Object of Desire (4 page)

Ollie was moving up from my cock to my stomach, licking the outline of my abs. In a moment like that, I could close my eyes and believe that the years hadn't moved so fast, that I still had a couple of decades ahead of me, that time wasn't running out, that like the young man who had danced on the box in his thong, I still had plenty of time for sex, for love, for life. Plenty of time left to savor that necessary fiction of youth—that happiness was one's due. But I didn't close my eyes. Not that time. I kept them open and fixed on Ollie's body, a body that I craved, that I needed, that I kept bringing back into this house even when Frank seemed indifferent to it. I grabbed Ollie's butt with my hands so hard that I'm sure it hurt him. I hoped, in fact, that it did.

I flipped him over. Fumbling for a condom and lube on the floor beside the bed, I felt the blood surge to my cock. This was going to be fast. I felt the heat building up in my body, the pressure growing inside my head. I was going to have him—have every last bit of him—his body, his mind, his soul, his youth, his future. I pushed my cock inside him and clamped my lips over his. Above us the sun shone like a benevolent god, and the waves crashed against the sandy coast of Venice Beach. The brine of the sea was so strong, I tasted it on my tongue. Sand was creeping up my bare legs, scratching its way into my ass, but I didn't care. I loved him—I loved him so much, I felt as if my whole body would explode, arms and legs strewn across the beach. I fucked him right there on the open sand, kissing him the whole time, our bodies entwined, two dogs in the surf. I finally understood what they meant when they talked about falling in love.

“Fuck!”

I pulled out in time to whip off the condom and shoot ropes of semen across Ollie's chest. Breathing heavily, I steadied myself with one hand on the bed, accidentally hitting the remote control.
America's Next Top Model
suddenly flashed once again on the screen behind me.

Ollie came himself then, a paltry dribble compared to my cannon shot. I was already out of bed, flicking off the TV, hunting for a towel in the bathroom.

“That was hot,” Ollie said as I returned, settling in beside him, pressing the towel against his chest.

“A quickie,” I said. “Maybe we'll go a bit longer in the morning.” I smiled. “I'm a little drunk. Three martinis tonight.”

Ollie shrugged. “Didn't affect the performance.”

“Thanks.”

We were quiet, sitting shoulder to shoulder against the pillows. Outside the wind had picked up. The glass in the windows rattled almost imperceptibly, but I could hear it.

I had begun to nod off when Ollie spoke again.

“I'm getting a new job.”

I opened my eyes and turned to face him.

“I'm going to be the manager of Spencer's Gifts,” he said. “It's in the mall, too.”

I didn't know what to say, so I said nothing.

“I figured Ritz Camera was pretty much a dead-end job, you know? How many people still take pictures on film to be developed? Even though we've started selling digital cameras and webcams and stuff, I really think I've gone as far there as I ever can. But people will always need to buy gifts, you know?”

I nodded, closing my eyes again. Yes, people would always need to buy glow-in-the-dark posters of heavy metal bands and mugs made in the shape of women's breasts.

I felt immediately guilty for being judgmental. How different was I, really, from this kid? I'd never gone to college; I'd never had any great-paying job. But I
was
different from him. I'd had one very important thing that he didn't have.

Ambition.

Even if it had almost killed me.

We dozed off, but I woke up quickly; the lights were still on, and Ollie had slumped forward onto my chest. I gently moved him down into a more comfortable sleeping position and got up to switch off the lamp. Climbing back into bed beside him, I lay facing the ceiling, eyes wide open. Ollie began to snore, a nervous little whistle tickling my ear. I turned on my side, willing sleep to come. But even as I tried, I knew it was futile. I wasn't going to fall asleep. Not here. Not tonight.

I waited until Ollie's snoring had reached a steady rhythm. Then I slipped out of the casita, padding naked past the swimming pool, the pungent fragrance of rosemary hanging in the dry night air. Through the glass sliders, I stepped into the dining room. The clock on the mantel was ticking off the seconds with a fierceness undetectable during the day. In the bathroom, I brushed my teeth and washed my hands and applied a hot, wet cloth to my cock. That would have to do for washing up after sex. I was exhausted. In our room, Frank was sound asleep. His own snoring was far deeper, far more profound than Ollie's tremulous whistle. Pulling back the sheet, I climbed in beside him, pressing my chest against his back, my lips against the soft white fur on his shoulders. I snaked an arm around him. He stirred.

