“Anything good?”
“Quantum physics.”
Quantum physics? Give me a break. You’re reading quantum physics in a speeding uptown train pressed between the sweaty masses? “Interesting.” Philip smiled again. “N.Y.U?”
“Yes. Engineering.”
“Good,” Philip said. “You can drive the train then.”
The student chuckled. “I don’t think anyone’s driving this train.”
34th Street. The Pakistani lady moved away rushing for a seat. A wave of passengers surged out, while a third as many shoved in. Philip almost fell. Not really. It was a surefire maneuver. The student caught him.
“Thanks. My stop’s next.”
“Oh,” said the student. He frowned. He fumbled around his jacket pocket. He managed to grab an index card, and then grappled for a marker. Philip was ready on the spot. He always kept a marker near at hand in the outer slip of his backpack. He whipped it out with rapier speed.
“Thanks,” said the student, who closed the book using it as a slipshod desk. He scrawled a shaky note, and then returned the pen. He slipped the card into Philip’s pocket and smiled. While down there, he groped and Philip was already trying to decide whether he would have the prime beef or the swordfish.
Times Square. Watch your step.
“Bye now,” Philip said, mission accomplished.
“Later . . . but if not tonight . . .”
Philip tapped the side of his nose and went with the flow onto the platform. The doorbell bonged three times.
Watch the closing doors.
Philip turned and saw the soft eyes of the student. He wasn’t reading now, or at least not Quantum Physics. He was now studying a different course of engineering and Philip Flaxen was masterful at steering this craft ashore — as masterful as Ahab on his poop.
3
Philip waited until the train was sucked further uptown before he peeked at the index card. It was a courtesy to ignore the machinations of the deal until the interested parties were quite out of range again.
Dennis H.
212.432.2272
nice
Philip hummed, and then trotted along the platform to the stairs. He had forgotten just how late he was going to be. Funny thing about being late. After the first half-hour, it might as well be two hours. The consequences would be the same. However, his colleagues — his fellow craftsmen, were all on the clock, neatly scheduled and posted on the Internet at anticipated hours. The regular customers would be thoroughly pissed if they saw that the Flaxen One was due for display at 6:00 PM and wasn’t unveiled until 7:00 PM. It also meant a pile-up, and a drop in tips. Someone else would sponge in Philip’s tip bowl, and that meant another hungry night, or shortfall in carfare and a long walk. Philip hastened the pace.
It was hard to rush in the rush. When he popped out of the subway beneath the neon godlessness of Times Square, he tried to jaywalk to avoid the bustle, but this meant dodging the taxis. Still, the wide expanse of 42nd Street as it swept westward from Broadway was his lifeblood. It was noisy, garish and fraught with every aroma from sausages to sewer exhaust. Still, the world exploded into a million colorful lights and unmitigated promotion. Pedestrians walked in buffalo clusters — a human herd against traffic and signals and caution, each destined for their own slot in this dizzy city of the eight million.
Philip rushed across 7th Avenue and, on the other side, the hustle was less. He drifted between parked cars and street vendors heading toward the crappier side of the island. He spotted a digital clock sign that told him he was later than he thought. This inspired him to a gallop. He began to sweat, and now worried about the borrowed shirt. Sprakie would have more than a fit if it had sweat rings — those ugly little armpit smiles. Suddenly, he spied a cop. He broke out into a walk. It was a natural, but unnecessary precaution. The policeman could care less about a slinky faggot running to his job, but Philip wouldn’t chance the law following him to his place of employment. It was legal . . . at least he thought it must be by now. However, the last two mayors had cracked down on the neighborhood, proscribing anything construed as obscene. Late, he would be. Trouble, he could accept it. However, he wasn’t about to invite the fuzz to the party and chance a fine or even an eviction. Even though his salary here was a trickle (mostly tips), it was better than the alternative, which he knew was illegal.
