Guide, p.12
Guide, page 12
I don’t know what to say. From what I hear, repeated exposures do complicate the infection. But I’m still so distracted and cowed by David’s looks that I just sort of stammer that he should, like, be careful.
“Yeah, obviously!” All around us, people peer at him over their books. “I mean, I already should’ve been … more …” Suddenly he twists around in his chair. “Go away! Do something!”
Every head turns. A scrawny redheaded woman, maybe twenty-six, dressed in a scuffed bomber jacket and jeans, is standing just outside the Onyx’s doorway. “All right, all right,” she yells back, and blurs out of sight to the right.
“Your … girlfriend?”
David untwists. “Yeah,” he says. “Dora. I’m crashing at her place right now. She’s all right, she’s just … she wants me to love her and I told her I can’t because I’m going to die, but she still wants me to, so …” He cringes.
“That’s a tough one.”
He nods violently. “And she’s a heroin junkie too,” he continues, slumping down in the chair. “That’s fucked up because I’m off everything now since the HIV thing. So I have to watch her shoot up all the time and it’s … fucked. But I never liked heroin, so it’s easier than if she was doing crystal or something I used to like. But it makes her hard to deal with, you know?” His expression is growing increasingly hangdog, his eyes, unfocused, on what looks like a petrified muffin crumb on the table between us.
“I’m sure,” I say. “Anyway, what’s this about your rock band?”
“Oh, fuck.” He tenses, kicks his chair back from the table, and shoots me a horrified look. The Onyx populace, which had just relaxed back into their books, are all eyes, not that David realizes or cares. “Now I have to live up to it, right?” he says. “Maybe you should just come see us rehearse later, like I said. Then you can decide if …” He shrugs.
With organizations like Covenant House, Angel’s Flight, the Gay and Lesbian Center, and others concentrating their efforts on easing the plight of young runaways, you’d think the situation was under control—to some degree, at least. I did. Not according to David. He’s avoided such places whenever he can, although he can’t quite explain his aversion. He doesn’t want to be “controlled,” is the short and long of it. According to him, even the most religion-free outreach program has some sort of freedom-obliterating agenda. Instead, he has these floating parental-type figures. In the past, he’d relied on a series of regular johns whose concern for his welfare was just real enough to feel nice and just suspicious enough to be rejected guilt-free. Nowadays he relies on immediate friends, several of whom I’ll meet later this day, and most of whom read as caretaker types, as the therapists say—boys and girls whose devotion to David’s welfare has a slightly hysterical edge.
We’re leaning on a parked car just outside the Onyx. Half a block up the street, Dora keeps yo-yo-ing in and out of a bookshop, neck craned—checking our status, I guess. I let David blab about whatever he wants. Mostly he rags on the Onyx clientele and how, well, artsy-fartsiness is the opiate of the new bourgeoisie, basically. Classic punk stuff.
David may be a semi–emotional wreck, but he’s sharp, albeit in a kneejerk, self-taught kind of way. According to him, his politics, philosophy, and musical tastes were formed by the brainy punk magazine Maximum Rock ’n’ Roll, which he’s been reading religiously since he was a kid. Now that we’re in the daylight, I can see that he has shoved between his belt and jeans a freshly shoplifted book by cultural theorist Noam Chomsky, MR’n’R’s unoffical guru. He’s been meaning to dip into Chomsky since his pre-diagnosis, pre-homeless days, meaning four months ago.
Back then he lived with a bunch of other quasi-anarchist teen squatters in an abandoned building off Hollywood Boulevard. He’ll talk about that roughly yearlong period of his life in great detail, but the time before then—in other words, his entire childhood and adolescence—is interviewer non grata. When he accidentally lets a detail slip—that he grew up in the San Fernando Valley, or that his father is a doctor—it’s accompanied by a physical explosion. The air’s punched, the sidewalk’s stomped. When I press him, all David will admit about his past is that whatever happened, which is none of my business, it made him realize how people don’t give a shit for each other, no matter what they say.
“What about your friends?”