“Baby,” he mumbled.

“I'm here,” I told him.

In moments, we were both asleep.

Twenty-One Years Earlier

O
ut of the hundred or so men gathered around me, I noticed him right away. He was an older guy, maybe even thirty. Well preserved for his age, as Randall would say, with big shoulders packed into a tight white T-shirt. Randall liked older men. He said their receding hairlines were more than compensated for by the expanding bulk of their bank accounts. Whether this guy in the tight T-shirt had money or not, I couldn't tell. He wasn't part of the mob pressing in around me, waving their Hamiltons and Jacksons as I gyrated on my box to Kim Wilde's “You Keep Me Hangin' On.” Instead, he was leaning against the far wall, sipping a Rolling Rock, watching, but not watching me. I couldn't take my eyes off him.

“Hey, Benny,” I said, leaning down, grabbing the barback by the shoulder as he loaded empties onto his tray, “go get Carlos to take over for me for a while.”

Benny yanked himself away from my grip. He was still pissed at me for breaking up with him a couple of weeks ago. “Carlos isn't ready yet,” he said icily.

I knew what that meant. Carlos wasn't yet high enough to get up on the box. Carlos, a good Catholic boy from Mexico, had to do a couple lines of coke before finding the courage to take off his clothes and dance. So much for hoping I might get a reprieve to hop off my box and introduce myself to Mr. Tight Tee. It was probably just as well. That one was far too put together for me. He wasn't like these guys up front, slobbering all over a skinny kid just because he'd taken his clothes off. No doubt Mr. Tight Tee was here to meet a friend, a friend with a real job, a real life. A friend who was
somebody.

“Come on, hot stuff, give it to us,” someone shouted from the crowd. Kim Wilde was mixing into the Pet Shop Boys' “It's a Sin,” and I shook my ass and tightened my abs to prove just how sinful it really was. A large black man with very cold fingers was stuffing several dollars into my thong. By the end of the night, I'd probably bring home about three hundred in tips.

It still boggled my mind to think that guys would pay money to see me naked. Me, the kid Scott Wood had never even noticed in eighth grade, the pimply kid in the back row all through high school who had endured hundreds of paper airplanes bouncing off his head. I didn't exist then, except to be a failure. But here, in West Hollywood, I was a star.

I glanced up, over the heads of the crowd, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall. The pulsing red and gold lights distorted my features, but still I could make out the contours of my body. A skinny little blond, barely any muscle, a stick figure in a bright yellow thong. In school I'd always been embarrassed by how thin I was, forever trying to lift weights to build muscle but always giving up after about a week and a half. In gym class I'd been mortified by my twig of a body. But when Edgar, the club manager, was considering whether to hire me, he'd asked me to strip to my underwear, and I'd noticed the tight smile that had slowly stretched across his face. “Perfect,” he'd purred, running his hands over my torso. “Not a hair anywhere. You look seventeen.”

But in fact I had just turned the ripe old age of twenty. Randall threw me a party for the occasion, my first since I was fourteen. I was in great spirits that night, filled with ambitious plans. I had come to L.A. to be an actor, and nothing was going to discourage me. “This time next year,” I'd announced at my birthday party, “I'll be a regular on a TV series.” A few of my friends had laughed skeptically. “You just wait and see,” I'd told them. “I'm trying out for a part on
Punky Brewster!
”

I didn't get the
Punky
job, and neither did I land parts on
Who's the Boss?
or
The Facts of Life,
all of which I auditioned for. But I hadn't given up yet. Randall thought working as a go-go boy might hurt my chances of getting on TV, but Randall was a fuddy-duddy when it came to things like that. He was such a
serious
young man—a med student at UCLA. He was always saying things like, “Consider all your options before you take a leap.”

Climbing up on my box in my thong three nights a week, I had no idea what Randall was talking about, nor did I really care to know. All I knew was that I was making good money for doing very little—and for this skinny little kid, all that hooting and whistling was kind of fun. Sure, the free booze and free blow that Edgar provided were nice perks, but the best part was simply getting up on the box.

