harder to accept. Sex is sex. A kiss means love.
After he left, I cried and cried, called into
the night, “Andrew, where are you?”
No answer came then. Or yet. The next
morning Jerome brought a hot biscuit,
with butter and honey. Nothing ever,
ever, has tasted so good. He came back
that night. Afterward, I cried and cried,
screamed into the night, “Andrew, save
me.” But he didn’t. Hasn’t yet. The next
morning Jerome brought a perfect peach.
And so it has gone. I have my shampoo,
unscented so Father won’t notice,
but at least my hair feels clean. Really
clean. I even got my Cherry Garcia.
Another small plus: Jerome always uses
a condom. That little detail has saved
more than a badly timed pregnancy.
It has probably saved my sanity.
Almost worse than the thought of having
his baby is the nightmare idea of his “leftovers.”
After a Few Weeks
The straight sex has become routine.
Something I can shut myself off from.
But now Jerome wants other things.
Let me watch you touch yourself.
Creepy things. Did you know guys
like to use vibrators too? Like this.
Downright disgusting things. Your
period? I like the taste of blood.
How I wish I could say no. But even
if I thought he’d leave me alone,
saying yes is how I have convinced
him to make Father believe I am fit
for small freedoms. Like working
in the yard, pulling weeds and picking
vegetables. Out here, beyond the confines
of my room, I understand there is no way
to leave the place on foot. I can see
forever across the playa, and the road
is a straight, stretched wound. I can tell
cars are coming long before they arrive,
by dust mushrooms sprouting into the hot
blue Nevada sky. Hot? Working outside,
even midmorning, sweat pools in my armpits
and beads my skin, attracting bugs and dirt.
But anything is better than slow suffocation
in the tomb of my room. I observe people
come and go. Memorize schedules. Learn
where cars are parked, some left unlocked.
Ironically, Jerome is one of the worst
about leaving his keys under the floor mat.
I file that fact away. Plan A has gone awry.
Maybe it will come in handy with Plan B.
Plan A
Was to do whatever it took to get Jerome
to call Andrew, tell him where to find me.
But a major flaw in that strategy surfaced.
Oh, I have played on Jerome’s sympathy.
Talked about home. Church. Papa. Told him
Mama is crazy, something he understands.
Jerome inherited his own “not rightness”
from the XX chromosome side of his family.
My mother used to lock my brother and me
in the closet, he told me. Then she’d sit
outside the door and listen. If she heard
us praying to Jesus, she’d let us out.
Even Mama isn’t that bad. But our conversation
did reveal some mutual rocky ground. And keeping
him talking meant less time for other stuff.
Then yesterday I asked if he’d ever fallen in love.
He blushed but said nothing for several
seconds. Finally he confessed, With you.
Talk About Knocking
The squall out of my sails. In love with me?
Looks like loneliness works both ways
here at Tears of Zion. Jerome will not help
me reconnect with Andrew. Neither will he
leave my door unlocked so I can slip away
into the desert night (Plan B). Unless …
What would he do if I asked him to run
away with me? Does he really believe
he loves me? Would he desert Tears of Zion
and Father? Is this a job or true devotion?
Could I convince him? Could I make him
believe I’m in love with him, too? Could I
live with myself afterward? Could I ever
be forgiven for such painful deception?
As I sit here, alone, questioning, phrases
tumble into my head: You’ll be here
for the foreseeable future…. Make
the best of it…. Guys like vibrators too.
Plan C begins to formulate. Yes, it’s wrong.
But not as wrong as everything else.
Plan C
Means courting Jerome’s affection,
pretending to enjoy his deviant sex.
Tonight that means letting him call me
“Mommy” as he sits on my lap and “nurses.”
I stroke his hair as a mother would, dig deep
inside for the words, “Mommy loves you, Jerome.”
That excites him, as I guessed it would.
I love you, too, Mommy. See how much?
Oh, Andrew. Even if you do find me, how
can you ever love me again after this?
I hold stubbornly to the dream that he will,
as Jerome turns his belly to “Mommy’s.”
Love or no, Jerome wants to punish Mommy.
The sex is rough, but it doesn’t hurt nearly
as bad as the pretense. And it’s even faster
than usual. When he finishes, I lay my head
on his knobby chest. “Too bad you have to go.
It would be nice to sleep together all night.”
