by Rick R. Reed
Dave looked off, winsome. “Ah, to be young. To not have to work at it.”
Dave’s eyes, which Wren noticed for the first time were the palest shade of gray he had ever seen on a human being, focused on him.
“Enjoy it while it lasts, young man. Gravity and our metabolism catch up with us all too soon.”
They drank in silence for the next several minutes, and Wren watched as one of his favorite dancers, a blond named Arliss, mounted the stage to begin his set. Arliss was different from the other dancers. Sure, he had the lean, ripped bod and a memorable face, full lips and a mane of untamed pale blond hair, but the sleaze factor evident in most of the other dancers was absent when it came to Arliss. There was a sweetness about him, almost an innocence, despite the stories—stories that he had appeared in porn, that he narrowly escaped being the gangbang bottom in not only a bareback flick but a snuff film as well.
The story went that his boyfriend, Sean, had donned a leather mask and rescued him from the scene.
Who knew what was true and what was false at Tricks? Most of the dancers had tales to tell, and it was hard to separate the fabrications for the sake of color from the plain old unvarnished truth.
But Arliss definitely set himself apart from his fellow dancers. Even now, as he moved sensuously to an old Madonna tune, “Ray of Light,” there was something faraway in his eyes. For a moment Wren forgot himself and simply watched Arliss dance in his black thong, admiring how the muscles rippled up from his legs, through his torso, and on, rising to a magnificent chest and broad shoulders. Most of the guys drooled, Wren knew, over that body, but Wren allowed himself to see where Arliss’s gaze focused. It lit across the bar on a fairly nondescript but cute man in glasses who wore a small smile that conveyed he was somewhere else as he met Arliss’s eyes.
For the two men, Wren thought, no one else existed. He knew the guy Arliss was looking at was his boyfriend, Sean. If you spent any time in Tricks at all, you knew Sean belonged to Arliss and vice versa. Sean practically never missed a night of Arliss dancing, and the two always went home together after Arliss finished working. They were the proof that, even in an environment like this one, where youth was fleeting, lust dominated, and relationships lasted as long as an orgasm, true love could still be found. Arliss and Sean proved that “the one” still existed out there for everyone.
Wren grinned and wondered what it would be like to have such love and devotion in one’s life. Wren had certainly never been fortunate enough to have it happen to him. He had had a series of boyfriends, more like hookups really, but no one ever stuck. He had never felt that magic the books, movies, and songs liked to play up as Love with a capital L.
Wren didn’t really know what romantic love was, and he wasn’t sure he’d recognize it if it came up and kissed him on the cheek and pinched his butt. He hoped one day he would find out. He was still very young, after all.
“You like him, the dancer?”
Dave’s voice yanked Wren out of his reverie, returning him with a jolt to the tacky confines of Tricks and an older, clean-cut man staring down his nose at him.
“Oh yeah,” Wren said, wistful. “Arliss. He’s gorgeous.” He met Dave’s stare. “And taken.” He nodded across the bar. “That’s his boyfriend, Sean, over there.” Wren shook his head. “True love. You know?”
“I do indeed know. True love is a rare and wondrous thing. For most of us, it comes along but once in a lifetime, and then only if we are very, very lucky.”
“Yeah.” Wren took a sip of his drink and wondered how he had ended up here talking love philosophy with a guy who looked like a televangelist. It just went to show, you never knew how your day would wind up. Like he didn’t expect to lose his shitty customer service job today when he woke up this morning, but he had.
“A good-looking young man like you must have to fend off the offers from knights in shining armor.”
Wren resisted the impulse to roll his eyes. “Not so much.” He shrugged. “I haven’t met Mr. Right yet. Lots of Mr. Right Nows, if you know what I’m sayin’, but no Mr. Right.” He looked pointedly at Dave. “And certainly no knight in shining armor.”
Dave laughed. “Well, perhaps I exaggerate.” He leaned in close and spoke softly to Wren, almost paternally. “But what if I told you, dear Wren, that I could help you meet your Mr. Right? What if I told you I could help open the door to that wondrous and rare opportunity?”
