Tyler West, dressed for another man's fantasy, walked from his black sports car up the sidewalk and to the house's porch. He adjusted the shoulder strap of the tank top he wore—one size too small, so that it bit into his tan skin—and felt rather ridiculous standing there in suburbia in his weekend club clothes on a bright Tuesday afternoon. Impatient and anxious for his "private screening" to begin and end, he pushed the doorbell twice.

Through the stained glass of the door, he glimpsed a shadow. Chilled, air-conditioned air swept over Tyler as his new client opened the door. Tyler guessed the man's age to be mid-forties, at the edge of decline. Wearing a sallow-colored polo shirt over khaki slacks, the john resembled so many other middle-class husbands with the same deep, dark secret. His features had already begun to sag and sink, gaining another stubbled chin, and a stomach eclipsing his belt. In a few more years, the man would be another closeted, gray zombie to Tyler.

"Rick?" Tyler advanced, making sure that a hand rested near his packed crotch.

The man grimaced slightly, making his face look all the more unattractive. "Please, refer to me as Mr. Walsh." Tyler nodded but inside his head he groaned. Walsh would be another tough one. He had gone into this whole meeting wary, ever since the man had bombarded him with questions even after the email with frontal pictures, rates, and specialties. If not for the promise of an extra hundred dollars to drive out to Santa Monica on short notice, Tyler would have passed. But the money would buy another line of cocaine.

Walsh stepped aside and let Tyler inside the house before closing the door behind him. Then the man turned to Tyler and eyed him up and down for a few moments, while the porn star remained still and allowed his thoughts to drift off and wonder whether his regular dealer had the premium shit.

"Take your shirt off."

Tyler's initial reaction was to demand his fee first. He normally never asked for money up front, but then he rarely ever encountered so much attitude before. He bit his lip, deciding that Walsh was the sort who'd argue endlessly anyway and probably refuse.

With practiced ease, Tyler slowly peeled off the thin cotton tank, revealing inch after inch of ripped abs followed by firm pecs with twin pierced nipples. Just below his neck, in the crevice of his chest, a tattoo of an arrowhead pointed down.

Walsh nodded as if satisfied and started walking down the front hall, turning right at the first open doorway. Holding his shirt in his hands, Tyler followed afterwards.

He expected a den with a big, hopefully comfy, sofa in front of a widescreen television with some porn movie already playing. Probably Summer Fling 2. The johns always liked that one, especially the scene where Tyler sucked off the blond twink pool boy in the deep end.

But Tyler found himself in a small library. The shelves on the walls were overloaded with tattered volumes. More old books cluttered the floor and a desk. Sheets of notepaper, covered with endless scribbles, were scattered about the room. Tyler picked up the nearest page but didn't recognize the language. It may have been French, but then he had never bothered to pay much attention in high school to anything but Ass. Beneath one long stretch of words was a crudely drawn circle with a comical stick figure spread eagle.

"That's private." Walsh snatched the paper out of Tyler's hands. The sheet's edge sliced against the soft pad of the porn star's thumb. Tyler sucked at it, barely keeping a curse in his mouth.

The client pushed back the hard wooden chair from the desk, disturbing one stack of books on the seat. Tyler saw titles like Damballah in Haiti and Sympathetic Rites fall to the floor.

Walsh sat down and motioned for Tyler to come closer. When he did, the man's hands began to roam over the porn star's body, as if smearing paint over a canvas, especially along the ridges of his six-pack abdomen and the hardening lump in his shorts.

Tyler moaned as convincingly as possible. Four videos and over a year of escorting had given him a repertoire of grunts and groans to suggest pleasure. He rested his hands on the man's balding head, which felt clammy to the touch. He closed his eyes. In his mind, he saw not Walsh but rather the handsome face of Bobby, his roommate and lover. He thought of Bobby's silly habit of wearing strawberry lip gloss or those startling blue eyes looking up at him, seeking permission before swallowing cock.

Tyler's shorts were tugged down, revealing flimsy European briefs that hid nothing. Fingers groped at the elastic band of the briefs, nearly tearing the silky material in their haste to free the goods within.

Bobby always kissed his dick before taking it in his mouth. A whimsical peck on his pecker, that made Tyler smile. Then warmth and wetness spreading over the shaft until Tyler had buried all seven inches deep and glossed lips brushed against cropped, dark pubic hair.

But Walsh shattered the illusion with his crude technique. He nipped rather than licked, stuffed rather than sucked, barely going farther than the fat vein three inches down. Tyler was forced to open his eyes and regard the man giving one of the worst blowjobs he had ever been inflicted. The scratch of teeth on the delicate underside made him wince and pull the man off his cock.

