Mikey One Time

Objects can have great power, but only that with which we imbue them. A crude wooden golf club you wouldn't give a quarter for at a thrift store suddenly takes on museum-level value when you're told it was JFK's favored putter when he was in prep school, right?

Of the thousands of objects I currently own, there are maybe a dozen I can think of offhand to which I've assigned any meaning (and thus, a story) and I was reminded of a few of them today.

My meaningful objects tend to fall into two categories: those that carry a sentimental weight, and those that I can use to beat myself up with long after their practical lifespan has ended.

For an example of the former, I offer the following:

A worn book, held together by tape.  Growing up and watching my grandmother read and notate its dog-eared pages every night I knew her, I'd always assumed it was an heirloom that had passed through many family hands before it made its way to hers. It was only after her death when ten-year-old me, holding it for the first time in my own hands, turned to the dedication page and realized it had been an Easter gift from one of her grown sons when I was two, and she'd managed to transform it into the Dead Sea Scrolls in less time than I'd been alive.

Looking back, I wish I'd slipped it into her hands before they closed the lid all those years ago, because that's where it belonged. But I didn't, so who's going to give it the sacred value it's due when I'm gone?

Why one should have kids, I suppose.

 

*.    *.     *.    *.    *. 

 

Garage sale, mid-80's, nice Austin neighborhood.

Contrary to all the  picked-over crap I've seen all morning and at every garage sale ever, this one has some primo stuff. 

I can't believe it--moving quickly, I snatch up armfuls of my-size Brooks Brothers button-downs, ties and chinos at give-away prices. Heading toward the check-out, I notice this nearly-new Braun juicer that's $50 at the store and that I don't really need but that's so damn cute I can't pass up--it's marked ridiculously low at five bucks and I offer the woman at the table two and she says ok without looking up and I kick myself for not offering one.

Heading back to the car with all my treasures, I'm hailed by the next-door lady as I tramp across her lawn.

"Got some good stuff, did you?"

Yeah.

"Whole damn family--such a shame."

Huh?

"You didn't know?"  Gladys Kravitz gleam in her eye.

Know what?

"Jerry, Barbara, the four boys--they were in that plane coming back from a ski trip in Colorado that went down back in February. It was in the paper for a week--you don't remember? The woman doing the sale is Barb's sister."

I don't know if I was Jerry's size, or one of the sons. Doesn't matter--I washed and ironed and wore those clothes until they disintegrated. And  although I long ago switched to an all-metal juicer, that old Braun machine still works and will have a home in my bottom kitchen drawer for as long as I'm alive, and I think of that family every time I pull it open and see it.

*.    *.    *.    *.    *

Staedtler-Mars--ever heard of  that company? I hadn't either until I saw that compass set for the first time.

Late 70's, foolish youth, junior college, working for Exum's, dreaming of being an architect.

Exum's, you ask?  A charming little mom-and-pop art-supply store with a couple locations in the Tyler I grew up in. I'd been hired to work in their picture-framing department at the Troup Highway location part-time after school.

Great gig--easy work, well-paid, behind-the-scenes so no customer contact. The owners were good people who loved me, and I loved them back.

After the store closed I'd often wander around looking at new stock, and one day I spotted  the new Staedtler-Mars display. I was blown away--their stuff was so slick, German, well-designed, made and packaged, light-years ahead of all the stodgy old drafting tools I'd previously used.

This compass, especially--so cool and expensive and well-made and well-fitted into its clever little case. My starving-student ass absolutely loved everything about it.

So much so that I stole one. It was easy--I was trusted, could go anywhere in the store I wanted. No one watched me. I slipped it into my pocket and left with it when my shift was over.

I can honestly say that in my eighteen months there, I worked hard for that company and gave them full value for their money. I can also honestly say that that compass set is the only thing I ever stole from the Exum family.

I can further say that, though I am no longer a draftsman nor have I been for decades, that compass set currently residing in the fourth-drawer down in my utility room cabinet will serve until the day I die and whenever I randomly come across it to remind me of the long-term price anyone with a conscience pays for short-term unearned gratification.

