As He Pokes And pinches, I concentrate on ways to not reach Salt Lake City. Afterward, he takes me in his arms, like in some awful romantic movie. Only in the movies, the couple would really be in love, though they might not know it yet. Despite everything before, and what Jerome has hinted will come soon, I have to fight not to resist him.

It's a losing battle. My body tenses.

He can't help but notice. What's wrong?

I drop my voice to a whisper. "Nothing.

It's just ... I'm excited. And scared."

Don't be scared. Everything will work out fine. I promise. He kisses me and I draw from the deepest well of dark deception to kiss him back like I mean it.

When the Door Closes Behind him, I clean myself, as I do every time he leaves, with soap and cold water from the wash basin. The air in the room is thick with heat and the smell of sweaty s.e.x, a smell I never knew existed until just a few weeks ago. At first it made me gag, but it has become something I simply accept, because I have no other choice. When all choice is taken from you, life becomes a game of survival.

I lay the towel on the bed, lie on top of it, so I don't have to touch the sheet.

Will I carry that habit with me if and when I leave this place? Will Jerome really take me out of here? What then? I have no answers, but I do know I can't end up in Salt Lake City. Wherever I go-Los Angeles, maybe, or Reno or Las Vegas- my only goal is to reconnect with Andrew.

And pray this nightmare ends with a red sunrise.

A Poem by Seth Parnell

Vegas

This city is a neon- scaled hydra, bellying across hot Mojave sand. Cobra heads, venomous, in disguise pretend beauty, lure you with hypnotic eyes, copper promises, and the bare skin of G.o.ds intent on mortal souls. Walk cautiously, beware the brazen slither of concrete beneath your feet.

Do not listen to the arid hiss of progress.

Seth

Before We Came

To Las Vegas, I had an inkling that Carl had money.

But I had no idea exactly how much until he invited me to relocate here with him.

Truth is, I didn't really expect him to agree to bring me along. In fact, I wasn't totally convinced that I wanted to come.

The night my dad kicked me out, I was in turmoil.

Where to go? What to do next? I had no clue. Carl was my only solid ground, and when he said he was moving, the earth quaked.

The blood rushed away from my face. Carl reached for me, as a father would.

Someone's Gay Father I propped myself against him. "I don't know what to do. I can't go home. Have no home. No money. No job.

Sorry. Not your problem."

He thought silently for what seemed a long while. Finally, he led me to the sofa, sat next to me. I've never told you about Simon, he said.

He lived with me until a few weeks before you and I met.

He was what some call "kept." And I kept him.

It was a mutually beneficial relationship. He enjoyed my hospitality. I enjoyed his company, and he looked good on my arm, at least until he grew bored with it.

A trophy-that's what the guy I first saw with Carl at Fringe was. Carl let the idea filter through my confusion.

I wasn't looking for another.

But if you would consider it, I'd think about taking you along. He kissed me, led me to bed. Come on. Show me how much you want to go.

He asked me to do dark, obscene things. Things I'd never done before.

And he wanted me to do them without protection.

Feels better this way.

And it's okay. I'm safe.

I promise. You have to trust me. He was right.

I had no one else to trust.

A Few Days Later I climbed on board a jet for the very first time. Sat in first cla.s.s, where drinks are served before the plane's wheels ever leave the tarmac.

Less than four hours later, we touched down sixteen hundred miles to the west, and a billion light-years from everything I've ever known. We disembarked the silver bird in Sin City, where trophy boyfriends are almost as common as trophy wives. Carl likes me on his arm. I'm not sure how I feel about being someone's prize, but it's better than being homeless, that much I know. Neither am I exactly sure how I feel about the world-at least my newest little corner of it- knowing I'm gay. I don't feel judged. But I do feel exposed.

Culture Shock Barely describes what it's like, coming from the wild land of Indiana to the wild life of Las Vegas.

This city defines insanity.

Not that I've traveled much, or at all really, but I can't imagine many other places so built on extravagance.

Or so reliant on human greed.

Casinos line the glitzy strip, masquerading as Venetian ca.n.a.ls, Egyptian pyramids, Manhattan skysc.r.a.pers.

Their exteriors boast fountains, pirate ships, giant lions with gaping mouth doorways, roller coasters. And almost everywhere you look- billboards and signboards, on taxicab roofs and giant-screen TVs on outdoor walls and indoor ceilings- you simply cannot escape the sight of near-naked bodies.

Skin, Skin Everywhere skin. Instead of Sin City, they should call this place Skin City.