"What about you?" Tyler asked, trying to change the direction of the affair.

Walsh grinned for the first time. The porn star decided the man must be a lawyer or a car salesman or broker or something. No one honest possessed such a sly grin.

He watched as the man stood up and started to strip. He did not offer to help Walsh. The body underneath was starkly pale and matted with reddish hair, becoming unruly around the man's crotch and legs. An uncut dick, still wrapped by an excessive amount of white, wrinkled foreskin, swayed to its own tune at Tyler. He looked down at the thick and almost grotesque organ and suppressed a shudder.

Walsh threw down his clothes with as much regard as must give his books. He groped at his own crotch, offering it with a wiggle to Tyler.

The porn star kneeled down, hearing the crackle of loose papers underneath him, and reached for the offensive dick. With a touch, the foreskin withdrew a little bit revealing a purplish head surrounded by a corona of smeary white. A pungent odor drifted to Tyler, who struggled not to gag even before he brought his face closer.

"Suck that cock," barked Walsh.

Four hundred dollars, Tyler told himself. Four hundred for just an hour's worth of suffering. He could survive. The sweet promise of getting so high that nothing mattered was there, waiting for him.

With a deft move, his index finger wiped off most of the smegma, and then Tyler went down.

Walsh abused his mouth for what seemed like forever, treating it like a street hustler's rear, each thrust truly a fuck than a push. All the while, the man mouthed coarse words, some of which Tyler's couldn't even understand. He was too busy trying to suck in air through his nose, keeping his thoughts from the sour taste and odor.

Then he heard Walsh start to gasp out, "Swallow my load. Eat it all." He fell back, the man's dick noisily slipping out of his throat.

"Fuck you. I don't do that shit." A lie, of course, but Walsh didn't know that. Billy always shuddered and delivered a thick load in his mouth to cap off every lovemaking session of theirs.

Walsh's eyes narrowed and his mouth turned down. "I'm paying you a shitload of money-"

"If you want cheap and easy, go to West Hollywood." Tyler wiped his mouth. He wanted to gargle for hours with industrial-strength mouthwash.

"I'll pay an extra fifty bucks." Walsh reached for Tyler's head, fingers almost clawing at the escort's dark curls.

Tyler shook his head. "Uh-uh." He grabbed hold of the man's cock tightly. "If you want to get off, this is the only way. Otherwise, I'm out the door." He began tugging.

Walsh remained tight-lipped but let him jerk away. A few minutes later, the man shuddered and Tyler's chest was splattered with three smears of yellowish come he quickly wiped off with the nearest cloth, being Walsh's polo.

The john collapsed in the chair, still dripping. Tyler reached for his clothes. Whether or not sixty minutes had passed since he walked through the front door, he was done. "Leave your underwear," Walsh muttered as he rubbed his damp groin.

Tyler gave him a scathing look. "That's extra." He didn't truly mean that, just the words were the first sarcastic thing that came to mind.

"How much?"

"You're serious?"

Again that twisted grin.

Tyler shrugged. At this point, he only wanted to leave. "Thirty."

"Fine." Not bothering to put on a shred of clothing, Walsh picked up the escort's briefs and headed out of the room. One smudged page stuck to the bottom of his left foot.

Slipping on his shorts and shirt, Tyler left the library after him. He found Walsh standing in front of the fireplace in the den across the hall. Tribal masks hung on the wall. Walsh began taking bills from a carved wooden box resting on the mantle.

Tyler made sure to count all the money in front of Walsh. Let the asshole know that it was all business. Every dollar was there at least.

Still holding Tyler's underwear, Walsh bent down and started piling up wood in the fireplace. Tyler decided that the man was truly insane to start a fire in August and didn't bother waiting for Walsh to show him out. He stuffed the bills into his pocket and slammed the door shut behind him.

The inside of his car was steaming hot even with the windows slightly rolled down. Tyler wiped at the sweat that quickly beaded on his forehead and upper lip and cranked up the air conditioning, turning the dial to the maximum, the brightest splash of cool blue on the dashboard. The air blew out from every vent but as he sped off down the street, tires squealing, he still felt too warm, especially his ass on the seat. He shifted about, jerking a bit as he struggled to find a spot on the seat that didn't burn.