Speaking of which....

 

Although the above may look like a dead bat hanging from a refrigerator, it is in fact a 90's-vintage London Fog umbrella--a finely-made implement that, in its day, would instantly snap from compact repose to widespread attention with the merest push of the button on its polished wooden handle.

These days? Not so much--after three decades of faithful service, it's tired. It doesn't spring to action anymore and two of its ribs have snapped and I know I look ridiculous walking around in the rain with this broken piece of shit and should probably toss it and buy a new one,

but I can't.

Why?

Because it's not mine to toss--this umbrella belongs to a trusting trick named Marvin who lives on Norton and who loaned it to me on a rainy LA night in 1991 with the full expectation that I'd return it when I came back like I promised I would.

Explain it to him, Brenda.

post no. 819, in which mkf first experiences the magic that is meth

1991 (or maybe '92--fuck, i don't remember)

what i do remember is, the reason i found myself in vaseline alley that particular no-action night had less to do with sex than just wanting to get outta the house, because little arthur and his desperation were starting to get to me.  this also explains why i sat there in my car long past the point where it had become clear that the pickings had gone from slim to none--whether or not i got laid that night, i was determined not to head back to 841 until i was sure our visitor had gone to bed.

and then, suddenly, as i'm giving up, flicking my last butt out the window and reaching for the key, that thing that almost never happens, happens:  outta the 3am desolation, this blond twink fantasy vision in torn jeans, a chain harness and little else emerges from around the corner by the dirty bookstore, starts heading down la jolla, moving fast.

i wait for him to walk toward what must surely be home without even throwing me a disgusted glance.  but no--he looks over, spots me, makes a beeline straight to my window, leans in all bright-eyed, licks my face before i can even react, says, "i need a place to stay tonight."

if two years working the low streets of weho had given me nothing else, it had at least taught me not to question the random gift from god when it drops into my lap, so within five minutes of that first lick we're in my bedroom, and five minutes after that i'm deep inside him.

bliss, right?  turns out, not so much.

i mean, his beauty combined with the novelty of the whole thing carried me for awhile, but after twenty minutes or so of vigorous A-game fucking, i begin to notice some things that kinda take the edge off.

like, for instance, he's distracted--and after two years of generally taking for granted the undivided attention of whoever i happen to be fucking, this is new.  what's more, kid isn't even hard, and what the fuck could possibly be up with that?

but the worst thing is, he will not shut up (and it ain't sexy talk, trust me).

so, what had started out hot fairly quickly morphs into something else entirely--some kinda endurance marathon challenge that has far less to do with sex than with just getting the damn thing done.

and i am determined to get 'er done; it becomes a validation thing, a point of pride.  i pull out all the tricks--bend that boy into every position possible, fuck him hard, fuck him slow and sweet, use long strokes, angled attacks, even resort to quick little asian-style rabbit-punch jabs, but nothing--not even my patented never-fail sideways prostate-tickler special--can get him off.

when after a full hour (because i could do that back then) of futility i finally roll off him, unspent, over it and exhausted, and he looks at me with those bright eyes and says, "that was great--rest a few minutes and we'll do it again," i know i'm up against some new, potent unknown evil force in the universe that is stronger than me; i just don't know what.

what i do know is, dawn is coming soon, i need sleep, and i need to be rid of this freak.  but i promised him a place to stay, and i'm a man of my word.

so i do the first of the two bad things i'll do this night.

as we stand together outside my roommate's door, i reassure the boy once again what a great top paul is (while crossing my fingers behind my back and hoping god won't strike me dead for this egregious lie), open the door, shove the kid through the blackness in the general direction of paul's bed, pull it shut and stumble back to my own room, turn out the lights, hope for the best.

which hope turns out to be remarkably short-lived--before i've even gotten my eyes good and closed, my door flies open, the lights go on, and there's paul, wild-haired, wild-eyed, red nose snot-clogged with sleep, underwear askew, screaming, "a bottom--seriously?  you sent me a BOTTOM? WHAT'D YOU THINK WE WERE GONNA DO--BUMP PUSSIES?!", as he shoves back the gift i'd so thoughtfully sent his way before totally unnecessarily slamming my door.

