Beneath the Earth Read Free Page B

don’t want to wait. They’re in the mood, they have the urge, they hate themselves for it. They just want to do it so they can get on with their night. That’s when they call me. Or boys like me.
    Sometimes they block their number and when I answer, before they can say a word, I tell them to call back with an unblocked number. And then I hang up. Sometimes they call back. Sometimes they don’t.
    They might ask if I know someone I can bring with me. No, I tell them. There’s no one you can call, they say. No. There’s plenty of other lads online, they say, I thought you might all know each other. No. There’s a long pause. So you don’t know anyone, they say. No. All right, they say, come on your own. And I go on my own.
    Only once did I go with someone else. Or rather there was someone else there when I arrived. This was in the early days. I couldn’t have been doing it more than a few weeks. The boy was younger than me, maybe sixteen years old. Wild-eyed, probably on drugs. I came in and he was sitting on the sofa with his pants around his ankles. He barely looked up at me. His eyes were locked on a cat that was stretched out before an open fireplace, purring with contentment. Sit beside him, the man said. I sat beside him. Put your mouth on him, the man said. I put my mouth on him. Hit him, the man said, and I was going to say no but he must have been speaking to the boy because he roused himself, slapped me hard across the face and I fell off the sofa in surprise. I stood up and walked over to the man. Give me my money, I told him. But you haven’t done anything yet, he said. I have so many ideas for the two of you. You’re both so beautiful. Give me my money, I repeated, staring directly at him. He gave me my money. I left. I saw the boy another time near the canals in Baggot Street.
    Sometimes they like to abuse me, verbally. They tell me how dirty I am. They say that I’m a nasty little scumbag. They tell me that I love it, the things that I do, and usually, when they’re dribbling their bitterness, I’m thinking about an exam I have to take or whether I have enough milk in the fridge for breakfast. You’re a disgusting fucking whore, they tell me. A filthy little cocksucker who takes it up the ass. You like the taste of it, don’t you. I do, I tell them. I don’t care. I’ll say whatever they want me to say. It means nothing to me.
    Once, I told someone. A boy from my class at the university who was gay and who’d made it clear that he was attracted to me. We were spending too much time together but it’s not often that I make a friend. He asked me whether I had a girlfriend and I told him I wasn’t interested in girls. I could see the desire in his eyes and didn’t want to lose him. I didn’t want to hurt him either. I considered sleeping with him, just to make him happy, but I don’t do that for free. I told him how I made my living and he must have thought I was joking because he started laughing. I shrugged, looked away, and he sat back with a frown on his face. Are you serious, he asked me. I am, I told him. I’m not going to pay you, he said, offended. I never asked you to, I said. You’ve been leading me on, he said. I haven’t, I told him. I like you. But he stopped liking me after that, which was probably easier for both of us.
    Another time, I got a call from a man who grew aggressive when I said that I wouldn’t be able to be there for an hour, maybe a little longer. Can you not come sooner, he asked, as if I should be at his beck and call. His voice was familiar to me. I thought maybe he’d called me before. I can’t, I told him. I can be there in an hour, maybe a little longer. Well try, will you, he said. I waited an hour, maybe a little longer, and then I showed up. I rang the buzzer for his apartment on the outside wall. He lived in a good part of the city, a part I often find myself