He was almost at the highway entrance when he smelled smoke. Not the acrid odor of burning wires or oil, but more of a singed meat scent. A sharp pain tore at his legs and he looked down to see the fine dark hairs on his calves begin to glow orange and burn, shriveling black. His hands instinctively left the wheel to slap at his thighs and the car careened to the side of the road, running up onto the shoulder before he grabbed the steering again.

When his groin caught fire, Tyler screamed, braking suddenly, pitching forward to strike his face against the wheel. But the pain from a broken nose was nothing compared to the agony as the flames spread. Smoke rose from every limb. He felt the heat escape from his open throat and the screams only died down when there was little left of him to burn.

The rough growl of mowers woke Frank Manes from dreams of boys. He blinked at the afternoon sun that snuck through the living room blinds and tried to roll over on the narrow sofa bed to hide from the light, but one of the annoying springs in the old mattress struck a tender spot in his belly. The sharp stab of pain chased away any chance of returning to sleep.

He had to unwrap himself from the many sheets and blankets. His sister kept the apartment bitter cold even though the electric bill threatened triple digit numbers. He found he was hard, the "morning wood" as porn stories called it, and he idly scratched his boxers down there.

Frank sat up and groped around on the nearby coffee table for his glasses. With them, the world came back into focus. The springs squeaked their displeasure at having to bear his nearly 300 pounds. They groaned again when he rose up, feeling a bit unsteady. He decided his blood sugar must be low and hoped there was enough frosted cereal for a bowl.

The thought of breakfast woke his stomach, which loudly agreed with his diagnosis before arguing with his full bladder over priority. It seemed sure that his stomach would win the battle, when Frank's plodding steps took him past his computer and he stopped to notice that the Caribbean-style screensaver had been interrupted with a flashing red exclamation point.

Frank could never refuse his PC. He sat his bulk down on the folding chair and tapped the keyboard. Immediately the exclamation point vanished, replaced with a box that read West Update. The message, a programmed alert of the latest news on Frank's favorite porn star, Tyler West, brought new life to his dick.

He let his hands roam over the keyboard like a blind man's reading Braille. His eyelids drooped, his breathing—nearly always labored these days—became heavier, thicker, almost gasps through a slack jaw.

Working on the computer always had this effect on Frank. He never quite understood how or why he drifted along, barely noticing his thick fingers stabbing at the keys. Windows popped open and closed on the screen in quick succession. Once he had taken an online typing test, curious to see how many words per minute he could achieve. He thought he might reach 20, maybe 25, but the screen had been a shock: 115. He tried taking the test again, purposefully slowing down, barely tapping away and still 115.

Before he even opened his e-mail—which would be only porn pictures from newsgroups, updates on the latest sci-fi movies in production, and the inevitable offer to make money at home stuffing envelopes—Frank clicked the box that promised news on Tyler West.

COURTESY OF ADULT VIDEOS REPORTS

Gay Vid Star 'Flaming Wreck'

Sammy Rudder, aka Tyler West, died in a car accident Tuesday afternoon July 23. Rudder, 24, star of such hits as City of Brotherly Love, Summer Fling 2, and Whores d'Oeuvres, was driving on County Road 133 when he lost control of the car. Off the road, Rudder's black Camaro caught fire. Three pedestrians tried unsuccessfully to rescue Rudder. Nearby residents also came out with fire extinguishers to help. All could hear the actor's pleas for help from inside the burning car. Seven minutes later, the fire department arrived, but it was too late.

Rudder enjoyed the attention of the porn industry and raced cars on his off-hours. His partner Bobby Drale once remarked to AVR that his lover belonged behind the steering wheel of a Formula 1 racecar and not behind the camera. A private memorial service is being held this week.

Frank stared in disbelief. "Not Tyler West," he thought. In his head, he begged for it all to be a lie. Or better yet, a publicity stunt. He read the report over, twice, three times, not wanting to believe. His hands stayed utterly still, yet smaller windows opened on the screen with pictures of the late porn star and corroborating reports. He felt sick to his stomach and belched, tasting the sour remains of the cold sausage pizza he had devoured as a late night snack.

Reality had never been Frank's friend. Being 34 and obese was a bitter fact he constantly sought to overlook through the help of television, the Internet, and especially pornography. The joy of being able to watch gorgeous guys have sex right there in front of you satisfied those cravings of Frank's that greasy food and refined sugar could not meet. He had never even kissed a guy and yet, when he watched someone like Tyler West jack off on a Philadelphia rooftop in City of Brotherly Love, Frank could believe the performance was just for him.

Now reality had snuck back into the deepest, most private reaches of Frank's life and spoiled that by stealing away his favorite star.

