Don't suppose you have any money?

asks rotten mouth. Considering I'm wearing nothing but a light blue, pocket-free shift, and carrying not a thing, the answer should be obvious.

Diesel's getting awfully expensive.

"Sorry. No. Stupid me, I forgot my backpack. Wish I could help."

Well, there are other ways a girl can help out a guy. You know?

Mr. So-not-nice trucker issues an ultimatum: Oral s.e.x or a very long walk to Vegas.

Stupid me. But it's not really anything new. At least I don't have to kiss him.

He Drops Me Off At a diesel stop on the outskirts of the city.

I don't say thank you. I paid my way.

It's dirty here and surrounded by desert.

Not pretty pinion-studded playa like up north, or back in Boise. But plain yellowed sand defiled by houses. Lots and lots of houses.

From here, I can see giant casinos, all different shapes and sizes. Motels. Chapels. Strip malls.

Traffic clogs a maze of streets and freeways.

Honking. Puffing exhaust. Military jets scream across the cloudless sky, and commercial aircraft come and go in regular procession.

It's all ugly. Stinking. A sinkhole of unrealized dreams, forfeited faith. A girl could get lost here.

A Poem by Seth Parnell Dreams Forfeited Diffused by distance, him a thousand miles away. Still you feel his pain.

It's as if you can tune into him with a psychic antenna, catch some unique sonar that carries his cries across great distances.

It stops you cold in your plodding tracks and you wonder where he is.

Could he be just outside? You put your ear to the door and listen, crazy with want, knowing the front step is vacant.

Seth

Any Farm Boy

Half worth his beans and b.u.t.ter would tell you weight lifting and cardio training are all about ego. A hard day's work on the back forty gives you both, and a crop to boot.

But Carl insists I stay in shape. Guess chubby guys stand on the low rung of the trophy boyfriend ladder.

Truth be told, he was p.i.s.sy about how he put it to me.

You know what happens to muscle when you quit working it, right? I'm not into fat boys.

It would be in your best interest to invest a little time at the gym. It was not a suggestion. It was an ultimatum. One major thing I've learned about Carl is, business or pleasure, it's his way or no way at all. While I can respect that on a certain level, when it's in my face, it's not easy to take. He is one hundred percent about control. Not sure why I didn't see it sooner. Not looking, I guess.

The strange thing is, I'm not the least bit flabby, let alone fat. So why? Preventative maintenance? Whatever. I have nothing better to do, anyway.

So Here I Am, Midmorning Jogging six miles per on a treadmill. Going nowhere and doing way too much thinking about what I've allowed myself to become- powerless. Even at home, the only time my dad dismissed me completely, no argument allowed, was the night he kicked me out.

Remembering him, revisiting the farm, stirs up a cloud of homesickness. Loneliness.

I am alone in this place, despite nightly company.

I don't belong here. I know that. But I don't belong anywhere else, either.

And that is at the heart of the black depression pressing down on me, flattening me. I have no place. No home. s.e.x, but no real affection. I am kept, but not cherished.

I Am Swimming in Sweat When an amazing-looking guy decides to share the gym.

The way he a.s.sesses me leaves little doubt that he's not into girls. Maybe working out isn't such a bad idea after all. He offers a ten-thousand-dollar smile, then sets his gym bag down on a chair. I can't help but stare when he strips off his shirt, revealing buffed pecs and a six-pack I'd kill for. The guy is a high-priced Thoroughbred. And I'm definitely not talking mares.

He goes straight to weights, choosing some machine I have no clue how to use.

When he looks my way, I'm still staring like an idiot.

He grins. What? Did I flash you or something? Hope it wasn't offensive. Most guys seem to like it well enough.

He pauses. Gives me time to formulate some inane answer.

I slow the tread to cooldown speed, try to quit huffing.

"I .... uh .... sorry .... didn't mean t-to stare ..." Huff, huff.

"I just started"-huff, huff- "working out and"-huff- "I know this is dumb, but"- huff-"I don't know how to use all the machines." Heart rate slowing, I catch my breath and finish, huffless, "I thought I'd watch you and learn how to do it. Uh, use the machine, I mean." Okay, that was inane.

He finds it amusing. Oh, I see.

Well, I use the machines all the time. Happy to give you some pointers, if you want.