“I’d say you were full of shit.”
Dave made a tsk sound. “Cursing does not become you, dear boy. Nor does skepticism. Haven’t I at least piqued your curiosity?”
Not really, Wren wanted to say, but he reminded himself that the guy had bought him a drink and rescued him from being tossed out of the bar. Shouldn’t he at least be polite? “Well, yeah. But I don’t see how. I mean, no offense, you seem like a really nice guy and all, but I don’t know if we’re a match.”
Dave chuckled. “I didn’t mean me, dear fellow. Heavens! I daresay that biting off a love match with me would be a bit more than you could chew.”
Dave’s pale eyes went dark for just a moment—it was the most amazing thing.
“But I own a business which—how shall I put it?—facilitates young men meeting other men who may or may not possess the requisites for a match made in heaven. Those choices are ultimately up to the individuals involved.”
Okay, so Wren had no idea what this dude was talking about—and it was starting to creep him out. “I don’t get you.”
Before Dave could answer, Chip reapproached them. “Are you boys doing okay? Need anything?”
Dave considered Wren’s half-empty—or was that half-full?—glass and said hurriedly, “Two more of the same.”
Chip hurried away. Quick sticks. Wren doubted the guy moved as fast for anyone else in the bar.
While Chip got their drinks, Dave pulled a black leather wallet from his pants pocket. The leather was rich, finely grained, and bore the discreet Prada logo in pewter. From it he extracted a business card and handed it to Wren.
Wren glanced down at the ivory card with its raised, shiny black lettering. The card bore only the words “À Louer” and a phone number with a North Side city prefix: 773.
“What does it mean?” Wren fingered the lettering on the card.
“It’s the name of my business. It’s French. It means ‘to connect, to find love.’”
Wren nodded, getting it. “So, what? You run some kind of escort service?”
Dave shook his head. “‘Escort service’ sounds so tawdry. I prefer to think of myself as a facilitator whereby men can meet other men. I like to think I help open a door to happiness. Yes.” Dave smiled, revealing rows of teeth that were so perfect and white Wren wondered if they were veneers or even dentures.
“Happiness. I see. Well, that’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
“Are you perhaps in the market for some happiness, Wren? And for making some money while you’re in the pursuit of it?”
Was this for real? Was this guy asking him to join his escort service?
Wren reminded himself that he had nowhere to go, no pressing engagements, nothing more to do this evening, really, than lick his wounds and contemplate his future as one of the multitudinous ranks of the unemployed in the good old US of A. So he bit. “Sure. I’m in the market for, as you put it, happiness. And my creditors would say I’m also in the market for some money.” Wren felt a sad grin slide across his face as he remembered that his wallet was stolen. The little money he had in his checking account, which amounted to approximately three hundred dollars last time he checked, could have already been depleted if someone had indeed picked his pocket.
Wren frowned as he remembered writing his ATM PIN number on a Post-it and tucking it into his now gone-missing wallet. Would the bank cover it if he reported a theft? Or would he just lose his money? And what was he doing sitting here anyway, when he should be at home, calling his bank and getting replacements for the contents of his wallet
lined up?
But Dave obviously couldn’t hear the turmoil going on in Wren’s head. He simply smiled at Wren, giving him a foot in the door. Why he was giving him a foot in the door, Wren had no idea. There was no way he was going to be an escort, for fuck’s sake! He was better than that!
Yet Wren was too polite to just get up and walk away, especially now, when he could tell by the look on Dave’s face he was winding up to give his pitch. But he couldn’t resist applying a pin to the older man’s bubble. “But I don’t think I’d ever consider being an escort.” Wren looked around himself, at Arliss and the new dancer who had joined him on the stage, plus the other Tricks “entertainers,” who now mingled through the crowd, scantily clad in things like G-strings, jockstraps, and combat boots. “Besides, what would you need me for when you have all these lovelies who would jump at your opportunity?”