Unconsciously called upon, information on car accidents and the safety record of Camaros flashed across his monitor. A streaming video of a nearly nude West driving a sports car on a racing track began. Frank's eyes tried to take everything in and failed, but somehow his brain caught every bit and byte.

It made no sense, he realized. Tyler West was an excellent driver. A moment later, Frank's curiosity had hacked away and Sammy Rudder's driving record was uploaded from the DMV. No points. No tickets. Flawless, like the guy's tan skin. West ... Rudder was not a careless driver and a brand-new car just doesn't burst into flames after being driven off the road.

Reality was wrong. "Fucking wrong," Frank muttered and scratched at the stubble on his chin with both hands as more information from police and coroner reports flew across his screen. No impact damage on the burnt frame. Parts of Rudder reduced to ashes.

None of it made any sense to Frank. He felt a gnawing sickness fill his gut and he leaned back and whimpered, glad that his sister had not yet come home from her shift at the diner to see him nearly in tears over some pretty guy's death hundreds of miles away. She'd never understand. She had her dates with crummy guys that were little better than eight-percent tips. Frank needed guys like Tyler West. He owed them.

That realization made the screen come alive with travel Web sites. Before he even realized it, the computer searched for cheap flights, booking a round-trip coach class for him later that evening. The funeral. He simply had to attend that funeral and say goodbye properly.

The decision seemed to calm him. Frank rose up from the chair and felt a quiver of excitement. Not some furtive thrill but a new sensation brought on by a plan of action. He would pay his respects, and in doing so, become closer to his idol than he had ever thought possible. He shuffled towards the kitchen. He needed some breakfast, even though it was past 3 pm; he needed all his strength to pack and get to the airport.

The skies over the cemetery mirrored Bobby Drale's mood: cloudy, uncertain, threatening rain. Or in his case, tears. So far he had not yet cried. Deep down, he could feel the need, still distant, yet very real. Only, his mind could not keep from being distracted. At every turn, something other than Sammy popped into his head, often the most ridiculous notions. Had he picked up the dry cleaning? Should he call and cancel his dentist appointment on Wednesday?

Someone hugged him from behind. He glanced over his shoulder and saw yet another handsome face, another coworker of Sammy's. Really a coworker of Tyler West's, with bleached hair and a bronze cast that looked fake in the dying light of the day.

"How are you holding up?" the top whispered, his voice trying not to be sultry for once.

Bobby nodded an answer. He was sick of being asked that. What could he really say? That he was thinking about whether or not his meeting on Monday at the AIDS Fund office would last over an hour? He'd only seem insensitive, an asshole. They didn't understand he simply he could not think about Sammy right then.

He looked away as the rather plain casket was lowered into the ground. His cheek felt suddenly wet and, for a moment, relief flooded him, until he took a hand to his face and discovered it was only a preemptive raindrop. He wiped it away with a sigh.

The mourners started to disperse, heading back to the condo. At any moment one of them would come over and tug him along, no doubt offering yet another line of condolences. Bobby glanced at the people getting into their cars. When had so many of their friends become little more than pretty dolls or rich old men who liked to play with them? They all looked alike.

Except there was one stranger. Like Bobby, he had yet to leave the gravesite. The man stood out from the rest. An immense frame that had never seen the inside of a gym since high school. Face raw from a cheap razor blade. Nervously shuffling about in the same place, unable to look at anyone directly. Who was he?

Bobby tried to sift through his memories and not the million petty things that begged for notice. Sammy's family these days was a sick mother in a hospice in Florida and a Calvinist sister somewhere in the Midwest. Neither had responded to the news. Unless this was some long lost cousin.

Perhaps a friend? Doubtful. Poor Sammy barely spoke to anyone who had more than eight percent body fat.

His curiosity was now taking over, Bobby walked over to where the stranger stood. The heavy face actually blanched, then blushed, when he came near.

"Are you a friend of Sammy's?" The words came out more accusatory than Bobby had wanted.

The man shook his head no. His eyes, red-rimmed from crying, grew wide and scared. Bobby felt a pang of envy. If wasn't fair that this man could cry over Sammy and he couldn't!

"Family then?"

Again the same response. Finally, the man licked his lips nervously. "I am an... admirer." It seemed to deflate him to say the last word, and even with the large build, he seemed smaller to Bobby, who nodded in understanding. The man was a fan. Nothing more.

Bobby held out a hand. "I'm Bobby Drale."

The other hesitated a moment then took the offered hand in a heavy squeeze. "Frank Manes."

