Chapter 2

“Don’t forget to smile, toots! You always look like some gloomy Gus out there!”

Leave it to Emmett Myers, owner of Tricks and Arliss’s boss, to try to unsettle him just before he went on stage.

Arliss flashed the man a big Farrah Fawcett smile. If the prissy older man with the pencil moustache recognized it as fake, he gave no indication.

“There! That’s what they like to see! For heaven’s sakes, you have to remember that if they think you’rehaving a good time, they’llhave a good time. And a good time means more money for all of us.”

Arliss listened as the song wound down, morphing into yet another bass beat that signaled him it was time to stride out through the door, amble across the crowded room, ignore the covert feels and pinches he got as he made his way to the bar, and climb up on it to join Antonio in front of the crowd.

This moment, just before he went out, was always almost surreal. There was a paradoxical rush of nerves that made him feel both nauseated and tingly with electric anticipation. He felt as though he became someone else when he opened that door, or more properly, that his everyday world changed when he opened it. It was kind of like when Dorothy opened the door to Oz and saw the hyper colors of Munchkinland. But instead of munchkins and good witches who descended in translucent bubbles, hisworld was populated with bitter old queens, alcoholics, and trolls trying to put some oomph into their libidos by staring at boys young enough to be their sons—and in many cases, grandsons.

“Get out there, gorgeous! Shake your groove thing!” Emmett cackled and placed a hand on Arliss’s back to propel him forward.

Just as much to get the hand off his back as to get to the stage, Arliss threw open the door, plastered on a big smile, threw his shoulders back, and strode through the crowd, keeping his eye on the narrow strip of bar that would, for the next fifteen minutes, be his stage.

* * * *

Sean didn’t know what he was doing in Tricks. It was the kind of bar he never frequented. Hell, he rarely frequentedany bars, period. He felt out of place among these older men, all of them leering at the strippers. Everyone seemed happy—in party mode, their joy compounded by the sight of nearly naked men dancing before them. Sean supposed he couldn’t fault these men for coming here. The strippers, after all, were the bar’s reason for being—providing “adult” entertainment—and for charging outrageously high prices for watered-down cocktails.

Like the one right in front of me…I mean, really, eight dollars for a vodka and tonic? And the vodka isn’t even a call brand!Sean peered into the clear liquid, with its bubbles, slice of lime, and more than generous helping of ice cubes, and wondered again what could have possessed him to set foot inside this place. Tricks was a sleazy bar, a destination where he was certain the boys on stage probably made offstage deals with the clientele for more intimate, and less legal, behavior. It was the kind of place he and his friends once made fun of, painting the characters who frequented it with terms like “desperate” and “lecherous.”

So what washe doing here? On a Friday night, no less, when other gay men his own age (thirtysomething) were on the prowl in countless other places on Halsted and farther north, in the newer crop of bars in the neighborhood known as Andersonville.

He shook his head, knowing exactly what had brought him here. He stared morosely into his drink, the men around him hooting and catcalling as the next dancer hoisted himself up on the bar to begin his routine. The boy (to call him a man, really, would have been a stretch) was what was known in gay parlance as a twink. He barely looked old enough to drink, let alone wag his weenie at the patrons to a Lady Gaga beat. Was this kid really of legal age? Really?Sure, he had the requisite tattoos and piercings of a professional wrestler, and his smooth, almost hairless body was firm and well defined, but Sean had to wonder what would compel someone so young to make his living in a way Sean had always thought of as demeaning.

And if what the kid’s selling is demeaning, what does that make you? Can you really sit here in judgment? Thinking yourself so much better than that dancer or, for that matter, the men you’re rubbing elbows with here in the crowd?

Sean shook his head, preferring not to think about it. There were other things he preferred not to think about as well—like Jerome, his accountant boyfriend who had just dumped him on Wednesday. He preferred not to recall that Jerome, his lover of three years, had responded to Sean’s suggestion that they move in together with clichés. I need my space. I’m feeling suffocated. I think we should see other people.And worst of all—It’s not you, it’s me

Sure, Jerome. Knock yourself out. Even you don’t believe that crap. I could see it in your eyes, those wonderful amber green eyes that could change from light to dark with your mood. You were just waiting for an opening, a way to break up with me. I gave it to you when I pressed you, telling you how my lease was up the following month and wouldn’t it be so lovely if we moved in together. Um…apparently not.Sean was forced to come to the conclusion that could couch itself in yet another cliché: He’s just not that into you

And so Sean, walking home from his job as a catalog copywriter for an automotive retailer this warm August night, had been drawn to the neon outside Tricks and the raucous sounds of male voices as he passed the bar. Oblivion, he thought. A little forgetfulness is just what I need.The bar, with its promise of cheap thrills, alcohol, and who knew what, was in the business of offering oblivion at a price. He had the money, and he certainly had the motivation.