Tricks

by Ellen Hopkins

  a definite “Yes.” But am I really, really?

  Andrew answers the question for me,

  though I’m sure he has no idea that’s what

  he’s doing. I can’t wait to show you the ranch.

  Someday it will be your home too. No hint

  of hesitation. He’s not only saying his home

  is mine, he’s telling me his life is mine.

  We turn down a long gravel driveway,

  the smell of spring sharp through the windows.

  Cattle graze in one field, horses in another.

  I know nothing about either animal except

  what I’ve seen on TV. But that will change

  with time. Time with Andrew. One day,

  not far in the future, we’ll have plenty of time

  together. Something powerful rises up inside me.

  Home

  Andrew parks the Tundra and we are home.

  A bluetick pup lifts her head from the porch,

  and when she sees Andrew, sprints to greet

  him, tail stub wagging. I know how she feels.

  Andrew bends to scratch her behind an ear.

  Here now, little Sheila. Say hello to my Eden.

  And now she is my puppy too. She licks

  my hand, telling me so, and I cannot believe

  that any of this is real. Where is my familiar

  home? Where is Boise? I never want to return

  to either. I slide my arms up around Andrew’s

  neck. “I love you. More than anything in

  this world.” And, for a swift-passing moment,

  the thought crosses my mind that I love him

  more than anything in any world. Torn, always

  torn, I throw out a silent entreaty to whatever

  might exist beyond this world: “If love like this

  is wrong, Lord, go ahead and damn me.”

  I Feel Zero

  Trepidation as Andrew takes my hand,

  encourages me through the front door.

  I hold my breath, not sure why. I feel

  like a bride on her wedding night, despite

  the nag inside my head who insists:

  Not married. Not right. Not married …

  “Shut up!” I will her, silently. Because,

  despite the lack of white gown and cake,

  dripping frosting flowers, I know what will

  happen soon means Andrew and I are forever

  one. Sheila, puppy of honor, follows us

  inside. She’s probably not nearly as impressed

  as I am. The decor is simple. Real. Wood.

  Leather. Antiques, refinished, as if the people

  who own them care about their history.

  And, of course, they do. “Oh, Andrew.

  It’s all so perfect. I love it!” And I do.

  “But not nearly as much as I love you.”

  We’re kissing. We’ve never kissed exactly

  like this, because we’ve never felt this easy

  with each other. No one here. No one

  to see. Only Andrew and me.

  (Sheila doesn’t care. Doesn’t count,

  because she only wants what Andrew

  and I do. Love.) We could talk, I guess.

  But there’s nothing, really, to say beyond

  I love you, and we’ve already said that.

  Andrew stops kissing me, and his eyes

  ask what he’s afraid to, and my eyes answer

  in the same way, so he takes my hand, leads

  me down the hall to the bedroom that I would

  have picked as his without analyzing. It has

  a big feather bed, with massive quilts and

  pillows I have to fall into. With Andrew.

  I Thought It Would Be

  So easy. That loving him as much as I do would

  conquer any hint of fear. But when he kisses

  me, I’m shaking, and there are tears

  in my eyes. We don’t have to, he whispers.

  “I know. I want to. I’m just …” Unsure.

  I’m completely unsure about my body.

  What if he hates it? But now he touches

  me. His hands are tentative, and I remember

  that this is new for him, too. Is this

  okay? he asks. Tell me what you like.

  He kisses me as he picks me up, lays

  me gently on the bed. A slow, mutual

  exploration begins. As we learn together,

  the fear falls away, and sheer exhilaration—

  like standing on the very edge of a cliff,

  with the wind in your face—replaces it.

  He likes my body, and I love his, and there

  are only a few seconds of pain, before waves

  of pleasure. Wave after swelling wave of

  everything right. Wave after wave of love.

  A Poem by Seth Parnell

  Nothing’s Right

  Not when you know

  someone you love

  must leave too soon.

  The thought of

  losing a friend stings.

  The pain of losing

  a parent revisits you.

  The insanity of

  losing someone

  who has become

  your very heart slices

  you right in two.

  You can’t

  eat. Can’t sleep. Can’t

  concentrate on simple

  things. All you do

  is wonder how you’ll

  live without

  the necessary beat

  inside your chest.

  The weight of dread

  takes your breath away.

  Seth

  Three Weeks

  Until Loren leaves me.

  One month until my life

  falls into limbo. I never

  knew limbo was meant

  to be experienced on earth.