"fuck, " i think, knowing i'll pay for this.  "what am i gonna do with this kid?  if only royce was here."

but royce isn't here--the roommate who might've actually been useful in this situation is currently bunking with his boyfriend so that his visiting friend, the aforementioned arthur, can use his room at our house while he's in town.

see, royce was constantly inviting friends from texas to come out and stay with us, but arthur has been by far the most needy of the bunch--he'd arrived all innocent and starry-eyed and shit, anticipating a week of decadence and debauchery in this legendary sin city where the fun never stops.  and it's not like arthur isn't presentable, and it's not like we haven't tried to serve his fantasy up for him--we've taken him to rage and mickey's and studio one and mother lode and circus and even spike, practically shoved him at any guy who checked him out--but the shyness that arthur had hoped to leave behind in fort worth has unfortunately accompanied him to LA.

so, bottom line, despite the collective and exhaustive best efforts of three of the biggest whores in weho, poor arthur hasn't managed to get himself laid, and his week is almost up.

as the blond bottomless pit crawls back into my bed and starts pawing at my limp junk, i think about it for no more than a second, figure, hell, it'll give him a story to tell the folks back home, and i might even get some sleep.

and with no more consideration than that, i drag the blond boy outta my bed once more and lead him down the hall to door number three.

ready or not, arthur, it's showtime.

*     *     *     *     *

when i awake with a jolt, remembering, the sun is high in my window.  i hear the tv--paul's at work, so that must mean arthur's out there.  i throw on clothes, walk out to the living room, apprehensive.

arthur's sitting on the couch with his back to me, watching sally jessy or something.  he hears me, whips around, animated in a way i'd never seen him before, his formerly perpetually-morose face splitting into a huge grin.

i just stare at him, amazed--this is a changed boy, and i guess i did it.  i relax.

the words start pouring outta him.  "wow, what a going-away present, mike!  cody told me you picked him out just for me--i can't believe you got me a porn star!"

i smile, willing to let him go back to fort worth thinking that's what life is like in weho--porn stars just routinely and magically appear in your bedroom in the middle of the night.  hell, what can it hurt?

and then he says, "and that crystal stuff--i never knew sex could be like that.  we did it for hours."

and that's when i look closer, notice how bright his eyes are.

on money, and the lack thereof

since i'm not writing much these days, i cobbled this together from a couple old emails to a friend; it's apropos of nothing in particular.  there may be more of these in the future.  or not.


growing up, i never thought about money much.  my parents were depression babies, so they were on the same page financially and always careful with a buck, but there was never a sense of either deprivation or excess in our house; things in that regard were always pretty much just right.

after my father died, three things changed (as regards this subject, anyway):  we became poorer to the point where money suddenly was something we talked about; my father's brother eventually became quite rich; and i, for reasons quite unrelated to money, became quite unhappy.

i've talked about my uncle don a lot on this blog--hell, he's even got his own section on the sidebar--but what happened to him and his family, and me and my family, as either a result of, or maybe despite, all that sudden money, really started me thinking about the whole scarcity/abundance thing.

because while don's rise to riches was heady and fun, and he and my aunt pat were incredibly generous with what they had come into, it really didn't make a goddam bit of difference in how happy any of us were; in fact, in some ways it might have made things worse.

i remember one night, sitting miserably in my nice, new uncle-don-supplied condo three blocks from the university, with a nice uncle-don-supplied car down in the parking lot, years of plush, prepaid education ahead of me and enough cash in the bank to carry me through the school year in comfort, and thinking about how decisively that wish i'd made back when i was a 15-year-old slaving away for $1.10 an hour at a sizzler steak house--how, if only i had money, all my problems would be solved--had come true.  and how it hadn't.

and i saw don and pat's marriage deteriorate, and how he coped with success by drinking, and she, remodeling, and how their kids went from great to losing-their-way spoiled, and how insufferable all their rich friends were, and how, although my mother's cage was plush and gilded now, it was still the same cage.