Manes's accent was decidedly East Coast. Bobby looked over the man, saw his rumpled clothing. "You didn't fly out here for this?"

Manes looked away towards the rectangular hole and nodded.

Bobby stifled a laugh, realizing that it was utterly inappropriate but feeling still an odd sense of humor that a fan would come across the country just to see a guy who got fucked for a living laid to rest. "You must have really liked him." The barest of chuckles came out at the end.

"Yeah," said Manes. "Though you were his..."

"Boyfriend? Lover?" The guy, Bobby realized, was so out of sorts he could barely function.

One of the pretty mourners called to Bobby from the hearse.

"Are you coming back to the condo?" Bobby asked Manes.

"I wasn't sure... I mean, I don't really belong..."

Bobby laid a hand on Mane's shoulder. The man trembled beneath him at the touch. "Nonsense. I want you to come back." He was surprised how much he did want Manes there. He needed someone real there. "If anyone asks, you a friend of mine from college, okay?"

Manes smiled, his grin transforming his face from lumps of clay to something approaching eager art.

Together, the two made their way to the diminishing line of cars on the path that threaded itself through the cemetery. The rain began to fall.

Frank could not believe his luck. Considering he had never been anyplace, somehow natural instincts had guided him through the airport, to a waiting cab, and to negotiate with the Haitian the address of the funeral. That he had made it just as the nondenominational service was beginning seemed like a gift. But for Tyler West's lover to come over and to talk to him, to invite him back to where they two had lived together, seemed almost too much to bear.

He wondered, as he slid into a car being driven by a man who wore more jewelry and perfume than Frank's sister, if Tyler's untimely death had cracked reality and now anything could happen.

The condo was bright and airy, with immense ceilings, the flip side to the cramped apartment Frank suffered in. There were tables with food—not cold cuts but dainty pieces that looked more like tiny sculptures arranged on platters—and bottles and bottles of wine and liquor. If people had been laughing, Frank would have mistaken the affair for a party. When he felt sure that no one was looking, Frank scooped up a handful of snacks and popped them into his mouth. Some sort of fish and cream cheese exploded on his tongue. He washed the food down with a generous sip of a red wine he had never heard of before.

"So I heard you knew Bobby from Penn State?" The question came from an older man dressed in a tasteful charcoal suit. The hair, though moussed and spiky, seemed a desperate attempt to turn back the clock a few decades.

Frank froze for a moment under the man's stare, before remembering the lie Bobby had offered him.

"What did you study?"

"Computers." The word came unbidden to Frank's lips. It was the only topic he felt comfortable speaking about. Anything else and he'd be tongue-tied.

"Really?" One carefully plucked eyebrow rose on the man. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about web design would you? My site's original graphic designer left me in a bind when he dropped everything and flew to the Netherlands to let loose his inner girlfriend."

Frank wasn't sure exactly what the last comment meant, but he nodded absently anyway. "I've done sites before." He didn't offer that the pages, while receiving Internet awards, were filled with fan fiction on the sexual exploits of Star Trek characters.

"I assume because you're here," the man said, motioning with an arm at some of the beautiful men in the room, "that working with porn stars doesn't bother you."

Frank gulped nervously and finished off the rest of his glass of wine. "I love porn," he managed to say after swallowing.

"Excellent." The man's manicured hand slipped inside his jacket to pull out a vibrantly colored card. In rainbow letters was printed Hot Pup Productions, the name Hal Carroll, Executive, and a telephone and email address. "Perhaps we can talk business later," Carroll, smiling, leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing against Frank's ear. "When it's more appropriate."

Frank watched the man walk off to put his arm around a little blonde thing in a silk shirt. He looked back down at the card in his hands feeling a bit dazed.

"They're always schmoozing, seducing."

He turned around to see a pale Bobby standing behind him, a plate of half-eaten food in his hand.

"It never stops. Sometimes I think the motto is, 'The porn must go on.'" He bit his lip. "At least for some it does."

"I'm sorry about Tyler... I mean Sammy."

Bobby shrugged. "So is everyone. But I think you're one of the few that really means that. Are you staying in the area long?"

Frank brought up the memory of his travel arrangements. "My flight back's tomorrow night."

"You have a hotel room?"

Frank's mood suddenly crashed. In his mad rush to make the funeral, he had not even considered where he was going to spend the night. Apparently his oversight was legible on his face, for Bobby smiled and offered him the guest room.

"I-I couldn't—"

"Please. I insist. Do you honestly think I want to be alone in this place tonight?" In mid-gesture, the food almost slipped off the plate onto the hardwood floors. "I could use a sympathetic soul right now."

