“Valium,” I said. Which explained why I was feeling so calm under perilous circumstances.
“And Ecstasy,” I added, remembering the mild euphoria I’d experienced earlier. Not to mention the yearning to touch and be touched. I’d never used the drug, but I knew it had a reputation of earning its name on a number of levels.
Kristen clapped his hands together in polite golf applause. “Very good. Bunches and bunches of those two. But don’t forget ‘Little Kevin’ here.”
The other drug found in Brent’s system. “Viagra.”
“Impressive. You got three out of four. But the Viagra’s just to prime the pump, as it were. More effective is the phentolamine.”
“The feenty who now?”
“Phentolamine,” Kristen corrected me. “It’s a vasodilator. You should be glad I gave it to you while you were still unconscious. It’s an injection that goes right”-he put his index finger at the base of my cock-“here. Opens up the flow of blood so you can’t help but get hard.”
It sounded gross, but I was kind of glad. At least I knew I wasn’t to blame for Little Kevin’s embarrassing eagerness.
“The Ecstasy’s home-grown, too. A special blend that not only increases libido but also confuses the body’s nerve response. Everything is experienced as enjoyable. Watch.”
He reached out and squeezed one of my nipples. Gently at first, but with a quickly increasing intensity that seemed likely to draw blood. Now, I normally like a little chest play, but he could have cracked a walnut with that grip.
Damn if it didn’t feel good, though. My conscious mind registered pain, but somehow, the sensation was indistinguishable from pleasure. Little Kevin agreed, even tearing up a little, and not in sadness.
The whole thing was surreal. The disorienting lights, the physical restraints, the sense of losing all control. I felt apart from myself, detached from my own fate. I had no drive to fight back or resist. So much easier to submit…
Last year, when I was looking into the death of my friend Allen Harrington, I’d read a lot about how cults operate. In the first meetings they got you to attend, they’d keep you for longer than they’d promised, using peer and psychological pressure as the restraints. They’d deprive you of food and deny you use of the bathroom. They’d manipulate light and temperature to deny you a sense of physical comfort or any confidence that you’d know what was coming next. Sometimes, they’d even use mild hallucinogens to make you more malleable to their will.
Sound familiar?
These techniques were common because they were so successful. They were the same strategies used by cult leaders, deprogrammers, and Dick Cheney to wear a person down. They combined physical realities with psychological techniques to break the strongest will. Discomfort and relief, pressure and release, shunning and acceptance, each doled out in measured doses to elicit the desired responses.
There was some good news. It didn’t work on everyone. One of the best ways to fight off the mind control was to be familiar with the techniques. Like any magic trick, knowing how it was done made it harder to be taken in. I knew what Kristen was trying to do, and that helped.
After tasing and doping me, Kristen expected me to be unconscious longer. I assumed I wasn’t the first boy he’d done this to, so I had to assume my recovery was, indeed, faster than most. Why?
Maybe it was my ADHD. I was used to the effects of medication. In fact, I tended to need a pretty high dose, and one that was given more frequently than for most people. My doctor called me a “fast metabolizer.” In fact, due to the stress of the day, I’d taken an extra pill before heading over here. My medication was a stimulant-maybe it helped me shake off some of the drugs Kristen administered.
Lastly, Kristen was trying to manipulate me primarily through sex. Well, using my face and body to get guys to do what I wanted them to used to be how I made my living. I was good at it, too. Sure, Kristen had drugs and a physical advantage on me, but I used to be able to control guys without those crutches. He was playing on my turf, now. I had to find a way to use that to my benefit.
At the same time, I knew I was thinking best-case scenario. Cult leaders may use subtle mood enhancers, but Kristen had me more doped up than a crack whore. They used peer pressure to keep novitiates in their seats; I was literally all tied up.
It wasn’t exactly a fair fight.
But it wasn’t one I could walk away from or lose. I had a feeling my life depended on it.
42
“Do it again,” I begged. “Please. ” I let my mouth fall slack, licking my lips. I writhed like a cat, arching my back, tightening my abdominal muscles for maximum display. “Touch me.”
“In time.” Kristen chuckled, fiddling with his cameras. “We have to wait for your co-star to wake up. Then, I promise, we’ll get started right away. There won’t be a part of you that goes ignored.”
I’d said it to make Kristen think I was more out of it than I felt. As long as he thought I was in a sex-crazed delirium, unable to think straight, I had a bit of an advantage.
Sad thing was, it was kind of true. There was a part of me on fire. An artificially fueled frenzy that had me aching to be touched. My every nerve ending screamed for release.
But I had to find a way past that.
When I worked as a hustler, not every one of my clients was someone I’d have gone home with if I weren’t getting good money for it.
Okay, that’s an understatement. Most of them weren’t particularly appealing at all.
Which isn’t to say I didn’t have my share of clients who were sevens and above. Good-looking, smooth-talking men too busy or bored or closeted to meet someone in a more traditional manner. Even though those guys could have gotten laid for free, it was easier for them to pay for it and get exactly what they wanted, where and when they wanted it.
They were the minority, however.
There was a trick, though, to appearing-not to mention getting-turned on with someone to whom you’re not attracted. You just had to find something about him that was appealing. Older men tended to have larger and more sensitive nipples-that was hot. Some guys had ugly mugs but sexy voices, or fat bellies but impressive appendages. Or, maybe they had a sense of humor that made sex fun, or the kind of desperate need that elicited a sympathetic response. Whatever it was, everyone had something. It made my job a lot more enjoyable if I could identify and focus on that particular trait.
Now, I had to do it in reverse. Ignore the fact that Kristen was devilishly good-looking. Disregard his deep green eyes and smooth, touch-me-now skin. Try not to think about how soft his trendy buzz cut would feel against my stomach, my thighs. Force myself not to notice his tightly muscled body that moved with a dancer’s strength and grace.
Instead, I ran through my head everything about him that was gross and off-putting. When he got close to me, I was struck by his breath, which was sour and yeasty. It matched the smell of his sweat. Not an earthy clean-but-just-worked-out sweat, but an acrid, anxious sweat. The vinegary stench that accompanies nervousness and bad intentions. He had pit stains, too. Ugh.
While he dressed well, it was all too young for him, the clothing of a man ten years his junior. Trendy in a way that just made him look older. I remembered being in his bathroom and seeing a ridiculously large assortment of anti-aging products. It all spoke to a vanity and lack of self-acceptance that went along with the other narcissistic traits he displayed. Not hot.
On closer inspection, I noticed his pretty eyes were a little crossed, making him look kind of dumb. He had crooked teeth with an overbite. His short haircut was contrived to hide early balding. While his hair fled his head, it grew overlong from his nostrils and ears. I was surprised his obsessive self-care regime hadn’t caught that. Someone needed to introduce this man to some tweezers, stat.