I didn’t study architecture so i could design taj mahals or high-rises to the sky; all I ever wanted to do was houses—my houses. But I knew before that could happen, I’d have to cut my teeth on other people’s houses first. so, after graduation, and to that end, I worked for two high-end residential firms; first in austin, and then LA.

and I hated it, so i quit.

for a bunch of reasons, actually, but not the least of which was because designing and building a dream house seemed to bring out the worst in people. or maybe it was just the people who made up our client base--nouveau-riche types who wanted monuments to their success. it wasn’t all bad—some of ‘em were actually fun—but so often it came down to couples bickering like sibling rivals over colors, or whose closet was bigger, or which mega sub-zero would look better in the kitchen. I mean, these were people who really seemed to pin all their hopes on the notion that their new house would finally make their lives complete. and then, after all the drama, angst and knockdown-dragouts along the way from concept sketch to finished house were exhausted, and the crystal bowl with the three perfect apples had finally been placed on the gleaming granite countertop, more often than not, they’d look around at all the magnificence they’d paid so dearly for, and i'd hear 'em say something like, “ok—now what?”.

and then after i quit architecture for other people and did my own first house and talked to the day laborers i hired to help me--about how much they missed their countries, how they were only here for the money, how they'd never bring their families--and certainly not their daughters--here, and saw america through their eyes, it propelled me on to look hard at the myth--you know, the one that ours is the life to which everyone on earth aspires.  and i started looking at happiness indices for the various supposed hell-holes of the earth, saw how little those people managed to live on, saw how a cast-off pair of nikes could give some kid in mogadishu a bigger grin than almost any american kid on his playstation-extravaganza christmas morning; saw how, in those primitive countries, family was everything, like it used to be here.

and then i widened my scope of vision to look, for the first time critically, at the panoply of wretched souls whom we've pushed to the top of the world we've made--the judy garlands and marilyn monroes and elvis presleys and justin biebers--and then, eventually, even wider to encompass my whole goddam country.  america, we're number one--in both wealth and sales of antidepressants.

when I finally hit my big payday, i surprised everybody with my restraint--i bought a decent car for my mom, a little pickup for myself (because I needed one), and invested the rest. while I’m by no means anti-materialistic (in fact, I just indulged in a little of it recently), I have come to believe that things really don't matter all that much.

don't get me wrong--i'm not extolling the virtues of poverty here.  poverty sucks, and sucks happiness outta the lives of people who might otherwise be happy.  all i'm sayin here is that maybe there's a point beyond which money doesn't buy happiness.

and that maybe we here in the first world have passed it.

that's all.

hard out there for a ho (part 3)

i used to be annoyed and mystified by those bloggers who, without any explanation to their readers, just stopped blogging one day for no apparent good goddam reason--until, that is, i became one of 'em.

because now i understand why it happens.  one day, you just look up after years of doing this shit and realize you've pretty much shot your wad, said everything you have to say.  but you don't formally call lit quits--you figure you'll come back in a week or so, when the muse whispers into your ear once more.  and then that week turns into weeks, and the weeks become months, and…well, here we are.

so, yeah, i'm still (1) battling my demons, (2) having lots of age-inappropriate sex, and (3) watching the western world devolve into chaos exactly as predicted, but, having had nothing new to add to these three pillars upon which this blog rests, i've kept my distance, figuring if anything truly outta the ordinary came up, i'd maybe check in again.

well, something finally did, so here i am.

this story started out ordinarily enough (for me, anyway), back in late december, with a truly memorable night with a cute 20-year-old named ruben out in riverside. came home the next morning, packed up the car a couple days later and headed east for the holidays.

