Object of Desire. William J. Mann

was getting hot up there under the strobe lights. Sweat rolled down my forehead, and even the half-pint of mousse I’d used to spike up my hair wasn’t going to last all night. “Benny,” I said, leaning down again as he passed, “get me some water, will you?”

      “I’m busy.”

      “Fuck you, Benny.”

      I glanced around for Randall. He was across the room, chatting up some guy in an oxford shirt and loosened tie. Leave it to Randall to spot the executive types. I motioned to him; he spotted me; I simulated drinking a bottle of water. Actually, it probably looked more as if I was asking to suck his cock, but those days, thank God, were over. Randall turned to Mr. Oxford Shirt and seemed to tell him that he’d be right back, and then he headed over to the bar. What would I do without Randall?

      “What would you do without me?” he asked, handing me up the bottle of Evian.

      I winked, unscrewed the top, and guzzled down about half the bottle. The rest I poured over my torso, sending a cheer up from the crowd.

      “Show-off,” Randall said, smirking. He returned to his executive.

      Once, I had been in love with Randall. It was right after I’d first arrived in L.A., a scared kid with big dreams. Randall was a native and not nearly as scared as I was, but he had dreams that matched my own. It was a very long time ago. Six months, in fact.

      I’d responded to an ad he’d posted on the bulletin board at Pavilions, looking for a roommate. I called him, got his address, and walked the two miles to his place. It was one half of a pink stucco house just below Santa Monica Boulevard, near Fairfax, with a bunch of straggly birds-of-paradise growing out front. When Randall opened the door, he was wearing only a white terry-cloth towel around his waist, with shaving cream carefully applied to his cheeks and chin. As he showed me around the place, his towel kept slipping, and I couldn’t take my eyes off his broad, furry chest. By the time we got to the kitchen, the towel was gone and we were kissing over the sink. I found the taste of shaving cream to be surprisingly sweet and arousing.

      We fucked on his mattress—Randall believed a bed frame was a waste of money for a struggling student—and after I’d shot three head-splitting loads, I paid him two months’ rent. Suddenly not only did I have a place in L.A., but I had a boyfriend as well. Quite the accomplishment—since I’d only stepped off the bus at Union Station that morning. It was far, far easier than I had imagined, far simpler than Dad had warned.

      For a couple of weeks, I was head over heels in love with Randall. But then, one night, walking home, I spotted a tall blond in leather pants approaching me. After the classic double take as we passed each other, we circled back around, grins on our faces. Soon we were humping on his mattress—another West Hollywood boy without an actual bed—and I decided then and there that this was my true love. After all, Lance shared my passion for Doctor Who and Monty Python, while Randall’s tastes were more highfalutin, what with all his classical music cassette tapes. So I broke up with Randall and started dating Lance. I expected Randall would ask me to move out, but he didn’t. “I’ve gotten used to you,” he explained. So I turned the spare room into my bedroom, buying a used waterbed because I’d thought they were sexy ever since Starsky had one on Starsky & Hutch. Randall said he always knew when I was having sex with Lance, because it sounded like the coast of Malibu in the next room.

      “Ow!”

      Some guy had just pinched the shaft of my cock as he stuffed a couple of bills into my thong.

      “No touching allowed,” I scolded him.

      The guy, bald and red, giggled like a girl.

      Up there on the box, you could really smell the crowd. The cigarettes, the beer belches, the body odor, the Calvin Klein Obsession cologne. All the smells braided together, wafting up from below, held in place by the thick blue smoke that encircled me like a wreath. At the moment, I couldn’t breathe, so I waved my hands in front of me as if swimming through the air, clearing a passage for oxygen to flow. Inhaling deeply, eyes closed, I took a long, deep gulp. When I opened my eyes, I looked around.

      Mr. Tight Tee was gone.

      “Damn,” I mumbled.

      But then I spotted him against another far wall, looking bored. He still held his Rolling Rock at his side. He didn’t seem to be watching me. Of course, really hot guys never watched the strippers. Instead, we watched them.

      My eyes swung back over to Randall, who was once again busy with his executive. After I’d broken up with him, Randall had announced he wanted no more boys, only men. “I want a smart, successful guy who is going places,” he’d told me. When I’d replied that I intended to “go places,” that I’d moved to L.A. to become a famous actor, Randall had just given me a withering look. Okay, so it had been six months, and nothing had come of any of my auditions, but after each one, I’d been told that I had a good face and a good voice. I was certain stardom awaited. Randall had just smiled and said nothing.

      I don’t know why Randall’s patronizing attitude annoyed me so much. I certainly didn’t want to go back with him. Not at all. I was busy with my own string of romantic adventures. After I’d broken up with Lance, I’d fallen in love with Rico, who’d introduced me to Bobby, with whom I’d fallen madly in love after he’d got me this go-go boy job. That was how I’d met Benny, for whom I’d left Bobby and whom, for a couple of weeks, I’d really, really liked. But suddenly up there on my box, I was overwhelmed with attention—a heady experience for a kid who’d never gotten a second look during all his years in Connecticut, who had spent most of his time watching Doctor Who reruns and listening to Blondie, except, of course, when he’d had to tag along after his mother through motorcycle bars and strip clubs—like this one, only straight—looking for his sister.

      So, compared to that, being up on my box was really fun. Me, on a pedestal! I decided to stay single for a while, enjoying the lavish attention a single go-go boy attracted. But, like Randall, I was also biding my time, waiting for Mr. Right.

      “Yeah,” Randall had scoffed recently, “more like Mr. Right Away.”

      “Not true.”

      “Danny, all you’re about is one thrill after the other. If you don’t watch out, you’ll end up dead. You’ll get AIDS, or you’ll overdose or wind up hacked up by some stranger in some back alley—”

      He’d stopped.

      He’d crossed a line.

      He’d known he might be describing my sister’s fate. He’d apologized. We’d dropped the subject.

      Across the crowd, I once again laid my eyes on Mr. Tight Tee. And he was looking at me. When our eyes met, he turned away, almost as if embarrassed.

      “You have no idea how beautiful you are,” Edgar had said to me a few weeks ago, his voice thick with lust, both of us wiping our noses after two lines of coke. “Just give me one night with you, Danny. Just one night.”

      Edgar was an old guy. Forty, I think. Maybe forty-one. He was balding, with a puckered face and nostrils that were permanently red and distended from too much blow. Rumor had it that he had AIDS, too. I wouldn’t let him near me.

      “You little bitch,” he’d growled after I’d recoiled from his touch, but he didn’t hold a grudge. “You know, you could make a lot of money if you’d let me sell that sweet ass of yours. Lots of guys ask about you. We’ll split the cash.”

      “Thanks, anyway,” I’d told him. “I make enough in tips.”

      “Soon it won’t be enough,” Edgar had replied.

      I didn’t know what he meant, but it didn’t matter. Soon I’d be out of that place, done with stripping, playing a recurring part on Mr. Belvedere or Perfect Strangers. I was up for parts on both. I was certain one of them would come through.

      I glanced back over at Mr. Tight Tee. He was chugging his Rolling Rock now, and even as I thrusted my crotch in some guy’s face to the beat