“Right,” David says. “Well, I don’t keep them very long. Most of my friends aren’t real friends, they’re just guys who are into me sexually. But when they realize what an asshole I am, and that I’m never going to let them fuck me, they’re gone.”
“Why don’t you just let them fuck you? I mean, you’re a hustler, so—”
“Because they’re my friends,” he yells. Then he looks away, smiles sort of weirdly, and clears his throat. “You’re into me too, aren’t you?”
“No,” I say. And I’m not, actually.
David glances up. His smile grows all fake and flirtatious. “Oh, yeah, right.”
I know that smile. Two of my boyfriends were part-time street hustlers, as were most of their friends. In the days before AIDS, I used to hang around hustler bars, sometimes intending to pick up a boy but more often than not just because I enjoyed the tension. I’ve been given the hard sell by hustlers on hundreds of occasions, and David’s obviously … well, if not an expert, then a veteran. Add that semi-expertise to his beauty, and he must do pretty well in that underworld. True?
“True,” he agrees, and laughs uproariously. “But it’s not like I’m spending my last days on earth in some rich scumbag’s mansion.” According to him, he’s had innumerable chances to “sell out,” as he puts it, particularly with “a famous record-company executive” whom he won’t name, partly because the guy still rents him out on occasion and partly because he’s respectful of other people’s privacy. “But I guess if I was really considerate,” he says, “I’d still be living in the squat, and not with a fucking junkie.” He shoots a murderous glare up the sidewalk. “Dora! Get your ass down here! Let’s go!”
Desire is so weird. I’m not attracted to David in any real kind of way. If this were, say, the very early eighties, pre–AIDS recognition, when I’d occasionally get lonely or overaesthetic re sex and cruise L.A.’s hustler strip, then maybe snag some specimen off a low-lit street corner, David would look really good. But in today’s poisoned context, availability and looks aren’t enough. Besides, something about David spooks me. I’m into sweetness, even if it’s superficially lost in some cute guy’s confusion or fear or paranoia. But not when it’s lost in hostility. And David is borderline explosive, as I hope I’ve made clear. Still, I live in my head, as you’re aware, and reality doesn’t necessarily impinge on my wishes. In that realm, the boy’s suitable, to say the least. So as we walk to my car, David arguing with Dora, he’s secretly the object of a modest mental orgy.
†
I’m driving David and Dora to her downtown apartment, where the Rambo Dolls have arranged a rehearsal. At my request, David directs us along Hollywood Boulevard, pointing out haunts from his days in the squat. In a spot near Mann’s Chinese Theater that he has just called “the world’s greatest panhandling area,” he notices one of his friends, a former squatmate, now the lead singer in their band.
Sniffles is a tall, slim late teen with an exotic face, sleepy brown eyes, surly lips, and a filthy blond mohawk that sags down one side of his head. Dressed in jeans, a denim jacket, and an old, faded Tom Verlaine T-shirt, he’s accosting passersby with his hand out when David orders me over to the curb.
“Hey, shit sack!” David yells, shoving his head and shoulders through the open passenger window. He topples out onto the sidewalk. Sniffles helps him up, and they half hug, half wrestle, for a few minutes, while tourists veer around them.
Inside the car, Dora and I watch, trading bemused smiles. Assuming David’s telling me the truth about her addiction, she’s jonesing pretty badly. Her face is greenish white. Her pupils are gigantic. Her skinny arms are practically strangling her upper torso. “David’s … such a … liar,” she says, teeth chattering, watching the boys mock-battle.
“How so?” I’m watching them too.
“Like when he says he doesn’t love me,” she says. “I’m sure he told you that. But I put up with his bullshit. Nobody else ever did. He’s a lot sicker than he says he is. You can’t see it that much, but he’s really fucking thin, and he’s got diarrhea all the time now. That’s why he doesn’t hustle very much anymore. So when—”
Suddenly the car door opens, and David hurls himself inside, squashing Dora against me, and me against my door. Sniffles joins us, slamming the door shut behind him.
“Greetings.” The new boy smirks.