it was the morning after christmas, in wichita falls, texas, in the bosom of my family, standing there sleepily contemplating the big jesus-loves-you cross hanging over the toilet whilst waiting for the stream, that i first felt the burn.

i dismissed it as nothing, of course, because denial always comes first.

it was only later that day, standing in fronta that same toilet, when i whipped it out, cautiously gave it a pre-piss squeeze, saw the unmistakable, tell-tale pearl emerge, that i knew for sure.

i rotated through the other four stages in a matter of minutes--first, goddam you ruben you little whore, then please god no, then kill me now, and, finally, fine, deal with it.

i went out on the front porch, sat down on the steps, lit a smoke, called ruben, wished him a merry christmas, broke it to him gently, told him he needed to get tested immediately.  (how did i know it was ruben, you ask?  simple process of elimination--ruben was the only one i'd had sex with in the past two weeks (due only to a bad cold), and there had been no one after.)

a word now about STD etiquette:  blaming poor ruben woulda been pointless, because it really doesn't matter who clapped whom--we're both reckless sluts, and if that guy in amarillo hadn't flaked on me two days after ruben, i'd have no doubt passed it on to him.  so you gotta be philosophical about these things, is my attitude.

at this point, faithful readers, you might be wondering why mkf has broken several months of radio silence only to tell you this sorry little story, and you might have a point, if i didn't have a point, too.

see, i was in a mess--here i was in a strange town in texas, about to leave for another one, and then another one two days after that;  it wouldn't be until i was in austin nearly a week later that i'd have even a hope of getting treatment for what suddenly ailed me.

and i couldn't wait that long, because it was bad, and getting worse.

so, two excruciating days later, as soon as my mother, sister and i arrived in dallas (i.e., semi-civilization), i made my excuses and burned rubber for the nearest whole foods, where i picked up the two strongest natural anti-bacterials of which i know, started dosing myself with same at staggered intervals throughout each day and night.

and prayed.

all for nothing, so it seemed--by then, the pus had given way to blood, the bowl turned dark every time i pissed, and the pain was intense.  but i kept on.

the darkest moment, i think, happened the night i finally hit austin.  intensely horny, and having had to cancel a long-standing appointment (with the hottest, hungriest boy you or i have ever seen, trust me), alone in my motel room, and for the first time in ten days, i gave in and jerked off.

before that night, i had never even imagined such a thing as red semen was possible.

but, yeah, it is.

*     *     *     *     *

austin free clinic, four days later

she was the coolest doctor i've ever met--about my age, years in the trenches, had seen it all, yet still retained her humor and humanity.  which is probably the only reason i told her the story.

she listened, as i explained my regimen, and how i'd obsessively jerked off repeatedly those last few days, tryin to shoot all the bad stuff outta me, and how it got progressively lighter and lighter, until, just that morning, i had delivered a load that finally looked normal.

she seemed interested but dubious, took a swab, disappeared for a few minutes, and came back and told me with some surprise that, while white blood cells showed up under the microscope, indicating a reaction to infection, there was no infection to be found. to make sure, she had me piss in a cup for lab analysis and gave me the shot anyway, told me to call back for the results in a couple weeks.

which i did.  the results:  negative for any STD.

fuck gut-destroying antibiotics and drug-resistant superbugs--using natural methods, i cured my own serious bacterial infection, bitches.

and i'm betting you can, too, should such an eventuality ever present itself. which is the point of this post.

get you some of this stuff, ok?

and yeah, i'll be dosing myself with same before and after all future encounters with all present and future rubens, you can damn well be sure.

the art of the slam piece

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while you were sleeping

so the other night i had to run home on my lunch hour to grab the laptop i'd forgotten--century city to laurel canyon and back; normally 40 minutes, tops--and found myself mired in honking, bumper-to-bumper traffic before i'd even made the transition from beverly hills to west hollywood, tryin to figure out what and why the fuck.

