Alter Boys (37 page)

GENDER BENDER

HAIR SALON

We bend over backwards for you!

Somewhere in his subconscious Gus pondered the curious sign.  But his mind was overruled by his stomach. 

He left the Gender Bender, and passed a row of eclectic boutiques.  Most of them upscale, but even the ones that were not radiated trendy charm.  Then a leather goods shop at the next intersection stopped him in his tracks.  In the main display case window was a manikin sporting a policeman’s cap, sequined vest, and, were those really black leather chaps?          

Gus took an involuntary step back.  He couldn’t help but think of the times he had visited motorcycle crash victims in the hospital.  Invariably the talk would turn to their road rash, and how had it not been for their leather jackets and heavy jeans, it would have been much worse.  The scanty biker’s duds in the store window were clearly designed for fashion and not protection.  Any cyclist taking a spill in those clothes would be a strong candidate for skin grafts. 

“It’s a nice outfit.” 

The voice came from behind him.  It lilted to his ears gently, a soft delicate male voice.  Gus turned slowly, part hoping that the comment had been directed at him another part hoping it was an exchange between others.

“I’ve had my eye on it ever since they got it in.”  A young man, early 20ish, was the owner of the voice.  He was alone, initiating conversation gambits with the older man in front of him.   

“Do you ride motorcycles?”  Lame, but the best Gus had on the spur of the moment. 

“Motorcycles?” the younger man moved his attention from Gus, to the manikin and then back to Gus.  “Oh no!”  He laughed heartily thinking he was now in on a joke.  “I don’t ride motorcycles, but I do my share of riding!” He shared this last with a knowing glint in his eye and absolutely beamed at the older man.

There was an awkward moment of silence, the young
man’s
smile radiating, Gus’ stomach rumbling. 

“Say, I’m wondering” Gus redirected.  “Do you know if there’s someplace nearby to get a bite to eat?”

The young man literally glowed.  “You want something to eat?  Well that’s a coincidence, because I’m looking for something to eat too.”  And without waiting for a response from the elder, the younger said:  “Follow me”

They walked down the main business strip, neither man talking.  Gus appreciative for the escorted directions, but less than keen on the concept of having a dinner partner.  Along the way they passed two restaurants that, to Gus, looked promising, one Misty’s Prime rib and steakhouse, the second Fat Pat’s pizza and deli. 

“So what’s on the menu at this place?”  Gus was regretting having the guy parade him around when he could have stumbled across either of the two they had passed on his own.  With his luck the punk was likely headed to an A and W root beer stand.

“Oh, now that’s a good one” the young man said strangely.  “The menu?  The menu is tender sausage deluxe!”  He peered at Gus greedily.  “And it’s all you can eat!”

They turned off the main road and into an alley.  The thought of gorging himself on sausage was to Gus as appetizing as a buffet of Styrofoam peanuts and lead-based paint chips.  And just where in the hell was this place?  The alley was leading nowhere that promised anything of fine dining value.

“So where is this restaurant?”  It came out with an edge of annoyance.

“Restaurant, ha!” You’re so funny.  You make me laugh.”  He stepped toward Gus and for a moment Gus thought the guy was
going to kiss him.  He responded by recoiling two quick steps in retreat.

“Awww, don’t be that way.”  The younger pouted coquettishly.  “We can get a room right up there.”  He pointed to the upper level of a nondescript building at the end of the alley.  “It’s only 20 dollars an hour.  Don’t worry, I’ll pay my share.”  The younger fluttered his eyes flirtatiously.  “And if you really don’t want to eat, that’s fine, I’ll gladly do you, but then the room is on you.” 

Suddenly, everything clicked. 

“I don’t ride motorcycles, but I do my share of riding,” 

“I’m looking for something to eat too”

“The menu is sausage; sausage deluxe! And it’s all you can eat!”

“We can get a room right up there.”

“I’ll gladly do you”

His voice nearly quivering, Gus choked out his retreat.  “No, no, no.  You’ve got it all wrong.  I’m not into that
at all
!”

The younger folded his arms and pouted.  Then he eased and asked darkly:  “So just what
are
you into?”  One eyebrow cocked suggestively.

“Nothing!”  Gus barked.  “Where did you get the idea that I was into…any of…that kind of thing?” 

The younger held his ground and delivered his response sans the effeminate titter.  “I’ll tell you where I got the idea from pops.  From your back pocket.  You were waving the light blue from the back left.  Now just try and tell me that you don’t know that means that you’re looking for a blow job.” 

Gus didn’t have the foggiest idea what the punk was talking about.  Obviously, the punk could see it too.

“Look.”  He turned his ass to the old guy.  “See that?”  the tail end of a blue handkerchief was draped over the right pocket. 
“Me.  Blue.  Right pocket.  That means I want to give a blow job.  You.  Blue.  Left pocket.  That means you want to
receive
a blow job.”

“Any questions?”

Gus felt the back of his slacks.  The first touch of the stray fabric made him cringe.  As he brought the cloth into vision, he nearly collapsed. 

“No.  I’m sorry.  I didn’t.  I wasn’t trying…” 

“Save it old timer.  You already burned enough of my night.”

“Listen, I really didn’t know.  I’m sorry.  If it’s about the $20 I’d be happy to pay you for…”

“
Pay
?  What’s this
pay
crap!  You calling me a whore?  I ain’t no whore!  The money is for the room!  Everything else is consensual!” 

