Turning Idolater (3 page)

Manluv
was not a huge investment for this
German, whom the boyz called
the Porn Nazi
. In fact, this
was the latest of six marginally legal dens that he had plucked up
from the streets of New York, although he had started in Düsseldorf
with a site called
Männer ist Kinder
, which was wholly
illegal and nearly clamped him irons. Now he followed the law —
everyone over eighteen, all phone records kept, a registrant with
the Better Business Bureau, compliant with OSHA and even paid taxes
to Uncle Sam, although some of the deductions could have raised an
eyebrow. That still didn’t make Kurt any less of a Fagin.

To wander through the smoke in that corridor, to
hear the purring doggy boys as they stripped and danced and pumped
and grinded — solos and duos and even
manage a trois
on
Saturday nights depending on tips, and to know that
manluv
was not an on-line fundamentalist’s lovefest, kept the business
lucrative and many waifs off the street. These silken skinned,
lightly tattooed tushies and ball sacks found liberation in this
employment — light work that required more looks than brains and a
host of invisible panters-in-the-dark, who drooled behind locked
doors in quiet suburbs, or perhaps in public stalls in infested
ghettos. The need was always there, and the cubicles at manluv were
always opened to the never sated tigers of voyeur sex. Ask any
fallen politician.

Sprakie raised his hands to the keyboard, waggled
his fingers and cocked his head. He flipped a prissy smile toward
the web cam. He was about to answer the latest request for him to
stand up and twirl his hips.

If you want to see my dick, you need
to pay for a One on One,
he typed.

A marketing degree was not necessary to understand
this rule of supply and demand. This was the chat room and, to
those who entered on their discreet computers and ISPs, it was free
to watch the manluv boyz strip and twitter and tease. However, if
you wanted some real action, you needed to pay. It was the law of
the chat room. In days of yore such chats would occur through the
windows of cars or across mugs of beer in the club. However, such
was the marvel of technology. Chats were not only anonymous now,
but also invisible — at least from the customer’s perspective, and
that of his credit card where the transaction showed up in his
monthly statement as Furley Barnickel Entertainments Inc. The chat
also took on the appearance of a cheap playlet, dialog complete and
denuded of nicety and style. Each member of the cast, or the tribe,
if you will, assumed a nickname that was meant to serve as an
avatar to his hidden ambitions (or her hidden ambitions, because
the management at manluv was positive that with so much young male
flesh displayed on the Internet, many a JohnCock was really a
JaneTwat). Sprakie’s monitor was humming tonight.

Papuppy says: Papuppy here. Hi sweetie — how’s
Robert tonight?

Sprakie says: Hi Papuppy. Cool, you know. Getting
near the end of my shift.

Papuppy says: Robert, show us your ass!

Bonerman says: Yep! Show it to us now!

Sprakie says: Hi Bonerman — you know the rules.

Monitor 1 says: Guys! Press the ‘One on One’ button
and Robert can be all yours.

Of course,
Monitor 1
was none other than
the
Porn Nazi
himself, who monitored all traffic,
including this one for the cute blonde in Room 4, Max Gold, a name
which was entered on his employment application, but to which Kurt
didn’t believe for a moment. However, he didn’t care.

Cumdoggy says: Max more than the smile. By the way,
I’ll be in New York this weekend.

Max says: So, are you saying something?

Cumdoggy says: Hey Bonerman, how are you this
evening?

Bonerman says: Would be better if you were here,
Cumdoggy.

Max says: To Bonerman - how old are you?

Bonerman says: Old enough.

Max says: No fair! You can see me.

Cumdoggy says: Show us more.

Max says: Teaser. How old Bonerman?

= = = = Bonerman has signed off. = = = =

Bang on the wall.

Sprakie rolled his eyes. “What is it, Max?” he
shouted.

“Bonerman signed off. I scared him away. I asked him
his age. It must have scared him good.”

“Fuck,” Sprakie shouted. “I could have told you
that, you dumb ass newbie.”

“Watch out or I’ll come over there and kick your
ass.”

Sprakie smiled. He wouldn’t mind a good ass kicking
from that sweet blonde newbie, but he had his own tip bucket to
fill. He glanced at his watch, the last and only garment he
wore.

He’s late again. Kurt
will have his
hide
.

He then pressed a grin across his maw and beamed at
the camera. He noticed a new name on the screen.