and then it hit me--the supreme court decision knocking down prop 8 had come down today, and i was about to find out once more why santa monica boulevard on a night of gay hysteria was the last place anyone on a timetable wanted to be.

as i inched my way forward through the throngs of screaming LGBTUVWXYZ's of every stripe waving their rainbow flags and tearing their tits off with joy, i reflected once more on how much less i cared about this than about a little story i'd read online that day.

imagine you're a normal guy with a normal job who's gotten involved with the occupy movement after becoming fed up with the bailouts and get-outta-jail-free cards that had been handed out to the big banks after they'd wrecked the economy of the world.

and you've decided to involve yourself in a little mild activism in the form of scrawling anti-bank messages on sidewalks in front of bank of america branches in southern california.

hateful, inflamatory, anti-social, riot-inciting messages such as "shame on bank of america".

and, even worse, "no thanks, big banks".

in chalk.

impermanent, erasable, washable chalk.

on the sidewalk.

and how, as a result of these heinous crimes, and in spite of the fact that not one executive from the bank in question has seen even a day in jail for the consequences of his world-class greed and malfeasance, you now face thirteen years in prison for daring to express your outrage over that fact.

and how--in fact, what had brought the story to light that day--the judge on the case had chosen to interpret your actions not as the simple expression of a citizen's outrage that they clearly were, but as criminal vandalism; and consequently had just ruled that you would not be allowed to invoke the first amendment in your defense.

clear message to the rest of the sheep:  you fuck with the banks, you forfeit your rights.

because you're an enemy of the state, you see.


but that little story wasn't enough to make me write this post--i mean, maybe you people think i enjoy being a buzzkill and a Bad Fag, but i really don't.  it was the one today, coming right on top of the one the other day (and all the others much like it i've seen lately), that tipped the balance in my head.


imagine you're a kid--a typical dumb, clueless american kid--playing an online video game, and you respond to some facebook comment from an opponent claiming you're crazy with something like the following:

Oh yeah, I’m real messed up in the head, I’m going to go shoot up a school full of kids and eat their still beating hearts

and then you follow up with 

lol

and 

jk

and then you go on about your business, forget all about your little joke, little knowing that some woman in canada saw it, became alarmed, looked you up, found you lived near an elementary school and alerted the local authorities.

and then next thing you know, you're arrested for making terroristic threats and held in jail for months and months awating trial, facing eight years in prison, while your parents bankrupt themselves in a futile effort to try and get you out.

and your dad goes on television, not to vent his outrage that his son, a citizen of the united states of america, could be arrested and face years in prison for a joke, but to beg and promise that if they'll give you a pass just this once, you'll be a good little sheep from now on, for ever and ever.

but, no dice--not a fuckin' chance.

because you're an enemy of the state, you see.


i remember back when i was a kid, and the plane hijackings started, and the authorities announced that thenceforth, any jokes made about hijackings or bombs in an airport or on board a plane, no matter how light-hearted, would be construed as true threats and treated accordingly, and how uneasy that made everyone at the time, but that this abridgement of our right to free expression was probably necessary to keep us safe.

well, while you were sleeping, that little mandate's been somewhat expanded--by, first, the PATRIOT act, and more recently (and courtesy of the bestest, most gay-friendly president ever), the NDAA, to the point that no one knows what's a crime anymore--under these new laws, it can be whatever they decide it is.  and now we know the NSA is listening to and reading every word we utter. so now the whole goddam country is basically one big 747.

and as they continue to dismantle our consitution with one hand, they'll toss us the occasional shiny, distracting bauble with the other, and we'll dance in the streets in response, and wave our rainbow flags and celebrate.

so enjoy your new freedom to marry, but watch what you say, and what you do--and for god's sake, when those kids come along, make sure and teach 'em not to point their fingers at anyone and say 'bang'.

and if you do screw up without even knowing why, console yourself with the knowledge that at least you'll be able to get gay-married in prison.

hell, they might even let you have conjugal visits.

just when i think i'm getting tired of telling these stories...