Jerome’s chin lifts and falls against my hair.
Uh-huh. That surely would be nice.
I roll on top of him, look up into his eyes.
“What if we …” Soft kiss. “Never mind.”
He shivers. Is much too easy. I feel
almost evil when he whispers, What?
I sit up, slide the naked place between my legs
over his skin. “We could leave. Together.”
He shakes his head. His body stiffens.
No. I couldn’t do that. It would be wrong.
“No more wrong than this.” I lean forward,
cup my breasts, rub them over his face.
Confusion seeps into his eyes, and like it
or not, his muscles relax. All but one.
I rock back gently, invite him inside. “I’d be
all yours and take such good care of you.”
The second time takes longer, but when
he’s finally done, he says, I’ll think about it.
After he leaves, I lie in an aura of hope.
Say a little prayer to Mary Magdalene.
Hope Begins to Fade
After two days. I haven’t seen Jerome
even once. Did I scare him away?
I’m pretty sure he didn’t say anything
to Father, who doesn’t act strangely
at all during our regular sessions.
In fact, today he is almost friendly.
Brother Jerome tells me you’ve worked
hard in the garden, he says. Is that right?
What kind of game is this? Better play
along, whatever the rules. “Yes, Father.”
Good. Hard work deserves a reward.
Starting Sunday, you may attend
the regular worship service. If that
goes well, we can talk about school.
Worship? School? No more isolation?
Is this some kind of a trick? Did Jerome
confess everything to Father after all?
I have no id
ea what to believe anymore.
One thing I know. It’s wiser to say too
little than too much. “Thank you, Father.”
Brother Stephen
Walks me back to my room. A girl,
a bit younger than me, rakes gravel
outside the chapel door. She looks up
as we pass and I smile at her, which only
makes her drop her eyes to the ground
again. But not before I see the fear
floating in them. Is she new here, then?
Or has she been here longer? Long enough,
perhaps, to know which is the greater
punishment—isolation or supervised
communion. The short exchange leaves
me uneasy. I wish I could talk to her.
But that won’t happen. Stephen herds
me forward. Hurry up, would you?
“Why? Somewhere you have to be?”
A hard shove lets me know in no uncertain
terms that my sarcasm is not appreciated.
Except by what little is left of Eden.
Thank the Good Lord
The piece that remains is the one that can
find a streak of humor, however dark,
in almost anything. Otherwise, I would
have gone completely crackers by now.
Otherwise, they would have already won.
I’m not conceding yet, and I never will,
unless Andrew is out of my life forever.
Why did I think that? He’s looking for me.
(Unless my parents had him locked up.)
Waiting for me. (Unless he believes
our separation was for the best.) Loving
me. (Unless he finds out what I’ve done.)
A wave of depression sweeps over me,
washes me into an icy black sea. I’m treading
water, poorly, when the door opens.
Why are you lying there in the dark?
It’s Jerome. The smell of chicken broth
tells me he’s brought my dinner.
He flips on the light, and I jump up to greet
him, kiss him on the cheek. “I’m so happy
to see you. Where have you been?
I thought for sure you were mad at me.”
He sets down the tray. Now, why would
you think a thing like that? I had a couple
of days off is all. He reaches out, strokes
my hair. So pretty. When we go, I’ll buy
you shampoo that smells like roses.
You like the scent of roses, don’t you?
When we go? Chills charge through me.
“Of course, Jerome. Roses are my favorite.”
Good. I thought so. I have to go now,
but I’ll be back later. We’ll talk then.
When He Returns
He outlines his plan. We’ll leave
tomorrow night, when everyone’s asleep.
By the time somebody misses you,
we’ll be halfway to Salt Lake City.
Salt Lake City? Well, we can’t go
back to Boise. Still, “Why go there?”
He shrugs. My brother lives there.
I can work for him under the table
until you turn eighteen. After that,
we’re free to go wherever we want.
He has really thought this through.
So, “Why can’t we leave tonight?”
No hurry, is there? I’m too tired
to drive very far tonight. Besides …
He lifts my arms, pulls my shift up
over my head. I’m in need of your
special brand of lovin’. Help me
out? He nudges me toward the bed.
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
sex, 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 gods 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
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 class, 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
canals, Egyptian pyramids,
Manhattan skyscrapers.
Their exteriors boast fountains,
pirate ships, giant lions with