  I’m halfway there already.

  I fake my way through

  every day, eating, drinking,

  staring off into the classroom

  void, with finals fast approaching.

  I don’t care about school,

  about getting into some

  highbrow university.

  Don’t care about the price

  of seed or serious lack of rain.

  Will I care about any of

  that when he’s gone?

  Maybe it will be easier,

  not sneaking off to see

  him every stinking chance

  I get. Not trying with

  every ounce of what’s

  inside me to make him

  damn well remember

  me every minute he’s away.

  I’d Be Lying

  If I said things haven’t changed

  between us already. It’s like

  we’ve erected a tall wall

  of silence, and neither of us

  will break down and be first

  to try and scale the stupid

  thing. We used to talk for

  hours, discuss issues, confess

  latent secrets. We used to

  have fun. Used to go out.

  Now when he opens the door,

  I don’t even say hello, just

  push my way through,

  barely close it behind me

  before pulling him off down

  the hall to the bedroom.

  We have changed there,

  too. Especially me. I take

  control from the start,

  don’t ask, only demand.

  I want to hurt him, like

  he will hurt me when he

  goes off to minister. I only

  have one way to do that.

  And I’m doing it now.

  He Accepts

  Every jolt of punishment

  without a word or even

  a sigh. When I can’t give

  any more, when the act


  is finished, I stand back,

  waiting. Expecting anger.

  Tears. Anything but his

  soft, Don’t you know how

  sorry I am that I have

  to go? I love you, Seth.

  And the tears that finally

  come are mine. “Jesus,

  Loren. Why did I have to

  meet you at all? What do

  I do when you leave?

  “Go back to school, back to

  farming? Back to the old

  me, who was never me

  at all?” I look at him, find

  his eyes, but no answers.

  He comes over to me,

  slides his arms up

  around my neck, kisses

  the kind of kiss that makes

  me want more. A lot more.

  Just when I think I’m ready

  for more, he stops me.

  Let’s clean up and go out

  for a while. I’m starving.

  How about some Italian?

  As I start to say no, my

  belly rumbles a good one.

  I haven’t eaten a darn thing

  since morning Cheerios.

  “Sure, why the hell not?”

  Probably a good idea

  to get out of this place

  before I start to cry again.

  Sometimes, top crust

  or not, I feel like a total girl.

  Despite That

  And despite being an hour

  from home, I don’t want

  to look like a girl when

  Loren and I go out, not

  even in this neighborhood,

  where many of the people

  I see could easily be identified

  as “gay.” Not even knowing

  most everyone here is gay.

  Who knows who might be

  cruising this place for

  a date or just for kicks?

  Hetero couples wander

  the sidewalks. Looking

  for a threesome? Or just

  to be somewhere safe, where

  one half of the couple won’t

  ask the other, What the HELL

  are you looking at? Somewhere

  safe? Is there such a place?

  Loren Leads the Way

  Weaving us in and out

  of the Bohemians

  crowding the sidewalk.

  It’s nice to be out with

  him. But it also makes me

  sad. We used to do this

  more when we first got

  together. Restaurants.

  Theater. Long walks,

  talking about life in general.

  Then it all became about

  sex. More sex. Better

  sex. Unusual sex. Like

  most couples, I guess.

  Is that what I’m really

  afraid of losing? Not

  connection or affection,

  not the growth caused

  by absorbing love? If

  so, what have I become?

  I Can’t Help

  But think about that as

  Pietro escorts us to

  our favorite table, one

  we haven’t asked for in

  too many weeks, a fact he

  reminds us of. Why have

  you stayed away so

  long, misters? I was

  beginning to think you

  maybe got bad fish last time.

  Loren always orders the

  fresh fish. He responds,

  Now you know we’ve never

  gotten so much as a single

  bad mouthful here, Pietro.

  The broad Italian smiles.

  Well then, we have on

  the menu fresh sea bass

  tonight…. He goes on to

  describe the specials in detail.

  I’ll stick with my usual

  mushroom raviolis.

  I lost Pietro after sea bass,

  wondering if, without Loren,

  I’ll ever eat here again.

  I Guess I Might

  If I ever happen to come

  to Louisville again, once

  Loren’s gone. The food

  is delicious. If the place

  was in a different part of

  town, I might even bring

  Dad along, see if he could

  interest Pietro in his supersecret

  recipe for venison

  sausage, biscuits, and gravy.