sometime in 2007

when i met him, he was 24, spoiled and pouty and loaded with attitude.  and he has this thing he does, drives me crazy:  when i get there, even though he's usually had at least an hour to do so, he's never prepared--he leads me to the bedroom, hands me a drink, puts on some porn, hands me the remote, tells me he'll be back in a minute, then disappears for a fucking hour.

first time he pulled this shit, i laid there, did a slow boil as the minutes ticked by, kept reworking the pleasure/pain equation in my head, decided to wait him out, and when he finally made his appearance all freshly showered and perfumed and unapologetic, i got up, grabbed him, tore his robe off, threw him on the bed and ravaged him angrily.  which, turns out, is what the whole thing was all about, of course--he had (correctly) gauged me as easygoing, but wanted angry and dominant.  and he got it, and it was such an unexpected turn-on, watching his eyes go from cool and remote to afraid and submissive as he meekly complied with my every barked order, and we both had a great time.

afterwards, easygoing once more, i curled him into my arms, and we talked.  he was a puzzle--not the brightest bulb on the tree, but sweet once the shields were down. but the interesting thing about him was, unlike every other pretty, slightly dim boy like him i'd ever slept with, he lived like a fucking prince.  the robe i'd torn off him was gucci, the cum-soaked sheets we were wrapped in were pratesi, and all about the large, lavish, messy apartment he occupied were strewn the debris and detritus of a rich boy (or a kept one--i've never figured out which)--from the high vantage of his king-sized, canopied bed, i spied a crumpled vuitton bag in one corner with clothes spilling out of it, a pile of barney's, saks and neiman's shopping bags in another, and gucci (god, does this boy love him some gucci) watches and sunglasses carelessly littering every surface.

i asked him as casually as i could what he did for a living, and he told me he was in the beauty business, catered to wealthy women, gave few details beyond that, and i didn't press.  i looked around this chamber of the sun king again, considered the sheer number of rich, desperate housewives in this town, looked at his face, trailed a finger across the contours of his lush, incomparable lips as he gazed back at me cluelessly, did the mental math, thought, "yeah, maybe".

he'd grown up in fresno in humble surroundings, had met his first lover online at 16 ("he'd send a limo up from LA to pick me up on weekends, take me to all the clubs--he was fun"), and had escaped to the big city for good the day after graduation and never looked back.  he sent his family money on a regular basis; got no appreciation for it, apparently.  and this galled him.

"and it's not just my family--it's my friends, too.  i try to help them, and they all take advantage of me, steal me blind, because i'm too nice."

or too dumb, i thought, as i gazed once more around this roomful of small, pocketable treasures in which he'd left me, a guy he'd known for all of 45 seconds, alone for an hour.

"so where do you meet these people you call friends?", i asked him--and this time, i did press. eventually, he admitted that most of 'em were guys he'd met while partying, and i mentally rolled my eyes, thought about how quickly any one of a number of tweakers of my acquaintance--and i'm just talkin' the more ethical ones--left alone, coulda stripped this room clean as a whistle and been outta there before this boy'd even finished hosing out the lower chamber of his ass.

i proceeded to lecture him about the dangers of allowing druggies into his house and he meekly nodded at the wisdom of this, but not convincingly, and i understood why: he was locked into his pattern of trying to buy the love of indifferent people, and he wasn't listening to me anymore--he hadn't paid attention to a word i'd said since i'd turned from hard, indifferent fuck-dad into concerned ward cleaver.

it was time for me to go.  and as i drove home and replayed the interview in my mind as i always did, i reflected on yet one more lost boy selling himself short.  i also couldn't help but reflect on the fact that i was probably the only trick who'd ever walked outta that apartment poorer than he'd walked in.

that was a brand-new bottle of poppers, goddammit.

*     *     *     *     *

new year's eve, 2012

early afternoon, he called me outta the blue, said, "come shopping with me--i need some shoes for a party tonight."

it had been awhile--this was a once- or twice-a-year boy for me, at most--so i was naturally suspicious.