Even after helping to finish off an entire bottle of that wonderful wine, Frank still could not fall asleep. The mattress seemed so soft, the sheets so delicate compared to the cheap sleeping arrangements he had grown accustomed to. He almost yearned for the sound of his sister's snoring coming through the thin walls.

Maybe a snack would settle him. He eased out of the bed and tried to step quietly, not wanting to awaken Bobby, who had been so kind to him that day. He was beginning to believe the lie that they were long-lost friends.

The refrigerator shelves were packed with uneaten remainders and, in the dark, Frank helped himself to his newest discovery: cheese that wasn't served in individually wrapped slices. Between mouthfuls he drank a bit more wine and wondered if such a snack made him 'continental' now.

Belly feeling a bit more full, he lightly tottered toward the bathroom, only to be disappointed when he saw the door shut and a line of yellow light showing underneath and through the old-fashioned keyhole. He was about to head back to bed when he heard a light moan and the sound of Bobby's voice whispering the name, "Sammy."

Frank eased himself down onto his knees. A brief mutter of shame sounded in his head but the voyeur's voice also there promised more. He brought an eye to the keyhole and saw something wondrous.

Bobby sat on the toilet, his white briefs down around his ankles. He was jerking off, almost violently slamming his grip up and down along the length of a slender cock. Every muscle in the young man was stretched taut, especially along the chest and arms, as Bobby leaned back, his head against the wall, and pounded.

Frank found himself more aroused than ever before. More than he had been while watching the best of porn, even the videos of Tyler West. This was live, the soft grunts, the sound of flesh rubbing against flesh, the smell of sweat rising in the air.

Bobby shuddered and again whispered for Sammy. He stretched out his legs, the toes beginning to curl with the effort.

Frank's own hand was wrapped around his dick, fingers brushing against the damp curls of dark pubic hair.

Then Bobby erupted, his cock spraying out volley after volley of white come. His stomach began a pool of the fluid as he nearly convulsed.

Frank felt his own orgasm grow near. On edge, he clamped his mouth shut, not wanting to groan in pleasure when he came.

Only, what he saw changed everything. Instead of wiping the cooling come over his body, like they did in the videos, Bobby began to whimper and finally cry. The sobs grew deeper as the young man slipped off the toilet and fell onto the floor, tears dripping down his face, semen sliding off his body to the tiles.

Frank suddenly felt terrible for peeking, especially after the kindness and hospitality Bobby had shown. He crawled away from the door until he was a safe distance and struggled to get to his feet without making a sound. He went back to the guest bedroom. For all his life he had been envious of the beautiful people. The notion that, even with the right face and body, you could still be unhappy was new to him. Before he drifted off to sleep, he knew that come tomorrow, he'd have to do something to repay Bobby's generosity.

"You made coffee?" Bobby's voice called out from kitchen. A moment later, "It's good" followed.

"My sister works at a diner. I think it's the only thing she ever taught me."

In the morning, Frank had found a laptop computer in the corner of the living room. Without thinking, he had set it up on the coffee table and begun surfing the net. Though Tyler West was buried, the notion that his death was so unfair, so wrong, had not left Frank. So he had started to explore.

Bobby walked into the room wearing the same briefs from last night and a terry cloth bathrobe. Frank looked up and blushed when he caught himself staring at the obvious basket and returned his eyes to the safety of the monitor.

"So you are a computer wiz."

Bobby's presence was palpable over his shoulder. The young man had a smell about him, the remnant of cologne, maybe a hint of lavender from the bed sheets. It was a bit intoxicating and proving a distraction.

"I guess," Frank muttered. He purposefully grazed the keyboard with his fingers, not exerting enough pressure to actually press a key but to give the illusion he was typing fast. Frank did not understand why computers reacted to him, but he did not want to freak Bobby out by seeing him explore without using his hands at all.

What Frank had discovered since 9 a.m. was disturbing. He wasn't sure if he should share the facts, let alone his theories, with Bobby, after seeing how upset the guy had been last night. Yet, he knew that Tyler, if only his own personal eidolon of the porn star, deserved to rest in peace.

"Did you know that Tyler… I mean Sammy... well he hung out with other guys?"

He heard a sigh from behind him. He glanced over his shoulder and saw that Bobby had moved to the couch.

"Sammy liked to think we had an open relationship."

Frank shook his head. "No, not just sleeping around. I mean... well, I think he met other men, older men for money."