Tdye.

“Shit. What’s he doing here?” Sprakie knew. This was
supposed to be the beginning of Philip’s shift and, sure enough,
here
Tdye
was as he had been for the last two weeks. You
could set your watch by it.

Tdye says: Where’s the Flaxen one?

Sprakie says: Off tonight.

Tdye says: But the schedule puts him on now.

Monitor 1 says: The Flaxen one will be on later.
Sorry for the inconvenience.

“Shit,” Sprakie said. “Nice going
Tdye
. You
alerted the boss.”

Sprakie counted to ten until the expected knock came
at the door. Kurt popped his head in, looked around, and then
grumbled.

“I expect him soon, Kurt,” Sprakie mumbled.

“Haz he kallt you yet?”

“No, but he’ll be here.”

“Zo you zay. I’ve bin damn gut to dat one and his
perfekt bubble butz, but if he’s five moments
langer
, I vill
not pay him tonight. He vill just verk vor der tipz. You hear?”

“It’s not my fault, Jesus Marie.”

“But he’z your
freund
, and I brought him on
at your zay zo. You hear?”

The head, cigar included, disappeared into the
corridor.

“He’ll be here,” Sprakie barked.
Fucker. He’ll be
here.
Sprakie gazed at his clothes pile. Deep in his jeans
pocket his cell phone had lain quiet and that pissed him off. He
had told Philip to call him if he was going to be late.

“I’ll have his balls on toast.”

Sprakie spied the screen and noticed that
Tdye
had signed off.

Thank God for
small favors.

His monitor was clicking away. He needed to stir the
tip pot.

Sprakie says to Papuppy: Are you still there?

Papuppy says: Here, dear. Are you queer or what?

Sprakie says: I’m a Kinzie 6.

Papuppy says: What the fuck’s that?

Sprakie says: Men only. What do you do?

Papuppy says: I do them all.

Monitor 1 says: Just press the button for a ‘One on
One’ and Robert can be yours.

Kurt was back at his post, thank goodness.

Asspounder says: bon soir Robert.

Sprakie says: Good evening, Asspounder.

Asspounder says: Did I miss anything?

Papuppy says to Asspounder: You missed an exciting
show from Robert. He’s the best.

Sprakie says: Thank you, Papuppy.

Asspounder says: Robert, how long have you been
here?

Sprakie says: About to sign-off, Asspounder. The
Flaxen one will be showing his stuff soon.

Papuppy says: Robert, how much longer?

“Time’s up, Papuppy,” Sprakie said

Sprakie says: See you all Tomorrow.

Papuppy says: What time?

“Check the fucking schedule, asshole!”

Sprakie says: I think I’m back at the same time,
sweetie. Have pleasant dreams.

“And don’t swallow any wooden dicks,” he muttered,
switching off the web cam. A buzzer sounded. “Thank God, he’s
here.”

He heard Kurt’s form waddle down the corridor toward
the door.

Who?

Short pause.

Flaxen
.

There was a considerable pause.

Shit, he’s not going to let him in. He’s decided to
fire his ass.

Then, the buzzer sounded again and finally the door
released. Sprakie rolled his eyes back and grabbed his jock strap.
He juggled his feet through the loops, and then tumbled out into
the corridor. Kurt nearly knocked him over as he trundled back to
his monitoring station.

“Next time, I von’t be zo undershtanding. There’z
lotz of dem out dere vhere he comez,
und
I knew vhere to
findz dem. You
besser
straighten him out.” He then muttered
a rumble of low Rhenish German.

“Straighten him out,” Sprakie yawked. “Jesus
Marie.”

Philip took the stairs, all three flights, two steps
at a time. His stride surmounted the rats and other vermin that
laid in waiting in the paltry corners. They weren’t half as
threatening as his expectations on the third floor. He didn’t mind
being dressed down by the boss. He had withstood his own father,
hadn’t he? Still,
the Porn Nazi
would scream unintelligible
gibberish at him, and that he found insulting. If the man was going
to take him out or instruct him on his faults, shouldn’t he at
least do it in English?

He reached the door and paused, bracing himself for
the worst. When he opened it, he witnessed Sprakie hopping around
trying to pull up his jock strap and
the Porn Nazi
sitting
at the corridor’s end, his back to the world, yet not, because his
mug was glued to the monitor — a wider world than anything
contained at
manluv
.

