understand. He was starting to get scared.

He heard her cries—felt the tears flow and the blood trickle inside him. He needed to know. The rhythm grew fierce. He heard the familiar grunts. Real. Primal. He had to know. He moaned with them. He had to walk away. He couldn’t. With one last, drawn cry, the pounding stopped. He could hear them breathing. He could hear the sweet words they might have been saying. He hated them.

He lit a cigarette and gulped down more of his drink. He heard water running and silence and zippers and snaps and footsteps. He heard voices. He got up and leaned against the railing, watching the cars on the interstate, wishing he was somewhere. Anywhere.

The door opened. They stepped out. She was fully dressed. He was tightly wrapped in a towel, droplets of water running down the trenches of his sculpted belly—his hair wet and flat against his head. He grabbed Amy and kissed her rocking her back and forth like a china doll. They hugged and said their goodbyes. She waved at Matt and walked away. When she was out of sight, Scott grabbed Matt’s cup and took a swig.

“Not bad for a young piece of ass”, he admitted.

“Glad you enjoyed yourself.”

“What’s wrong, man? You’ve been weird since we got back.”

“Nothing, man. Just tired and I need to take a piss.”

They didn’t talk the rest of the night. Matt watched infomercials while Scott softly snored. 3 a.m. and he was still awake. He got dressed and headed downtown. He walked past the all-night grocery and the coffee shop. Down to the corner with the red neon sign. “Open 24 hours: Adult Movies & Novelties”. He walked in and passed the counter to the token machine. He bought tokens and walked to the back hallway. He passed the sign that said “no lewd acts”.

He sat down in a booth and put a token in the slot. He wondered why insertion was necessary to the process. He perused the movies but nothing appealed to him. All he could think about was Scott. After a while, he felt a hand on his thigh and a smiling, young face appeared in the darkness.

Matt was shaking, his heart in his throat. He took the boy’s hand.

“I’m Matt”

The boy put his finger to his lips and led Matt down the corridor to a small storage room. They went inside. It was fast. Matt came easily. The boy knew exactly what he was doing. Matt kissed him goodbye and walked out of the store and down to the pier. He watched the waves roll in, silently, the path of a small tear etched like acid into his life.

He walked back to his room and laid down next to Scott. He watched Scott’s chest rise and fall, hypnotized by the peaceful rhythm, the familiarity. Amazed by the power sleep has to wash away fear. He watched and became drowsy. He slept.

The next night, they ran into Jim at the beach. He offered some company—no strings attached. They knew better, but Jim was kind and they needed the money. So, they drank some vodka and smoked some pot. And, Jim asked Matt if he’d be willing to go down on Scott.

“I’ll give you whatever you guys need to get through a few more days. I just... You’re both so beautiful; I have to see you together.”

Matt looked at the floor. Scott whispered, “dude, we need the money”—grinning slightly.

Matt unzipped Scott’s jeans and hoped for the best. It had been a long time. Not since prep-school. And those boys weren’t this big. Except for Johnny. But Johnny couldn’t get hard anyway. So, Matt did it. And it was different. It wasn’t some snickering boy. It was Scott. His friend. So he breathed through his nose as much as he could and he watched his teeth. And he licked against that one ridge, the way Lucy did that time when he messed up her red silk shirt and she didn’t talk to him for three days. He took as much as he could without feeling like he was going to puke and then he took a little more and he looked up and Scott looked down and smiled. And everything melted away. The motel and the pier and the headache and the pain in his legs. And the fear. It was just him and Scott and this moment. And he felt Scott’s hands in his hair. Not guiding, just raking. Raking through, like Mom used to do before things changed. And he wanted it to be perfect. So he sucked harder and took in more. And Scott started to thrust, slowly. He started to pull Matt closer. And Matt got scared, a little, but not really. And he could feel a tightening. And heavy breath. And it was over.

They sat for a long time, speechless. And Matt grabbed his drink and ran out of the room.

Scott looked at Jim and shrugged, zipped up and walked out, apologizing.

Matt was sitting on the second story railing, throwing down pieces of abandoned candy wrapper.

“Dude, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Come on, don’t give me that”

“I really… I don’t wanna talk about this.”

“So, there is a this to talk about?”

Matt sighed. “I think I’m…”

“Yeah…”

Matt broke down. Tears streamed in rhythm with his chest rising and falling fast. Scott took him in his arms and held him while Matt sobbed on his shoulder. “It’s okay, man. All of this is so… confusing. I love you, too.”

Matt looked up at his friend, tear-drenched cheeks reflecting streetlights. Scott smiled softly, playing through Matt’s hair.

“Yo, Matt…”

“Sorry, man. Just thinking.”

“You keep doing that and you’ll never be able to stop.” For a moment, Scott rubbed Matt’s back, and then he got up and walked down the street. A few minutes later, he came back with coffee. Matt cradled his between his hands, the warmth almost comforting against the heat of the day.

An hour passed, maybe more. The sun began its descent behind the flat, grey roofs of brick buildings, turning the sky to a well-used canvas. That evening, the city looked like a movie set—cartoon cutouts of a streetscape that could be anywhere as the cars went by and the day slowed to its end.