“Two things.” David’s face is about an inch from mine. I can smell AZT on his breath. “First, you can give Sniffles a ride, right?” It’s kind of a sour chemical stink that doesn’t fit with his being at all. “And, okay, secondly he wants to know if you feel like fucking him for not very much money at all. Dora and I can take the bus. I mean, that’s cool. Then you guys can meet us at Dora’s later for the rehearsal. Because I told him you’re a …” David’s eyes get confused. “… queer? Is that what you guys want to be called now? Because he’s queer, too, and he’s a nice guy, and he’s broke, right?” David eyeballs me, Sniffles, me, Sniffles …
After the couple heads off, I take Sniffles to lunch at a nearby coffee shop, and he tells me his story, which is as heavily censored as David’s. The way these guys edit their past, you’d think they had no adolescence at all. As for the present, he mostly panhandles, smokes pot, sings for the Rambo Dolls, and hustles. Hustling makes him depressed, he says, maybe because, being queer, he expects too much love from his johns or whatever. Unlike David, he’ll utilize Covenant House when there’s no other option. For him it’s a practical thing, i.e., it’s worth a little lecture and psychological bullshit to sleep in a bed. At the time of our talk, he was still commandeering a room in the Hollywood squat where David lived for a while. After lunch, we take a drive over there.
We enter a onetime Victorian mansion that has clearly been through several subsequent lives as an apartment building. Its fanciness is smashed, weathered, and dirtied into a baroque cave. Most of the squat’s current residents are away at the moment, hanging out on the Boulevard, panhandling for fast-food and drug cash, but there’s a young heterosexual couple, maybe fourteen years old, playing cards in the immense living room. They have innocent faces and dated punk haircuts, they wear several layers of threadbare black clothes, and their B.O. trails all the way up to the second story, where Sniffles shows me his room, a small walk-in closet. Mattress, tangled blanket, a small hill of clothing. He sits down in the middle, studies his crotch for a second, then smiles up at me. One of those smiles. Oh, shit.
“So who gets to live in the squat?” I ask, trying to avoid his gaze.
“Anybody,” he says. “You just have to be honest, and not too strung out. And you can’t fuck around with our stuff.”
“I take it David broke the rules.”
“Every one of them. I fought for him. And we almost let him stay, because he’s so fucking beautiful.”
“So, are you into David?”
His smile sort of generalizes. Phew. “And I’m going to get him,” he says.
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Oh, I will. And if he fights it, then fuck him. I’ll never speak to him again. But he needs me, so I’m not worried.” Then Sniffles’s smile gets all seductive again. Only this time his target’s a day dream. “I’m just waiting for the right moment.”
Have I made it obvious that I’m attracted to Sniffles? Probably not, since fucking him would be quite unethical—theoretically, at least. Not that I’ve been able to figure out why it’s unethical. Anyway, Sniffles is making it very, very sticky for me, because he’s so up my alley. At first I just thought he was sweet, no big deal. I guess that’s why I didn’t emphasize his beauty early on. But by the time we’d arrived at the squat, I was borderline infatuated with him. And Sniffles obviously knew how I felt. And I was pretty sure that he knew that I knew that he knew.
†
With a rough little head shake, Sniffles exits his daydream. His eyes target me and re-warm. Or I can feel their strange heat again. “So …” he says quietly. “What about us doing something?”
“What about it?” I’m sure he realizes I’m weakening. Not to generalize, but hustlers intuit these things. Anyway, it’s probably obvious. Unlike David, I don’t have a face you can hide thoughts behind. Mine’s all rubbery.
“Shut the door,” Sniffles says. His smile has grown incredibly dense—like a psychic’s or something.
“When’s your rehearsal again?” I’m fully aware that my question’s a yes in sheep’s clothing.
“In a while.” Sniffles sucks in a breath, holds it down for a second or two—like he’s just taken a big hit of pot—then exhales very slowly and noisily. As he does, his body relaxes into a state I can only describe as available. “What can you afford?” he adds.
“Oh, fuck off.” And I laugh.
“There are a couple of things I won’t do,” he adds, studying me. “You can probably guess what they are.”
“You don’t kiss.”