The name's Jared, by the way.

"Seth." I stop the motorized roadway. "I'd appreciate anything you can give me ...

I mean tips...." s.h.i.t!

I'm sabotaging myself!

Hang On Just why did I think that?

Sabotaging what, exactly?

I'm not shopping for companionship. Am I?

"Tell me to shut up, okay?"

Jared laughs. Shut up, Seth. He gestures for me to come over to the machines.

So what are you most interested in working?

Now we both laugh at the unintended (?) double entendre. "Well ... other than that, I want one of those."

I point to his amazing stomach.

Don't blame you. Okay, you can use the ab crunch and the a.s.sisted pull-up. But, so you know, diet is huge too.

This is all about protein, my man.

"No problem. I can handle meat...." (!!) Once again, I give his body an approving a.s.sessment. "And just so you know, I'm not afraid of hard work."

He nods. Most farm boys aren't. At my perplexed look, he adds, It's your accent.

Very Midwest, with a touch of the South. Kentucky? Missouri?

Oh man. It shows? "Indiana,"

I admit. "I never realized we had accents, though, especially not with 'a touch of the South.'" Really weird.

Not sure why it works that way, but it does.

Nothing to worry about, though. I find it kind of appealing. Come here.

I'm a kid again, called to the front of the cla.s.sroom, not knowing what for.

Will he-shiver-touch me?

But no, all he does is show me how to properly use the ab crunch machine. Still, he stays close, and the entire time I'm burning gut flab, a word floats in my head-beginning.

All Worked Out Tired, sore, I start toward the townhouse to shower.

As I leave, I venture, casually as I can, "Hope to see you around again soon."

Jared is toweling off his own sweat polish, and I'm struck again by the beauty of his body.

Hot tub tonight at nine?

I hesitate. I never go out when Carl's home. Still, he wouldn't object, would he? Long as I omit the Jared part. "I'll sure try."

He gives me a wry grin.

Could he know why I live here? If I don't see you tonight, I'll run into you here, I'm sure. Later.

I follow him out the door, watch his sure gait along the walkway, tugged, steel toward magnet. It's odd, really. Usually I'm attracted to softer men, with the major exception of Leon Winkler.

And wouldn't his football jock b.u.t.t shudder to know exactly how I looked at it?

Don't know why I'm thinking about any of this now anyway. I'm pretty much committed to Carl, who should be home soon, expecting me showered and shaved, all smooth and scented with Armani Black Code, his favorite fragrance. Expensive taste, not a bad thing. He'll also want dinner started. High- end meat or seafood. Steamed vegetables. Fresh bread.

Never the same meal twice in any given month. Good thing Dad taught me how to cook. Hmm. Wonder how Carl would feel about venison sausage and gravy.

Venison Is Not Easy to Find In Vegas, so I'm working on seafood Newberg (recipe care of one of Carl's large collection of cookbooks) when he finally arrives.

He is not alone. Neither is he sober as he trips through the door, laughing, accompanied by a friend.

Acquaintance? I have no idea. This is the first time he's ever brought anyone home. The guy is maybe forty-five, and everything about him, from the square cut of his bangs to the way he wears his extreme jewelry, screams "queen."

When he squeaks, h.e.l.lo there, he leaves zero doubt about it.

Carl comes over and gives me an ostentatious gin- flavored kiss. Something smells good, and I'm not talking about in the kitchen.

He kisses me again, which is weird. For all the s.e.x we've shared, a kiss from Carl is relatively rare.

I almost don't know how to respond. Finally he draws back. Oh, how rude of me.

Come say h.e.l.lo to my friend, Brett. Brett, meet Seth, my uh .... paramour.

Carl takes my hand, leads me to the sofa, where Brett has made himself extremely comfortable.

Pretty boy, Brett says. Very.

My nerves lift on sharpened edge, like when you go hunting and suddenly feel hunted. I force my voice low.

"Good to meet you, Brett."

Now, now. Let's not be so formal. He laughs, and it isn't a pleasant laugh.

Any paramour of Carl's is a paramour of mine, right?

Before I Can Answer He is all over me. Hands.

Mouth. Ugh. Tequila.

I push him away. "Wait just one f.u.c.king second...."

I step back, look at Carl, but he's into the game.