Clearing the cop’s sight line, Philip picked up the pace, and then darted down 49th Street. Between 9th and 10th Avenue, the street was lined with parking garages and warehouses. Three-quarters down, between the Cross-Town Parking Center and Gutman’s Furniture Storage was a doorway. It wasn’t marked, except with a number 1456-A. Philip looked both ways, and then pressed a buzzer over the squawk box.
“Who?” came a voice over the box.
“Flaxen.”
“You’re late.”
“Let me in.”
Long pause. Philip banged the door, and then pressed the buzzer again. Finally, after another punitive pause, the door lock buzzed and Philip pushed his way into the foyer’s darkness. He was in for it and he knew it.
Chapter Two
Manluv.org
1
“Jesus Marie,” said the youth as he quivered before his computer screen. “Ain’t a girl safe anywhere anymore?”
Robert Sprague, known to the world as Sprakie, winked and preened, as he knew the webcam was fully operational and fully on his waistline. He kept that waistline gingerly below the desk, as there was nothing on below the desk and the logged-in voyeurs needed to encourage him to stand up and show his wares. Sprakie was far from coy, but the word flirt was more apropos to the moment, and the phrase more tips came across loud and clear.
The room was stark — a cubicle, whitewashed just enough to hide the masonry within the camera’s pan. Beyond it were threadbare walls, flashing holes and errant wires. There was a time when this space formed a suite of offices for a distributorship — toys and party favors if one could believe the occasional remnant of a Chinese label and an evil looking doll’s head; Chucky came to mind. There were six offices connected to a corridor, and each one enclosed a computer, a web cam, a cot, some other toys (not of the Chucky variety) and a naked to semi-naked twink boy. The last office sported a fully clothed German gentleman named Kurt, who monitored the door, the cameras and the till. He was a shade over fifty, akin to a hippo and smoked a foul cigar, the aroma of which drifted throughout the premises.
Manluv was not a huge investment for this German, whom the boyz called the Porn Nazi. In fact, this was the latest of six marginally legal dens that he had plucked up from the streets of New York, although he had started in Düsseldorf with a site called Männer ist Kinder, which was wholly illegal and nearly clamped him irons. Now he followed the law — everyone over eighteen, all phone records kept, a registrant with the Better Business Bureau, compliant with OSHA and even paid taxes to Uncle Sam, although some of the deductions could have raised an eyebrow. That still didn’t make Kurt any less of a Fagin.
To wander through the smoke in that corridor, to hear the purring doggy boys as they stripped and danced and pumped and grinded — solos and duos and even manage a trois on Saturday nights depending on tips, and to know that manluv was not an on-line fundamentalist’s lovefest, kept the business lucrative and many waifs off the street. These silken skinned, lightly tattooed tushies and ball sacks found liberation in this employment — light work that required more looks than brains and a host of invisible panters-in-the-dark, who drooled behind locked doors in quiet suburbs, or perhaps in public stalls in infested ghettos. The need was always there, and the cubicles at manluv were always opened to the never sated tigers of voyeur sex. Ask any fallen politician.
2
Sprakie raised his hands to the keyboard, waggled his fingers and cocked his head. He flipped a prissy smile toward the web cam. He was about to answer the latest request for him to stand up and twirl his hips.
If you want to see my dick, you need to pa
y for a One on One, he typed.
A marketing degree was not necessary to understand this rule of supply and demand. This was the chat room and, to those who entered on their discreet computers and ISPs, it was free to watch the manluv boyz strip and twitter and tease. However, if you wanted some real action, you needed to pay. It was the law of the chat room. In days of yore such chats would occur through the windows of cars or across mugs of beer in the club. However, such was the marvel of technology. Chats were not only anonymous now, but also invisible — at least from the customer’s perspective, and that of his credit card where the transaction showed up in his monthly statement as Furley Barnickel Entertainments Inc. The chat also took on the appearance of a cheap playlet, dialog complete and denuded of nicety and style. Each member of the cast, or the tribe, if you will, assumed a nickname that was meant to serve as an avatar to his hidden ambitions (or her hidden ambitions, because the management at manluv was positive that with so much young male flesh displayed on the Internet, many a JohnCock was really a JaneTwat). Sprakie’s monitor was humming tonight.