“That’s one of them, yeah.” And Sniffles’s smile sort of … weakens? “But … you’re nice, so …”
Hustlers who give a shit about anyone else are unbelievably rare, in my experience. They’re practically a delicacy. When in the old days I sensed interest in a hustler, I bought. I mean, if the guy was my physical type to begin with. No second thoughts. Because with that extra ingredient, you’re almost guaranteed memorable sex. One hustler I bought had this mini–nervous breakdown right there in my arms. I’ve had hustlers claim they’ve fallen deeply in love with me. They’ve burst into tears, asked me to adopt them, marry them, confessed all variety of personal trauma. The looks in their eyes can get out of this world. I’m talking sex so realistic that when it comes time to pay them, it doesn’t even matter. I’ve had hustlers refuse to take money, as if they thought one selfless act could make somebody love them. Things can get grim, but it’s incredibly hot in the moment.
“Oh, all right.”
“Awesome.” Sniffles lies back and smirks at the ceiling. “What do you like to do?” His fists are pounding out a rhythm on the mattress.
To get decent sex out of hustlers, you need to list your preferences right away. It relaxes them and helps you organize your attack. In description, my little fetish for eating out, spanking, exploring, and fucking guys’ asses sounds easy to cope with. One’s just expected to go with the flow. Thing is, the sex can get very disconcerting in its own funny way. Some boys grow uptight, especially if they don’t like their own bodies. I mean, I get in there. But like I said, in theory it sounds like a lark.
“That’ll work,” Sniffles says, fiddling with his belt. “Let’s talk money later on.”
“Wait a second.” I’m famous for these little last-minute anxiety attacks. Or I would be famous for them if the people I fucked had any clout in the world. “Can we do it at my place?” Maybe it’s just the unusual locale. “It’s on the way downtown.”
Sniffles quits fiddling. “Awesome,” he says.
When we exit the mansion, David and Dora are out on the sidewalk arguing loudly with some grisly punk kid. He must be a squat resident since Sniffles mumbles a name, maybe Fred, with this slight exasperation, then jets on ahead of me, skidding to a halt along their periphery. He adds his yell to their yells, defending David, I’m not sure against what. They sound like the punk-rock equivalent of a barbershop quartet. Still, it feels dangerous, so I wait in the car. From what I can tell, Sniffles’s support just infuriates David. He backs away from the group, screaming at them to fuck off. Then he whirls around and runs up the street. Sniffles shouts David’s name and takes off after him, leaving Dora to squall at the punk on her own. Halfway down the block, Sniffles catches up with David and grabs a fistful of his T-shirt. David whips around, shoves Sniffles down on the ground, and takes off. Sniffles stands up, yells something at David, then turns and starts to limp in my general direction, rubbing one knee. When he sees me in the car, he breaks into a lopsided trot.
“Let’s go,” he says, throwing open the passenger door. He slams it behind him. “Fuck David.” Then he winces at me. “I didn’t mean that.”
“I know.”
“We should zoom.” Sniffles turns and looks behind us. Dora is gone, and the grisly punk is eyeballing our car.
I drive off. It’s one of those weird, smog-beautified L.A. late afternoons. Sniffles slumps in the seat, blinking at the taillights and lushly colored daylight before us. He looks much more freaked out than he did a few minutes ago. It’s strange how when people are frightened they seem to grow younger, especially if they look like overgrown kids to begin with. Sniffles looks about twelve. “David’ll be okay,” I say.
“I guess.” Sniffles turns and looks at me really, really hard.
“What?”
“You’re cool, but there’s something … I don’t know, weird about you.”
“I know. I think so too.”
Sniffles stares out the windshield for several minutes, watching neighborhoods change into other kinds of neighborhoods. I guess they’re gentrifying the closer we get to my own. I never think about things like that. “So you’re into kissing,” he says without looking at me.
“I didn’t say that.”
Sniffles checks me out, his eyes charged with a thought that I’m far too excited about to begin to decode. “I don’t know,” he says. “That’s sort of the one thing I’m really not into.” Then he cringes, like he’s sure I’ll say no.