  The thought makes me smile,

  and that makes Loren smile

  too. What? he says, the corners

  of his mouth still curled in

  that oh-so-familiar way.

  It’s hard to put him and Dad

  in the same place, even if

  that place is inside my head.

  “Nothing.” Under the table,

  Loren’s hand finds my thigh.

  So, he says, I thought

  we might go out for

  a little while after we

  finish dessert. There’s

  a club not far from here… .

  His touch is doing strange

  things to me. At least, they

  feel awfully strange in a

  restaurant. “A club? You

  mean …? You’re not serious.”

  Completely serious. Tonight

  they even let underage guys

  inside, as long as they have

  a sponsor. I figured I could

  sponsor you. How about it?

  Right now, my body wants

  him to do more than “sponsor”

  me. But I have to admit, I’m

  a little curious. “I thought

  you didn’t like gay bars.”

  I don’t. Not alone. But I’m

  not alone tonight, am I?

  He spies Pietro, bringing

  our tiramisu, and his hand

  falls away. Leaves me cold.

  Cold Becomes Clammy

  As Loren and I make our

  way past Mr. ID Checker

  at the door to Fringe. He

  looks at Loren’s license,

  nods, barely glances at mine.

  I shake my head. “What was

  that? He didn’t give a damn

  about how old I am. And just

  why do you have to show ID

  to prove you’re underage?”

  Loren grins. You’re supposed

  to be eighteen to get in.

  But you’re right, he doesn’t

  really care. Kentucky

  is notoriously lax on

  such things. It hasn’t been

  all that long since they

  raised the drinking age

  to twenty-one, and they

  don’t very often bust bars

  for serving to minors.

  Still, I wouldn’t stand

  right in front of the guy,

  sipping bourbon. He

  might decide to get nasty.

  Fringe

  Is a lot different than I

  thought it would be.

  I expected sleazy, but it

  borders on upscale, all dark

  wood and brass and suede.

  It’s not that late, as bar

  scenes go, so the place

  isn’t too crowded. Still,

  maybe fifty or sixty guys

  are drinking, laughing,

  and hitting on other guys,

  if they’re not coupled up

  already. Loren and I find

  cushy chairs in the back,

  and he goes to order drinks.

  I use the opportunity to

  check out the river of faces.

  Many are average. You

  wouldn’t look twice at

  them on the street. A few

  you wouldn’t want to look

  at. Okay, they’re not very

  attractive, and when they

  openly sta
re at me, it

  creeps me out completely.

  There are also some beautiful

  men here. Most of them are

  younger, yet a fair number

  gravitate toward much older

  guys. I don’t think it’s all about

  love. I watch a decent-looking

  middle-aged man, sandy

  haired and very well dressed,

  head off to the men’s room.

  Within three minutes, his young

  companion flirts obnoxiously.

  Glad he didn’t pick me to flirt

  with. When the older guy

  returns, he is not pleased.

  He slams his fist on the table,

  grabs his designer overcoat,

  and stomps toward the door,

  followed by the younger guy.

  If I beat up a table, would

  Loren follow me out the door?

  Would He Decide to Stay

  If I tried coercion instead

  of a simple plea? What if

  I threatened his family?

  Like I could, considering

  I don’t know who—or where—

  they are. He’s never shared

  that information with me, nor

  told me where he went to school,

  or how (or if) he outed himself.

  That’s a lot not to tell me.

  He returns now with two

  sugar-rimmed glasses,

  filled with amber liquid

  and some sort of green

  leaves. Mint juleps, he says.

  Froufrou drinks? I take a big

  swallow, fight to not choke.

  “H-holy crap. What’s in

  these things?” Whatever

  it is burns going down.

  He can’t help but laugh.

  Bourbon. A little sugar

  syrup, some mint leaves,

  but other than that,

  bourbon. Sip, don’t gulp.

  I’m Doing a Fair Job

  Of sipping, not gulping,

  when one of the most

  incredible-looking men I’ve ever seen

  shakes his butt by. My mouth

  must have dropped open,

  because Loren turns to see

  what I’m staring at. My, my.

  He is a fine work of art, isn’t

  he? We watch the guy cozy

  up to a what might be less

  than affectionately termed

  “old faggot.” Within five

  seconds, the ancient dude is

  buying the fine work of art

  a drink. “What’s up with that?”

  Oh hon, haven’t you ever

  heard the term “sugar

  daddy”? Lots of young

  guys go looking for easy

  drinks, easy meals, maybe

  even a place to stay. When