Female skin. Male skin.

Something-in-between skin.

They (meaning Skin City marketing geniuses) aren't choosy about gender, as long as the skin is flawless.

Bronze. Young. Beautiful.

I'm not griping. I like skin as much as the next guy.

Maybe the real problem is, except for the first few days here with Carl, I've pretty much been left all alone to set up our luxury condominium in an upscale fringe suburb of the city. There's a lake out here, and two golf courses.

All seem totally out of place in this hot-as-snot stretch of desert sand. One hundred twelve degrees in the shade?

Who says there isn't a h.e.l.l?

If Vegas Is h.e.l.l The devil himself probably lives here at Lake Las Vegas.

He'd only settle for the best, right? Everything here is that, from the boutique shopping to the pristine marina, to manicured waterfront greens. It's beautiful, if hot.

Perfect, with one small blemish: Here, I'm not Seth.

I'm Seth, who's Carl's.

Maybe that's not so bad.

I don't know what to think anymore. Lots of people would envy my life with Carl.

I eat well. Drink well. Dress well. And don't have to work for any of that, unless you count the s.e.x. All I have to do is keep the place picked up (a housekeeper handles the real dirty stuff), keep myself fit (the workout facilities are excellent), and look pretty.

Hey, man. I'm a movie star!

One Big Problem Is boredom. Back home I was never bored. Too much work to do. And when I was done, I could go into town, hang out with friends, play pool or dance or spread gossip.

But here, I have no car, wouldn't know where to drive it if I did. I can only work out so much. Lying by the pool is a sure path to skin cancer. TV is a brain-sucking machine.

I need someone to talk to when Carl is busy playing Mr. Real Estate Developer.

So I've started spending too much time online, making virtual friends. Fantasy connections are better than no outside contact at all. I even found a chat room called Men Kept by Men. My kind of room.

Sure, There Are Posers Guys who only wish they were kept. And guys who wish someone would want to be kept by them. Fishermen.

Then there are the guys who pretend they want to know all about you, and about five minutes into the conversation, they ask if you'll talk dirty to them, preferably on the phone. Masturbators.

Every now and then, you come across married guys who want to meet for real, with or without their wives, usually the former. Cheap thrill seekers. I haven't played in the flesh, but I don't mind getting someone off telling dirty stories. There's a certain sick kind of power in that. I bet I've even made a priest or two come.

Which Brings Me Back To Father Howard. I guess the first time he gave me a hug, I was about twelve, and an altar boy, steeped in Catholic tradition. I was preparing the altar for Ma.s.s when he called to me from the vestry. Seth, come here and help me a minute, please.

It was a stifling summer afternoon, and the loud hum of the air conditioner fought heavy rock music, streaming from the radio.

Father Howard was a twenty- first-century priest. What do you think of these colors? He held up some squares in turquoise hues. I want to paint the office and just can't seem to decide.

I went closer, studied the samples carefully.

Finally I pointed to "Cool Caribbean." Father Howard smiled. I like that one too.

Cool Caribbean it is, then.

Thank you, Seth. As I turned to leave, his arms coiled around me. You're very special to me, you know.

It was the first time a man had ever hugged me in such an intimate way. I liked it, twisted around to hug him back. "Thanks, Father."

That was it. That time. I left, feeling very special. It never occurred to me that it might be wrong for a man of G.o.d to embrace a boy in such a way.

Or Where That first hug might lead.

The next time we were alone together, Father Howard was bolder. His hug lasted longer, and he ma.s.saged my shoulders. You are such a good-looking boy, he said.

I bet the girls think so too.

He paused, but when I didn't respond, he tried, Other boys?

My eyes went wide. I started to deny, but the adolescent tugs I'd felt had all been toward boys. I couldn't lie to a priest. I stared at the floor.

He tilted my chin, so I had to look in his eyes. It's okay, Seth. You're beautiful, just the way G.o.d made you.

His lips, warm and soft, brushed across my forehead.

I was scared. Thrilled. Amazed at his acceptance of sin, born inside of me. Father Howard left things there. That time.

The Next Time Hugging segued to touching.

Not too much. But enough.

Later, there would be more touching. Mutual touching.

But always gentle. Always with deep affection. We never had out-and-out (meaning in and out) s.e.x. And though I'd heard about pedophile priests, for some reason, I never thought Father Howard might be one.

Not then, anyway. Not until years later, when I read about him losing his collar because of another boy. In another town.

The picture became rainwater clear. I wasn't special at all.