For a moment, Frank was sure that Bobby was going to start yelling at him and throw him out. The young man's eyes narrowed and his mouth opened ready to shout. Then the handsome face fell apart and it seemed ready for more tears. "I listened to every lie he said and wanted so much to believe him that I think I did. Sammy always liked attention. That's why he started working in porn. He loved being watched, being lusted after. Only, once the money came in, he also wanted coke real bad. The problem with fantasies, Frank, is that sometimes you spend so much time with them you never notice they've become nightmares."

Frank felt embarrassed, not for himself like he usually did, but for Bobby. He had no experience comforting others. He turned back to the laptop, to a world he was confidant in.

"I've been snooping around. Sammy's death seemed too weird. He was this awesome driver—"

Bobby gave a bitter chuckle. "You really are a fan. You know everything."

"Do I creep you out?"

Bobby was quiet a moment. "A little. But at least you're honest unlike most people that knew Sammy. So what did you find?"

"Sammy was escorting regularly. I've read his emails back and forth to guys he calls 'clients.'"

"I don't think I want to hear this, after all."

"No, it's important. The last guy Sammy went to see—a guy named Walsh—well he seems ready for the X-Files." Frank tapped the screen with a finger. An image of Walsh from his driver's license appeared.

"What do you mean?" Bobby asked.

"When I dug deeper, I found the guy is into some strange shit. Maybe he's read too much Stephen King, but he's ordered books on voodoo and bought black candles and witchcraft stuff online."

"Wait, this sounds like you're saying—"

"I don't know what to really think, but the guy's strange, really strange. I even found an arrest for cruelty to animals. The guy was torturing a goat."

"So you think he was somehow involved in Sammy's death?"

Frank looked over his shoulder. "Maybe. Guys don't spontaneously combust in sports cars. All I'm saying is that I think you and me should just check him out. In person."

Bobby sat there, apparently thinking about what had been told him. Absently the young man scratched his inner thigh, an act that made him seem even sexier to Frank. "Okay, you find him, I'll go along."

Bobby looked across the street at the unassuming house and wondered what had happened inside, only a few days ago. Frank, who sat cramped in the compact car's passenger seat, seemed sure that the man inside, this Walsh guy, did something. He wanted to believe him—if only to bring some sense of closure to Sammy's odd death—but the notion that black magic had caused the crash and fire seemed ridiculous. But he had listened to Frank, had driven out to the address, and now found himself ready to go in and confront Walsh and find out the truth. Even if that turned out to be nothing more than some weird old john had paid to fuck his boyfriend who got careless on the drive home, he asked himself. He wasn't sure of an answer.

"Are you having second thoughts?" Frank shifted about on the seat, no doubt trying to find some way to comfortably sit his large frame.

"I don't know if I can act like a hustler."

Bobby had watched as Frank had found Walsh online looking for a hookup. Under a newly created screen name, Frank had started a conversation with the guy and in less than ten minutes, pictures had been exchanged, services discussed and a 'date' arranged that afternoon. Bobby was amazed at the ease which Frank had handled the computer, as if the clumsiness of the man's size was merely an illusion for a deft interior.

"All you have to do is make sure the door is unlocked for me. Distract him while I look around."

"Distract him?" Bobby looked at Frank dubiously. "I'm not going to fuck him."

"You don't have to. Just flirt with him for a while, lead him on. You have your cell phone with you. I'll signal you from inside when I find something. No matter what, in twenty minutes tops, we'll both be out of there."

Bobby shook his head. It was crazy, he knew, but Frank seemed so sure of himself that the idea was contagious.

He took a deep breath and then turned down the mirror and checked himself out. His eyes still looked a little bloodshot from crying—thankfully he had started last night while trying to relive one last moment with Sammy. But he looked okay enough that Walsh would probably want him.

"Frank, I need this to work," he said getting out of the car.

"We both do," came the reply.

Frank watched Bobby walk up to the front door from the vantage of the damned clown car he sat in, one he was sure the Japanese had built as revenge for World War II. He felt a protective urge to rush out and stop the young man from ringing the bell, to call off the entire crazy scheme. Not that he doubted Walsh was involved, but he worried that he'd never find some way to prove it.

What had he been thinking? There'd be a pile of trophies from the guy's kills?

An ugly man opened the door and let Bobby in. Frank swallowed his doubts and squeezed himself out and loose of the car. He felt almost naked while dashing across the street to the house. His hand wrapped around the doorknob and he feared it to be locked tight, but it turned gently in his grip.