Gus was defeated.  He hung his head and stared at the swath of blue cloth. 

The younger uttered a ‘hmmpff’ and then began his assessment of what had just transpired.  “So, you want me to believe that you really didn’t know.”  His tone was now the steady confidence of a college graduate ready to take on the world.

“No, I didn’t know.”  Conciliatory and without eye-contact from Gus.  “But.”  He struggled internally with the next.  “But, I want to learn.  Some things.  Some other things, if you know them – can show me.”  He stopped “can you teach – I mean tell me.” He corrected.

Christ he’s pathetic the college grad reflected.  But he also seemed harmless.  Just some old fart trying to learn the ropes in the ever broadening world of gay sex.  Besides, wasn’t there a time not all that long ago when he himself needed guidance.

“Fine, what do you want to know?” 

“Well” Gus ruminated.  “a lot of things.  But first, I really gotta eat something.  No!  I mean I’m really hungry…for, for food!”

That got the kid to laughing.  “Okay, fair ‘nuf.  You wanna meet up someplace after?”

Gus pondered and said honestly:  “I’m only here for a few more hours.  If you like we can go to that Mister’s Prime Rib place, my treat, unless that would um offend you.”

“It’s ‘Misty’s” the younger corrected.  “They have great food and no, it would not offend me.”

“Thank you.  And I’m sorry, I should introduce.  My name is…”

“Ahhh!  Ahhh!  Ahhh!”  The younger stopped him cold.  “First lesson—no names.  If you need to call me something you can call me Ronald, last name McDonald.  You?  You can be Mr. King, first name Burger.  Got it?”

Gus, aka, Mr. Burger King acknowledged that he got it.  He had intended on giving the kid a phony name to begin with, but Ronald McDonald had saved him the trouble.

4

The food at Misty’s was as good as promised.  Gus’ appetite, fueled by the walk, was tempered only by the nature of the discussion he was having with Mr. McDonald and the potential for eavesdroppers.  Most of the time they talked in code.  If a word or phrase needed verification, it was jotted on a tiny scrap of napkin and then incinerated in the ashtray by the business end of Ronald McDonald’s cigarette.  At one point a well worn sheet of paper was discretely displayed.  It had been folded and re-folded many times judging by the fuzzy edges of the crease marks.  It was the key to ‘flagging.’  Red handkerchief in back
right – you want a hand job.  Green handkerchief in back left – you’ll take it in the ass with a condom.  Light green – no condom.

Until now, Mr. King was just along for the ride.  They didn’t arrive at his area of interest until Mr. McDonald addressed the topic of preferences in partners. 

White, black, Asian?  Didn’t matter. 

Older?  No. 

Younger?  Yes. 

Thirties?  Younger. 

Twenties?  Younger.

Here Mr. McDonald paused and then breathed:  “Eighteen?”  “Younger.”

“Much younger?”  “Much younger.”

Ronald McDonald took a drag on his smoke and turned to the open end of the booth.  He watched the waitress approach and considerately waited for her to pass before exhaling. 

Ronald leaned back and sized up his tablemate.  “Why don’t you…give me…a number.”

Mr. King sopped up au jus with a chunk of bread and said:  “Seven, maybe eight.”

“No.”  Direct and succinct.  “Now
that
, is something I can’t help you with;
won’t
hope help you with.”  He glared across the table.  This was no longer a conversation about sex, it was abuse.

Mr. King back peddled maddeningly.  “No, not real…” he swallowed his chunk of Misty’s homemade pumpernickel, worked his mind frantically and found a plausible out.  “Just…just
pictures
!  Yes, I only want pictures… I mean I would never…”  He left the phrase unfinished, looking at his tablemate for validation.

Ronald McDonald was ready to bolt.  Just up and vacate the table and leave this sorry sack-o-shit pedophile in his dust.   But during their meal the man across the way had developed an aura of authority, maybe in the real world he was an insurance executive or even worse, a lawyer.  The kind of man who, if he didn’t get his way would retaliate just out of spite; pressing charges of solicitation of prostitution or some trumped-up horseshit.   Ronald thought of his future and how such a charge (even if he were exonerated) could affect him in the job market.

“Alright” he conceded.  He would tell the sick-o what he knew and then get the hell out of there.  “All you’re looking for is kiddy porn.”  He mouthed the words silently and then resorted to the napkin when Mr. King was unable to decipher via lip reading.

“Yes!” he exalted.  Laying the nasty two word phrase on the open table.

Ronald snatched up the scrap quickly and created more ashes.

“There’s only one place that I’ve heard of.  It’s on the south side of the metro.  I’m going to write down the name and address plus a few other things you’ll need to know.  And understand that this stuff ain’t cheep, you’ll be paying a premium because it is highly illegal.”  He dropped the volume on the words ‘highly illegal’ to barely audible.  The thought that he felt compelled to take this route, to relay information about a practice that abhorred him, made him ill.

Mr. King was thrumming with excitement. 

Ronald McDonald’s hands shook as he scribbled out the message.  He loathed the man across the table almost as much as he loathed himself for abetting his fetish.  This time he thrust the napkin across the table recklessly, almost hoping that some mysterious eye, an eye that looks out for little children, would see the message and strike the pedophile dead of a brain aneurism.  He also hoped that what he had heard about the sex
shop was bogus, that there was no kiddy porn in the metro.  Unfortunately his heart told him otherwise.