Papuppy says: Papuppy here. Hi sweetie — how’s Robert tonight?
Sprakie says: Hi Papuppy. Cool, you know. Getting near the end of my shift.
Papuppy says: Robert, show us your ass!
Bonerman says: Yep! Show it to us now!
Sprakie says: Hi Bonerman — you know the rules.
Monitor 1 says: Guys! Press the ‘One on One’ button and Robert can be all yours.
3
Of course, Monitor 1 was none other than the Porn Nazi himself, who monitored all traffic, including this one for the cute blonde in Room 4, Max Gold, a name which was entered on his employment application, but to which Kurt didn’t believe for a moment. However, he didn’t care.
Cumdoggy says: Max more than the smile. By the way, I’ll be in New York this weekend.
Max says: So, are you saying something?
Cumdoggy says: Hey Bonerman, how are you this evening?
Bonerman says: Would be better if you were here, Cumdoggy.
Max says: To Bonerman - how old are you?
Bonerman says: Old enough.
Max says: No fair! You can see me.
Cumdoggy says: Show us more.
Max says: Teaser. How old Bonerman?
= = = = Bonerman has signed off. = = = =
4
Bang on the wall.
Sprakie rolled his eyes. “What is it, Max?” he shouted.
“Bonerman signed off. I scared him away. I asked him his age. It must have scared him good.”
“Fuck,” Sprakie shouted. “I could have told you that, you dumb ass newbie.”
“Watch out or I’ll come over there and kick your ass.”
Sprakie smiled. He wouldn’t mind a good ass kicking from that sweet blonde newbie, but he had his own tip bucket to fill. He glanced at his watch, the last and only garment he wore.
He’s late again. Kurt will have his hide.
He then pressed a grin across his maw and beamed at the camera. He noticed a new name on the screen.
Tdye.
“Shit. What’s he doing here?” Sprakie knew. This was supposed to be the beginning of Philip’s shift and, sure enough, here Tdye was as he had been for the last two weeks. You could set your watch by it.
Tdye says: Where’s the Flaxen one?
Sprakie says: Off tonight.
Tdye says: But the schedule puts him on now.
Monitor 1 says: The Flaxen one will be on later. Sorry for the inconvenience.
“Shit,” Sprakie said. “Nice going Tdye. You alerted the boss.”
Sprakie counted to ten until the expected knock came at the door. Kurt popped his head in, looked around, and then grumbled.
“I expect him soon, Kurt,” Sprakie mumbled.
“Haz he kallt you yet?”
“No, but he’ll be here.”
“Zo you zay. I’ve bin damn gut to dat one and his perfekt bubble butz, but if he’s five moments langer, I vill not pay him tonight. He vill just verk vor der tipz. You hear?”
“It’s not my fault, Jesus Marie.”
“But he’z your freund, and I brought him on at your zay zo. You hear?”
The head, cigar included, disappeared into the corridor.
“He’ll be here,” Sprakie barked. Fucker. He’ll be here. Sprakie gazed at his clothes pile. Deep in his jeans pocket his cell phone had lain quiet and that pissed him off. He had told Philip to call him if he was going to be late.
“I’ll have his balls on toast.”
Sprakie spied the screen and noticed that Tdye had signed off.
Thank God for small favors.
His monitor was clicking away. He needed to stir the tip pot.
Sprakie says to Papuppy: Are you still there?
Papuppy says: Here, dear. Are you queer or what?
Sprakie says: I’m a Kinzie 6.
Papuppy says: What the fuck’s that?
Sprakie says: Men only. What do you do?
Papuppy says: I do them all.
Monitor 1 says: Just press the button for a ‘One on One’ and Robert can be yours.
Kurt was back at his post, thank goodness.