Dave rubbed his chin, seemingly pondering what Wren said. “My young man, first of all, I really prefer not to think of the fellows I employ as ‘escorts.’ They are not rent boys either. They are companions, handsome young men who trade their time in exchange for money. Time. It’s an important consideration. How they use that time—whether it’s to see a play, take a moonlight stroll on the beach, or do something more risqué—that’s up to them and their client. I do not engage in the commerce of sex for money. That’s much too indiscreet for me. I, as I said, facilitate time and companionship for people who might otherwise be too busy to arrange it for themselves. And really isn’t that what any working person does? Sells his time in exchange for money?”
“I suppose.” Wren took a long swallow of his V&T, which was getting weak as the ice melted. He wanted to advise Dave to “Tell it to the judge” but thought now was not the time to be a wiseass. Truthfully, he just wanted Dave to finish up so he could make a polite exit. Suddenly all this talk of money reminded him, imperatively, that he had more pressing concerns that overrode being a barfly, no matter how much he wanted to escape the reality of his world.
Dave took a sip of his club soda and went on. “Wren, I could set you up so you could meet lots of desirable men. Our clients are not what you’d imagine when you think of the term ‘escort service.’ The men who patronize À Louer are executives or professionals, most of them young and attractive. What they don’t have is time. They have very busy professional lives, working sixty- to eighty-hour weeks. If I had a nickel for every time one of them told me how they simply cannot spare the time to hunt for a potential suitor online or in the bars or even in some other form of social engagement—well—let’s just say I wouldn’t need to run this business.
“The men you will be meeting will be good-looking. Young. Intelligent. They will be catches. I promise. We screen our clientele very carefully. Not only do we interview every applicant, we do background checks. I have a private detective on retainer.”
Dave boldly invaded Wren’s personal space, putting his face so close to Wren’s that, for a moment, Wren feared the guy was moving in for a kiss. “That’s how much I care about my boys. They are like sons to me, and I want to be sure they go with only gentlemen, the kind any of them would be proud to bring home to Mother.” Dave licked his lips.
“So you’re safe, you’d meet lots of handsome, eligible men, and you’d make lots of money. How can you resist that? And, might I add, many of my boys have found ‘the one’ as they worked.”
Dave bowed his head, but Wren could see the proud grin playing about his lips. “I hate losing them, but it does my heart good when I see one of the boys and a client find love.” He sighed. “It’s magic.”
Wren thought Oh brother. “Why me?”
“Because you’re a beautiful boy. You don’t look, as so many here in Tricks do, like someone who’s been around the proverbial block. You look fresh. Unspoiled. You are the kind of young man my clients prize. And I can tell, just from our brief exchange here tonight, that you have a good head on your shoulders. But mainly I like the innocent aura you have about you, something you’re probably not even aware of, which only serves to make you more charming.” Dave smiled and laid a paternal hand on Wren’s knee.
Wren didn’t know how unsullied he was. Looks, he thought, can be deceiving. He hadn’t been a virgin since he was fifteen, when he gave up his ass to an older classmate on a camping trip to Wisconsin. The young Wren discovered he had an untapped capacity and taste for bottoming and had had no compunction about indulging that taste going forward. He knew he wasn’t a whore, but he was a bit of a slut—and felt no guilt about it.
Still. Let Dave see what he sees. It was nice to be perceived as fresh and unspoiled. And these days, appearances were everything, right?
Dave tried another tack. “Young man, if you don’t mind my asking, how much do you make?”
Wren laughed. “That’s pretty personal, dude.”
“I know, but I just want a basis for comparison. Humor me.”
Wren debated. How much should he tell this man? Was it really any of his business? Yet there burned within him a curiosity. Having never been in such an odd situation, Wren was forced to admit to himself he was intrigued, even if he still wasn’t willing to entertain the idea of “selling it.” He preferred to give it away for free. Somehow that just seemed more civilized and less sleazy. It was what most of the world did, right?