He slowly opened the door, mindful not to cause a sound. He heard conversation not far away and stopped. The sound began to fade as Walsh took Bobby deeper into his house. Frank stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him.

He headed away from the voices and found himself in a den. Graphic porn magazines, alongside a plastic candy dish, littered the table. In the corner of the room, almost hidden from view, was a small mahogany computer desk. The blank flat screen was an open invitation to Frank.

He merely touched the plastic shell surrounding the dark glass and it sprung to life. He winced at the soft melody coming through the tiny speakers as the computer booted awake. Closing his eyes, Frank could still see, not his surroundings but rather a complex, three-dimensional view of an electronic world of information, details, all registering in some cathode ghost in his brain.

Walsh kept a database of recipes. He paid his bills online. There was a family tree. His address book included fifteen local Chinese restaurants. Nothing helpful, nothing incriminating. Frank's resolve began to falter. He worried that he had been wrong, blinded for his need to prove that something had been amiss, when dumb luck had been the only culprit in Sammy Rudder's demise.

He found a journal. His mind scanned the document entries, not so much reading each and every word, but registering the content as if bringing up old memories. Nothing concise, the writing was barely lucid at times, with cryptic references to "understanding secrets" and the "truth behind events in Haiti and New Orleans." He needed more.

He thought he heard someone shout. Was Bobby in trouble? He began a frantic hunt through every file, every sector, his mind scanning emails, links, anything that Walsh's computer had visited, contacted, or touched in weeks, months. The effort made him dizzy, weak, and he felt his knees threaten to collapse.

And that's when he discovered the firewall surrounding the server. He reacted like an enraged bull, heedless of what was behind the obstacle, plunging headfirst. He felt a jolt of pain and his face was suddenly warm and wet. "I'm bleeding," he realized. He tasted the coppery tang of the blood streaming out of his nose. But he pushed through the wall and found the true horrors of Walsh's interests.

The website didn't have any recognizable address, just a madcap jumble of alphanumerics-a tactic used by child pornography sites. Diagrams and crude pictures were interlaced with text. But as opposed to the journal, the meaning behind the words was very evident. Voodoo. Something called 'sympathetic magic,' which Frank's mind cross-indexed with online dictionaries and sources to learn was the basis behind voodoo dolls: taking a personal memento or a scrap of hair or fingernail and working magic through the doll to affect the owner.

But this was no theory according to the site. Frank could see that each and every entry was made by Walsh, recounting his experiments, his failures, but most disturbingly his successes. The latest update, only a few days ago, details the hiring of Tyler West. The entry was written with an obvious angry and haughty tone, with special description paid to Walsh's professed cleverness at getting revenge on the porn star's reluctance to submit by burning his underwear in the fireplace and working a spell that set poor Sammy himself ablaze.

The shouts were definite now and louder. Walsh had killed before and Bobby could well be next. All it would take was Walsh lashing out and ripping a few strands of blond hair from Bobby's head or maybe a scrap of shirt.

Frank couldn't let that happen. Bad enough that Sammy had died, but Bobby was truly the more innocent party; Bobby had come along out of a sense of devotion to someone who cheated on him again and again. Sammy had never repaid that love, but Frank would not abandon the first guy to ever be really kind to him.

He began to delete. Not just the entries and the sick pictures on the site. Everything, every trace of Walsh he could find. The journal. Old emails. His criminal record. He went past protected areas in government databanks, knowing that the pain caused by breaking through every ethereal barrier was real and inflicted upon himself. Any trace, any mention of Walsh was systematically hunted down and expunged. Until finally, the last remaining reference, a social security number, was erased digit by digit. The house went quiet, and Frank collapsed onto the floor.

He woke with a damp coolness on his brow. He looked up and saw a smiling Bobby kneeling over him.

"Easy, an ambulance is on the way."

"What happened," he croaked. He tasted blood in his mouth.

"Walsh got tired with me stalling and grabbed for me. So I punched him. Bastard leapt at me and was crazy. I think he tried to rip out my hair." Bobby lightly touched the back of his head. "Then he was gone. Just disappeared."

Frank smiled. Sympathetic magic. Welcome to the 21st century, Mr. Walsh, and goodbye.

"I take it you did that somehow?"

Frank was too weak to nod. In the distance he heard the sound of sirens.

"Don't worry, I'll stay with you." One of Bobby's hands rubbed his cheek.

Frank had never been touched like that before and could feel the warmth from the touch spread through his entire body. Whatever pain he felt fled to be replaced by a new found sense of accomplishment and satisfaction.

 

©2003 Steve Berman - Contributor's Bio