Asspounder says: bon soir Robert.
Sprakie says: Good evening, Asspounder.
Asspounder says: Did I miss anything?
Papuppy says to Asspounder: You missed an exciting show from Robert. He’s the best.
Sprakie says: Thank you, Papuppy.
Asspounder says: Robert, how long have you been here?
Sprakie says: About to sign-off, Asspounder. The Flaxen one will be showing his stuff soon.
Papuppy says: Robert, how much longer?
“Time’s up, Papuppy,” Sprakie said
Sprakie says: See you all Tomorrow.
Papuppy says: What time?
“Check the fucking schedule, asshole!”
Sprakie says: I think I’m back at the same time, sweetie. Have pleasant dreams.
“And don’t swallow any wooden dicks,” he muttered, switching off the web cam. A buzzer sounded. “Thank God, he’s here.”
He heard Kurt’s form waddle down the corridor toward the door.
Who?
Short pause.
Flaxen.
There was a considerable pause.
Shit, he’s not going to let him in. He’s decided to fire his ass.
Then, the buzzer sounded again and finally the door released. Sprakie rolled his eyes back and grabbed his jock strap. He juggled his feet through the loops, and then tumbled out into the corridor. Kurt nearly knocked him over as he trundled back to his monitoring station.
“Next time, I von’t be zo undershtanding. There’z lotz of dem out dere vhere he comez, und I knew vhere to findz dem. You besser straighten him out.” He then muttered a rumble of low Rhenish German.
“Straighten him out,” Sprakie yawked. “Jesus Marie.”
5
Philip took the stairs, all three flights, two steps at a time. His stride surmounted the rats and other vermin that laid in waiting in the paltry corners. They weren’t half as threatening as his expectations on the third floor. He didn’t mind being dressed down by the boss. He had withstood his own father, hadn’t he? Still, the Porn Nazi would scream unintelligible gibberish at him, and that he found insulting. If the man was going to take him out or instruct him on his faults, shouldn’t he at least do it in English?
He reached the door and paused, bracing himself for the worst. When he opened it, he witnessed Sprakie hopping around trying to pull up his jock strap and the Porn Nazi sitting at the corridor’s end, his back to the world, yet not, because his mug was glued to the monitor — a wider world than anything contained at manluv.
“It’s about fucking time,” Sprakie yelped. He adjusted his cup and grabbed for Philip’s arm in a single, acrobatic motion. “You better go see him, and be quick about it, Mary, because when he’s finished with you, I’m gonna spank your ass good.”
/>
“Thanks, mama,” Philip said giving Sprakie a kiss on the forehead.
“That’ll get you nothing.”
“You want more?”
“Please, I’ve been on my back all day.”
“Really?”
“Flackzon,” Kurt yelled, his chair never turning.
“You better go. Did you eat?”
“No.”
“Flackzon. Do you undershtand Anglisch?”
“Coming, Kurt.”
Suddenly, Sprakie reached out again snagging Philip’s wrist. Philip ricocheted backwards. “Is that my shirt?”
Philip shrugged. “Could be?”
“That’s my favorite shirt.”
“I’ve never seen you in it.”
“Just because I don’t wear it, doesn’t means it’s not my favorite.”
“Flackzon.” Now the chair swiveled around and the bull moose was evident beneath his cigar halo.
Sprakie pouted — might have even spit, but he let Philip go face the overlord.
Philip stared at the troll that slung over the swivel chair. He detested this man, but he guessed no more than any employee detested a particularly foul boss. He knew that beyond the brutish scowl on Kurt’s face, lurked a puppeteer — a man more in love with the control he fostered on his young charges than the money or the entrepreneurial inspiration. It was the power, and in that he was not unlike Miss McGillicutty, Mrs. Bane, Mr. Pickering, Mr. John Q. Public CEO and a few thousand other managerial types, who sat in daily judgment of the unwashed millions — minions in this city of mammon.
Turning Idolater Page 2
