In Ricardo’s book, and to this day, the death of Dorian Moore remains a uniquely Los Angeles mystery, like the Black Dahlia case. And those three—Maggie, Lamont, and Elaine—were not the only ones to believe that they had separately killed him. The ending—or endings—to the real story of Dorian Moore are Rashomon-esque.
Perhaps one’s belief in committing this crime, one’s secret confession that “I killed the boy,” could be the only and truest way to eat from the boy, digest a piece of him so as to be nourished by him when the world offered precious little nourishment for the boy-hungry multitudes.
Was he a god, or was he just another piece of trade? Maybe Dorian Moore was one and the same; after all, gods and trade both provide comfort.
Whatever he was, he was much-needed pleasure for all. The women loved him and the men loved him. He had something for everyone. And everyone had something for him: teeth, anger, appetite, jealousy, fantasy, fear, hunger, gratitude.
The cannibalizing of Dorian Moore, and morsels like him, will continue. It is the law of nature that these are grown for the nourishment of others.
Thankfully, these morsels are self-replenishing. And they will continue to sprout, if greed is checked often, gluttony arrested, and the too desperate held at arm’s length. For to reduce the flow of pretty young black men, to hasten their extinction through the inevitable law of diminishing returns, would piss people off. Because without a god to feed on, there are no people. There is no life. Only mirage.
In Search of Pretty Young Black Men Page 11
