Trusting Desire

Chapter Two

"How much?" A husky-voiced figure asks as he walks into the alleyway where I stand.

"Depends on what you want," I answer.

"Blow job," he says.

"50, and you have to pull out when you finish."

"Fine," the man says as he pulls out his wallet.

He hands me a fifty-dollar bill and pulls his pants down; I get on my knees.

"How much for sex?" This man is less confident as hes asks. I can tell it's his first time.

"50 an hour," I answer.

He stands there, "you have a hotel room?" I ask.

"Yeah," he says quickly.

"Cool, you want to do this or not?"

I used to be friendlier to the newbies, but time is money, and I can only start charging him once we are at the hotel room, so standing here waiting for him to decide isn't an option.

"Yeah," he nods.

We go back to the room.

The following customer of the night is a return customer, "the usual," I ask.

"Nah, I'm here with an offer."

"An offer?"

"A job. You know the club a few blocks down?"

"The catscratch club?"

"Yeah, they're looking for male strippers."

"Oh," I look at him for a moment.

"Look, kid, it's not much better, but at least it's a little safer than sucking guys off in alleyways, and you won't have to worry about getting fucked over for your pay."

"I'm not a kid," I say defiantly, "but thanks, I'll check it out."

"No problem," he says before walking away.

I've been in New York for three months, and getting a 'decent' job had been hard without an address or phone number; prostitution wasn't my dream job, but pay is pay. Whatever gets money in my pocket for food and a little extra for me to put aside to save up as possible rent for a place. Living in New York is expensive, like impossibly, so it would be a while before I could find a place with rent I could afford at my current prices. But raising my prices seemed scary. There was always that threat. If your prices weren't acceptable, you would be attacked. A job at the strip club with a paycheck plus tips would be enough to finally really make progress toward renting a place. Maybe this could be my break from homelessness and hiding in the shadows.

The following day I toss my bookbag over my shoulder and head to the corner store to grab some food. However, when I get there, I find I'm not super hungry and leave immediately. Instead, I walk to my friend's apartment; my friend Mimi is a dancer at the Catscratch, sometimes, she stops by my alley to hang out with me, and we talk. Mimi is a bubbly girl with big brown eyes and a very loud personality. She is the complete opposite of me. She was the first person I met when I came here, and she was immediately kind and understanding. So kind, in fact, that I even told her I was trans.

"Hey, Mark!" Mimi shouts when she opens her loft door and sees me, she's always excited to see me, and it always makes me feel good about myself.

"Hey, Mimi, how are you?"

"I'm good!" She always says that, but I never believe her. She always looks like she is too thin and tired, "how are you, babe?"

"I'm okay. I'm gonna try to get a job at the club tonight."

Her smile disappears, "what?"

"Y'know they're looking for male dancers, so I'm gonna–"

"Mark, no," Mimi tightly holds onto both of my arms.

I frown, "Why not? We could work together."

Her response slightly offended me; why shouldn't I work at the club? I'm not hot enough, not good enough to work there? I could do just as good as any of the women working there.

Mimi's big, brown eyes stare into mine, "Mark, you're better than that place."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"You're better than the club and stripping, better than New York even," she smiles, "you're actually going to make it as a writer."

I pull away from her, "I belong here, Mimi," my voice is rising, and my hands are balled into fists, "I belong in New York."

"Mark, that's not what I–" she takes a deep breath, "Look, if you want to work at the club, I won't stop you, just don't do heroin."

I know drugs are a sensitive topic for Mimi. She is addicted to heroin. She has been upfront about that with me since I first met her. I've seen her when she is high. She is not herself, not the bubbly animated girl I call my best friend. She is subdued and often falls in and out of consciousness. But I always stay with her when she is like that, and she shows up in my alley because I don't want her alone.

"I won't, I promise," I tell her, looking right into her eyes.

"Good," she smiles. I sit on the couch, and Mimi lays down with her head in my lap, "Tell me a story, Mark."

Her eyes are closed, but I know she is listening as, for what must be the hundredth time, I tell her the story that I have been writing for the past year.

The club wasn't a new environment for me, I had gone there to find Mimi quite a few times, but tonight it looked different. The usual dark and full lounge was empty with all the lights on, and the people there were a few older guys in suits. I did sex work, usually in the dark of an alleyway or a dingy hotel room. The darkness gave me an edge of confidence. I feel small, terrified in the bright lights, especially as one of the suited guys approaches me.

"Are you here to try out?" he asks. He is circling me, looking me up and down.

"Yeah," my voice is quieter than I want.

He completes his circle returning to face me, "yeah, you'll be a nice change," he mutters, so I assume he isn't talking to me. "Come with me."

I follow him to the stage. He motions for me to walk up as he and the three other men take their seats. This is the audition part. I can do this. I have seen Mimi do this at least a dozen times. So, when the music starts, that's what I do. I mimic the things I have witnessed Mimi do, I'm nauseous and barely holding it together, but I get through. When the music stops, after five or ten minutes, the men all turn and mutter to each other while I stand on the stage, trying not to vomit.

"Yo kid," one of the men calls out.

I look at him. I want to say I'm not a kid, but I don't think that would bode well for me at a job interview.

"Your legal, right?"

I nod.

"Perfect," he nods to the man to his left, who led me to the stage, "You start next week."

The moment I am out of view of the club, I throw my guts up for a solid ten minutes, not that there is much in me to come up, mostly it's just a lot of gaging and stomach acid. But once the vomiting is over, I stand up and smile. I have a job! A steady paycheck plus tips, is a step forward. I don't have to kneel in alleyways sucking strangers' cocks anymore, and maybe stripping is much more glamorous or whatever. Still, pay is pay, and progress is progress. And I got a job!