In the emptying street, A car pulled up. A Bronco: Dark blue with dark-tinted windows covered with a thin layer of mud. The car stopped at the curb. An electric window rolled down. Scott walked over, redefining his center of gravity to a point between his legs. He took each step with confidence. He knew he was worth this fool’s cash.

They talked. Matt couldn’t see their potential client. Just the muscles in Scott’s back as he changed positions, stretched or gestured. After a minute or so, he walked over to the curb and grabbed his shirt.

“His name is Richard. He says he could use both of our services”, Scott said with a smirk. “He’ll give us $250 each for two hours of our time.”

“That’s a lot of money, man. Did he say what he wanted?”

“Nah, I didn’t ask. He seems cool enough.”

“Okay. You sure about this?”

“$500? That could last a while.”

“Yeah… okay. Let’s go before I lose my nerve.”

It could have been the same motel. The same room. Matt could smell dried semen from the night before. He could feel it like glue in the back of his throat. He sat down on the awkward, lumpy bed. Scott sat down next to him. Richard shut the door and opened the window. A gust of air pushed through the grimy curtains, carrying a redolent history of cigarettes and illicit sex. He turned off all but a single lamp, directly behind the chair he slumped into.

Matt noticed him in the light. He was ruggedly handsome. Mid-thirties--with a strong jaw, straw hair, and sea blue eyes like a movie star cowboy.

“What are you staring at, boy?!”

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. Now, you two pretty boys need to kiss real nice for me.”

Matt looked tentatively at Scott. Scott smiled and stroked his hand through Matt’s hair, pulled him close and touched him, lip against lip, delicately, demurely. He pulled away slowly and then, placing his hands behind Matt’s head, kissed him deeply, lips and tongue touching and teasing.

“Nice. Now, Spiky Boy, open your faggot friend’s pants and suck his cock… ”

“Yeah, Spiky Boy, suck my cock,” Matt smirked.

Pain cracked across Matt’s cheek as he watched Richard’s hand retract.

“Keep your faggot mouth shut until I speak to you or you’ll get a lot worse than that. Now, get to it, boy. Show me what good faggots do.”

Scott loosened Matt’s belt and unzipped his jeans. He pulled them down his thighs to expose Matt’s boxer-restricted hard-on. He trailed one finger up the length of it before he tugged the waistband down over him and from behind until Matt’s jeans and underwear were in a lump on the floor. Scott caressed Matt’s stomach, trying not to think too much, trying just to do what he knows feels good. He used his nails and dragged along his thighs. Up and down, watching Matt’s expression, until he felt a hand against the back of his neck force him down against Matt.

“I said suck him. This isn’t a candlelight dinner.”

Scott wrapped his hand around his friend’s penis and licked cautiously from the base to the tip. He knew what this must feel like and somewhere inside him a switch flipped. He closed his eyes and took Matt as deep as he could. One quick gulp and a moan. He allowed himself a moment to get used to the feeling and began to pull back using his tongue stud to his advantage. He repeated these motions, slowly. Then quicker, graduating to a steady rhythm. He noticed a strain in his own boxers. Still trying not to think, he listened to Matt’s breathing and felt the tightness in Matt’s thighs as he moved.

“You look like you’re enjoying yourself too much. Get up.”

As Scott stood up, Matt grabbed his hand.

“You two faggots sicken me. Come on, boy. I don’t want your boyfriend to get jealous.”

Richard pulled Scott into the bathroom and closed the door. Matt could hear the harsh sound of his big, masculine hand against Scott’s face. He didn’t know what to do,

but he was still hard and needed release, so he walked up to the door and kneeled down, pants still around his ankles. He took his time, listening through the crack and slowly rubbing. He listened to Richard demand Scott’s wet mouth. He felt a stabbing jealousy until he melted into the memory of those full lips running down the length of him—of his clever tongue and it’s small, metal bulb. He felt the tightening in his thighs, as he thought of Scott slowly pressing against him. He listened to the quiet moans that sounded like him. He thought of Scott’s eyes closed as Jim took him deep down his throat. And his hands in Amy’s hair while he took her from behind. And his tongue playing in Matt’s mouth, mischievous and friendly. He thought about the words, just a few days ago. “I love you, too” And he came, scooping it up with his free hand and licking the mess away.

Matt got to his feet, dressed and walked over to the night stand. He saw Richard’s open wallet with several $100 bills sticking out. He grabbed for them, five in all and shoved them in his pocket. He sat down in the arm chair and waited. After nearly a half hour, he couldn’t stand it anymore. And then he heard a small whimpering cry.

He opened the bathroom door. Richard was in the bathtub with Scott bucking on top of him, in and out, with a gun to Scott’s temple—Richard’s face wet with tears. Matt could see Scott in the mirror, eyes closed, muscles strained—his hands holding Richard’s thighs. He opened his eyes to see Matt frozen in the reflection.

“Run, Matt! Get out of here!”

And he ran. He ran with all the strength he had. Through the room. Out the door. Down the stairs. He ran. He got to the street and in the distance he heard two shots, one and then another. He stopped and flopped over like a ragdoll. He stopped and let his breath fall out in gasps. One. Two. Three. He stood up and walked away.

He didn’t turn back.