But what would be the harm in talking a bit more to Dave? See if he would perhaps dangle some figures in front of him? “Actually, Dave, I just lost my job. I was working in customer service for an online retailer, one you’ve heard of.” Wren rolled his eyes. “They said I wasn’t meeting some insane quota for number of calls per hour.” Wren shrugged. “I like to help people, which is why I took the job in the first place. And helping takes time… more than they were willing to give. So I got called into my boss’s office this afternoon.” Wren grinned, but the smile didn’t extend to his eyes. “I knew it was over when he said to close the door and take a seat. So cliché.”
“See? I knew you were a person who cared,” Dave said. “Your obvious talent was going to waste at this enterprise.”
“Yeah, well…”
Wren rattled the ice in his empty glass. Dave called Chip over to order him another drink.
“So, to answer your question, I make zilch, zero, nada.” Once the new drink was set down before him, Wren took it up and gulped half of it down in one go. “I’ll get unemployment, I’m sure, and something else will come along eventually. It always does.”
“Don’t you see?” Dave wondered. “It already has. Opportunity has come knocking, my friend. Aren’t you going to answer the door?”
Wren took another swallow. “So how much we talkin’ here?” The alcohol emboldened him. Let’s cut to the chase.
“I wish I had one of my boys here with me so I could give you a concrete example. But you’ll just have to use your imagination. The last boy I hired, who, of course, is still with me, came to me nine months ago. At that time he was a mess. Drinking too much, promiscuous, and riddled with unsavory diseases. He was all of twenty-one years old and on the fast track to an early death. I found him outside Ann Sather’s restaurant, just a few blocks from here. He was panhandling.” Dave engaged and held Wren’s gaze. “And do you know that boy offered to perform oral congress on me for ten bucks?” Dave shook his head.
“Hey. That’s a bargain you won’t find at T.J.Maxx,” Wren quipped.
Dave let the remark pass. “Long story short, I took him in. I got him sorted out. Got him going to AA, where he admitted, finally, to himself that he had a problem that was ruining his life and controlling him. I got him eating right. I had him start a running regimen, and today he runs five or six miles along the lakefront with ease, thanks to no more hangovers and no more cancer sticks.”
Wren fingered the pack of Marlboros in his pocket, feeling heat rise to his face. What would Dave think if he knew?
Dave groped in his rear pocket and pulled out his wallet once more. From it he extracted a photograph showing a gor
geous young man with thick black hair, glowing olive skin, and the bright eyes of an abstainer. “This is Evan. If you could see him when I met him, you wouldn’t believe it.”
Wren stared down at the photo. “Woof,” he whispered. The guy was smokin’ hot. Hell, Wren thought, even I’d consider paying him.
“Evan lives on his own now. Over on Roscoe, just off the Inner Drive, in a nice one-bedroom in a vintage building. Small, tasteful, and elegant. A place that would have been far out of his reach a year ago at this time, but now it’s his. He’s looking for a condo to buy and easily affords the $2,000 a month rent he’s paying. He has beautiful clothes and drives a late-model Lexus.” Dave shrugged. “He’s no billionaire, but he’s comfortable and far better off than most of his peers.”
Wren’s mother had a saying: “Honeybunch, if it sounds too good to be true, it probably is.” Wren had heard her use the expression a hundred times at least, usually when she was watching yet another infomercial late at night on HGTV or the Food Network.
She was usually right.
So, if I just peddle my ass, I could drive a Lexus and live in a fancy neighborhood? Why not? I mean, I’m giving it away anyway, and if this guy thinks he can get me set up, where’s the harm?
Where indeed? What about your self-respect? And who knows what strings this Dave would attach to such an enterprise? Wren was sure Dave took his cut, in cash and perhaps even in trade. The thought of being forced to be sexual with Dave made Wren’s stomach churn. Clean and wholesome-looking as he was, there was something off about the man, something creepy Wren had yet to put his finger on.
“I don’t know,” Wren said. Suddenly the dancers seemed sleazy, and the drinks sat uncomfortably within him, igniting a headache behind his right eye. All at once he’d had enough of Dave and his pipe dreams, for he was certain that’s what they were.
Dave probably didn’t even know the young man in the picture he showed him. His Prada wallet was most likely a fake. And all this here tonight was just a line of carefully crafted bullshit to get Wren into bed.