“It’s about fucking time,” Sprakie yelped. He
adjusted his cup and grabbed for Philip’s arm in a single,
acrobatic motion. “You better go see him, and be quick about it,
Mary, because when he’s finished with you, I’m gonna spank your ass
good.”

“Thanks, mama,” Philip said giving Sprakie a kiss on
the forehead.

“That’ll get you nothing.”

“You want more?”

“Please, I’ve been on my back all day.”

“Really?”

“Flackzon,” Kurt yelled, his chair never
turning.

“You better go. Did you eat?”

“No.”

“Flackzon. Do you undershtand
Anglisch
?”

“Coming, Kurt.”

Suddenly, Sprakie reached out again snagging
Philip’s wrist. Philip ricocheted backwards. “Is that my
shirt?”

Philip shrugged. “Could be?”

“That’s my favorite shirt.”

“I’ve never seen you in it.”

“Just because I don’t wear it, doesn’t means it’s
not my favorite.”

“Flackzon.” Now the chair swiveled around and the
bull moose was evident beneath his cigar halo.

Sprakie pouted — might have even spit, but he let
Philip go face the overlord.

Philip stared at the troll that slung over the
swivel chair. He detested this man, but he guessed no more than any
employee detested a particularly foul boss. He knew that beyond the
brutish scowl on Kurt’s face, lurked a puppeteer — a man more in
love with the control he fostered on his young charges than the
money or the entrepreneurial inspiration. It was the power, and in
that he was not unlike Miss McGillicutty, Mrs. Bane, Mr. Pickering,
Mr. John Q. Public CEO and a few thousand other managerial types,
who sat in daily judgment of the unwashed millions — minions in
this city of mammon.

“I hope I didn’t dishturb anyzing elze you had plant
vor today, huh?”

“Sorry I’m late, Kurt. It won’t happen again.”

Kurt grinned. “No pay today, you know zis. Just for
the tipz you verk tonight.”

Philip trembled. “Please. No. I need the cash. I’ve
rent due and I haven’t eaten in three days.” That was a stretch and
Kurt knew it, but Philip’s pleading was a one-way ticket to grovel
heaven. “Kurt, have a heart. Have a heart.”

Kurt growled, feigning displeasure, but in fact,
Philip knew that by playing the slave, Kurt’s better nature would
be revealed, if it could be called
better.

“Enough of zis veeping. I hate vhen you
kinder
go do de veeping.” He was really enjoying it. “You
are der lucky vone zat I don’t kick your ass out and get me
somezing elze.
Der straße hast mit kinder gefüllen.
”

Philip pouted, the tears genuinely pumped now. He
owed Sprakie this month’s rent and given Sprakie’s current mood
(the shirt and all), he didn’t think he’d be able to make it. He’d
have to hit the streets. That index card in his pocket suddenly
sung out a song of subsidy.

“Drop your pantz,” Kurt blustered. “Remind me vhy I
hired you in der
furst
plaze.”

Philip didn’t hesitate. He unbuckled his jeans and
let them slide, a funny picture since he still had his backpack on.
Kurt’s eyes were alight on the bright white holster that the jock
strap afforded.

“Turn around. Let me zee zat bubble butz.”

Philip turned. He felt Kurt’s eyes on his bare ass.
They were like razorblades gobbling the hemispheres together into
one scrumptious panorama. Philip shrugged as he watched Sprakie
shake his head. Max Gold had come into the corridor now, naked
also, but with his clothes draped over his arm, and his supper in a
brown paper bag. He did a double take upon seeing Philip standing
at half-mast before
the Porn Nazi
. A glance toward Sprakie
told him the whole story, a story that perhaps Max had experienced
first hand.

“Fine,” Kurt said. “Pull zem up. You are shtill
vorth it. Half pay tonight, und zie tipz.”

Philip turned about and pulled his jeans up in a
graceful pirouette. “Thank you, Kurt.” Any concession was better
than nothing. “I promise to be on time from now on.” He started
back to Sprakie, when
the Porn Nazi
banged his fist on the
desk.

“Vorget zomezing, did you?”

Philip halted, closed his eyes and cringed. He
sauntered back to the desk, coming around it. If he had had lunch,
this would be a good time to heave it. He bent down through the
haze of rotten cigar smoke and kissed Kurt on the lips.