“Hey, baby, give me a wink,” the large black man called out.

I obliged, turning around to moon the crowd and flex my butt hole. A scattering of guys up front hooted, and more dollars flew my way. I loved it. Who ever would have
thought?

It was getting hot up there under the strobe lights. Sweat rolled down my forehead, and even the half-pint of mousse I'd used to spike up my hair wasn't going to last all night. “Benny,” I said, leaning down again as he passed, “get me some water, will you?”

“I'm busy.”

“Fuck you, Benny.”

I glanced around for Randall. He was across the room, chatting up some guy in an oxford shirt and loosened tie. Leave it to Randall to spot the executive types. I motioned to him; he spotted me; I simulated drinking a bottle of water. Actually, it probably looked more as if I was asking to suck his cock, but those days, thank God, were over. Randall turned to Mr. Oxford Shirt and seemed to tell him that he'd be right back, and then he headed over to the bar. What would I do without Randall?

“What would you do without me?” he asked, handing me up the bottle of Evian.

I winked, unscrewed the top, and guzzled down about half the bottle. The rest I poured over my torso, sending a cheer up from the crowd.

“Show-off,” Randall said, smirking. He returned to his executive.

Once, I had been in love with Randall. It was right after I'd first arrived in L.A., a scared kid with big dreams. Randall was a native and not nearly as scared as I was, but he had dreams that matched my own. It was a very long time ago. Six months, in fact.

I'd responded to an ad he'd posted on the bulletin board at Pavilions, looking for a roommate. I called him, got his address, and walked the two miles to his place. It was one half of a pink stucco house just below Santa Monica Boulevard, near Fairfax, with a bunch of straggly birds-of-paradise growing out front. When Randall opened the door, he was wearing only a white terry-cloth towel around his waist, with shaving cream carefully applied to his cheeks and chin. As he showed me around the place, his towel kept slipping, and I couldn't take my eyes off his broad, furry chest. By the time we got to the kitchen, the towel was gone and we were kissing over the sink. I found the taste of shaving cream to be surprisingly sweet and arousing.

We fucked on his mattress—Randall believed a bed frame was a waste of money for a struggling student—and after I'd shot three head-splitting loads, I paid him two months' rent. Suddenly not only did I have a place in L.A., but I had a boyfriend as well. Quite the accomplishment—since I'd only stepped off the bus at Union Station that morning. It was far, far easier than I had imagined, far simpler than Dad had warned.

For a couple of weeks, I was head over heels in love with Randall. But then, one night, walking home, I spotted a tall blond in leather pants approaching me. After the classic double take as we passed each other, we circled back around, grins on our faces. Soon we were humping on his mattress—another West Hollywood boy without an actual bed—and I decided then and there that
this
was my true love. After all, Lance shared my passion for
Doctor Who
and
Monty Python,
while Randall's tastes were more highfalutin, what with all his classical music cassette tapes. So I broke up with Randall and started dating Lance. I expected Randall would ask me to move out, but he didn't. “I've gotten used to you,” he explained. So I turned the spare room into my bedroom, buying a used waterbed because I'd thought they were sexy ever since Starsky had one on
Starsky & Hutch.
Randall said he always knew when I was having sex with Lance, because it sounded like the coast of Malibu in the next room.

“Ow!”

Some guy had just pinched the shaft of my cock as he stuffed a couple of bills into my thong.

“No touching allowed,” I scolded him.

The guy, bald and red, giggled like a girl.

Up there on the box, you could really smell the crowd. The cigarettes, the beer belches, the body odor, the Calvin Klein Obsession cologne. All the smells braided together, wafting up from below, held in place by the thick blue smoke that encircled me like a wreath. At the moment, I couldn't breathe, so I waved my hands in front of me as if swimming through the air, clearing a passage for oxygen to flow. Inhaling deeply, eyes closed, I took a long, deep gulp. When I opened my eyes, I looked around.

Mr. Tight Tee was gone.

“Damn,” I mumbled.

But then I spotted him against another far wall, looking bored. He still held his Rolling Rock at his side. He didn't seem to be watching me. Of course, really hot guys never watched the strippers. Instead, we watched them.