"why? you've never asked me out anywhere before, and it can't be for my fashion sense."

he laughed.  "you keep me grounded (which was true enough), so maybe i won't spend too much if you're there to tell me not to."

and...?

"and because you'll fuck my brains out afterwards, and this is an important party and i wanna walk in with my head held high instead of all desperate and horny and needy and shit."

kid's smarter than i'd given him credit for.

to say they knew him at barney's would be an understatement--the waves parted in a flurry of bows, scrapes and can-i-help-you's in a way that had never happened when my scraggly ass had wandered in there alone--and, once we had arrived at the destination department, he zeroed in on a spotlit pair of shoes such as i'd never seen before, gave the salesgirl a nod, and she scurried off to the back room without even asking his size.

he unzipped the garment bag he'd brought with him, fished out a fine, black woolen cuff, draped it across one shoe, looked up at me.

"perfect", was all i could say, because they were--not only for the outfit, but for him.

"i've been waiting for these to go on sale forever", he said, "and they finally called me yesterday, just in time--20% off!"

i picked up the right shoe, glanced inside--stuart weitzman, whose "mr. seymour" line i'd sold to rich women when i was in college--ran my hand over its fine, stubbly surface, held it up to the light, where it glistened with the fire of a thousand diamonds.

"swarovski crystals on black silk, mike--hundreds of 'em, hand-set over every square inch of surface.  aren't they fantastic?"

and yeah, they were--pure elegance, nothing tacky about 'em.  but only on the feet of the right guy, the guy who could pull 'em off.

he changed into the outfit, slipped into the shoes, took a few sparkling laps back and forth as spectators gawked and applauded, and i looked at him, at his radiant smile, thought about the figure he'd cut walking into that party in that armani suit and those shoes with his head held high, and i said,

"yeah.  i approve."

as an afterthought, i picked up the display shoe again, flipped it over, staggered back a few steps.

and tried to wrap my head around how much things had changed since college--and the idea of a five thousand dollar pair of shoes.

"no, no, i told you--they're 20% off!"

oh.  yeah.  wrap 'em up, then.

*     *     *     *    *

last night

when he called last night, i asked "what address this time?",  because it had always been onward and upward with this one.

it was lower beverly hills, but a nice building--one flat per floor; i noted the name that was not his as i pressed the buzzer.  he dragged me outta the elevator, through the living room, ignoring the hot, wasted-looking guy on the couch who didn't look up from his laptop, and into the first bedroom on the right--obviously a playroom, not his room--handed me my drink, said, "back in a minute", and i cued up some porn, settled in for the wait.

afterwards, once we'd stopped moving, i looked him over to see how he was holding up, and the news wasn't good.  he'd put on at least ten pounds since new year's, and the receding hairline that had been so barely-noticeable last year was creeping its inexorable way backwards.  the boy who'd been a 9.5 at 24 was at best a 7.5 at 30, and slipping fast.

"so how you been?", i asked, and he told me about the friend who'd wandered into his apartment the previous week wearing the diamond gucci watch that had been bought off the friend who'd stolen it off his nightstand a few weeks previous, and how it had only cost him $800 to get it back.

and then he showed me around the new place.  the second bedroom had become his closet (think oprah's closet), the master bedroom was bigger and messier than ever, and the master closet was...shoes.

i scanned the floor-to-ceiling shelves left to right, up and down, and--third row down, fourth from the left--there they were.

i picked one up, turned to him, asked, "so were they a hit?"

he sorta-laughed, said, "i didn't wear 'em.  boyfriend said he wouldn't take me to the party looking like a whore--he made me change into plain black ones instead."

i thought about that, thought about him, thought about how happy he'd been that day at barney's with all those people applauding his choice and his beauty, turned the shoe over, rubbed my hand over its shiny, black, unblemished sole, told him to go get me a bottle of water, snapped a pic with my phone while he was gone.

because somebody oughta get to see those goddam shoes.