My eyes swung back over to Randall, who was once again busy with his executive. After I'd broken up with him, Randall had announced he wanted no more boys, only men. “I want a smart, successful guy who is going places,” he'd told me. When I'd replied that I intended to “go places,” that I'd moved to L.A. to become a famous actor, Randall had just given me a withering look. Okay, so it had been six months, and nothing had come of any of my auditions, but after each one, I'd been told that I had a good face and a good voice. I was certain stardom awaited. Randall had just smiled and said nothing.

I don't know why Randall's patronizing attitude annoyed me so much. I certainly didn't want to go back with him. Not at all. I was busy with my own string of romantic adventures. After I'd broken up with Lance, I'd fallen in love with Rico, who'd introduced me to Bobby, with whom I'd fallen madly in love after he'd got me this go-go boy job. That was how I'd met Benny, for whom I'd left Bobby and whom, for a couple of weeks, I'd really, really liked. But suddenly up there on my box, I was overwhelmed with attention—a heady experience for a kid who'd never gotten a second look during all his years in Connecticut, who had spent most of his time watching
Doctor Who
reruns and listening to Blondie, except, of course, when he'd had to tag along after his mother through motorcycle bars and strip clubs—like this one, only straight—looking for his sister.

So, compared to that, being up on my box was really fun.
Me,
on a pedestal! I decided to stay single for a while, enjoying the lavish attention a single go-go boy attracted. But, like Randall, I was also biding my time, waiting for Mr. Right.

“Yeah,” Randall had scoffed recently, “more like Mr. Right Away.”

“Not true.”

“Danny, all you're about is one thrill after the other. If you don't watch out, you'll end up dead. You'll get AIDS, or you'll overdose or wind up hacked up by some stranger in some back alley—”

He'd stopped.

He'd crossed a line.

He'd known he might be describing my sister's fate. He'd apologized. We'd dropped the subject.

Across the crowd, I once again laid my eyes on Mr. Tight Tee. And he was looking at me. When our eyes met, he turned away, almost as if embarrassed.

“You have no idea how beautiful you are,” Edgar had said to me a few weeks ago, his voice thick with lust, both of us wiping our noses after two lines of coke. “Just give me one night with you, Danny. Just one night.”

Edgar was an old guy. Forty, I think. Maybe forty-one. He was balding, with a puckered face and nostrils that were permanently red and distended from too much blow. Rumor had it that he had AIDS, too. I wouldn't let him near me.

“You little bitch,” he'd growled after I'd recoiled from his touch, but he didn't hold a grudge. “You know, you could make a lot of money if you'd let me sell that sweet ass of yours. Lots of guys ask about you. We'll split the cash.”

“Thanks, anyway,” I'd told him. “I make enough in tips.”

“Soon it won't be enough,” Edgar had replied.

I didn't know what he meant, but it didn't matter. Soon I'd be out of that place, done with stripping, playing a recurring part on
Mr. Belvedere
or
Perfect Strangers.
I was up for parts on both. I was certain one of them would come through.

I glanced back over at Mr. Tight Tee. He was chugging his Rolling Rock now, and even as I thrusted my crotch in some guy's face to the beat of “Never Gonna Give You Up” by Rick Astley, I kept my eyes fixed on him. The object of my desire finished his beer, set down the bottle, and turned with deliberate force, heading for the door.

“Hey!” I shouted.

Without even thinking about it, I hopped off my box and made a beeline after him. The crowd parted, stunned into silence by my sudden action, allowing me to pass.

Mr. Tight Tee was already out on Santa Monica Boulevard when I caught up with him.

“Hey!” I shouted again.

He turned back, surprise on his face.

“Where you going?” I asked.

He seemed flabbergasted that I had followed him. “I'm going home,” he said after finding his voice.

“But it's early!” I said. “It's not even midnight!”

His mouth was open, but he didn't speak. No wonder he was flummoxed. There I was, on the sidewalk, standing in front of him, with dollar bills hanging out of my thong.

“I was hoping,” I told him, “you'd stick around for my break.”

He smiled shyly. “You
noticed
me from up there?”