Date: Sat, 03 Jul 2004 22:53:12 -0400
From: Owen Emm <owenmtheprofessional@hotmail.com>
Subject: The Professional - Chapter 1 (New Story)

The Professional

By

OwenM


Author's Notes

Some years ago, I was on one of my many trips to Las Vegas with my family.
I was eating lunch in a restaurant that shall remain nameless when my eyes
were drawn to a couple sitting at a table a few away from mine.  The man,
dressed in a suit, was leaning in and talking softly to his companion
sitting in the chair next to him, a well-dressed blonde haired boy of about
eleven.  Father and son, no doubt, I thought immediately, but then I was
struck with an idea.  What if I had caught a glimpse of something that
wasn't what it seemed?  After all, this was Vegas, and anything is possible
in Vegas.  I couldn't get my eyes off the two of them for the entire meal,
and as hard as I strained to listen in on their conversation they were just
too far away.  Before I could learn any more about them, they left the
restaurant, never to be seen again.  The idea consumed me for the entire
rest of my trip, which annoyed my family to no end since I paid little
attention to them while I concocted this tale in my head.  Since then, it's
sat on a shelf, but now it feels like the right time to take it down and
dust it off.

I'd like to thank a few people, if you'd permit me the indulgence.  First,
I'd like to thank istari for his kind words of encouragement.  I only wish I
knew why you won't talk to me anymore, my friend.  Second, I offer my
heartfelt thanks to my best friend Dutch, who is going to be angry with me
that I've spent time working on this little diversion instead of my more
serious writing.  And finally, thanks to Chris, my one true love.  I hope
you've found happiness, wherever you are.

As a last note, I am very eager to hear from all who took the time to read
this little tale.  Praise is genuinely welcomed, honest  and intelligent
criticism is prized, and the silliest flames will be posted publicly for the
amusement of everyone.  owenmtheprofessional@hotmail.com.


Chapter 1

	Jon's eyes opened groggily, uncertain at first as to what had roused him
from his drunken stupor.  It took a few moments for the room to come into
focus, his eyes bleary and tired.   When they finally began working properly
again, it didn't take him long to ascertain what had summoned him back to
consciousness.

	"Fuck," Jon swore under his breath.

	The bottle had rolled a few feet away on the floor, slowly leaking its
precious contents onto the well-worn and stained olive shag carpeting.  Jon
reached out to grab it, desperate to save the last few drops, but by the
time he realized his mistake it was too late.  The room spun crazily as he
lurched off the couch.  He fell the short distance to the floor, but not
before his head smashed into the coffee table on the way down.  The flimsy
particle board didn't survive the encounter, the legs all giving out at once
and the tabletop splintering into several pieces.  Jon's forehead exploded
in searing agony.

	"Fuck!" he swore out loud, his eyes blurry again.  He blindly flailed
around on the floor until his hand settled on his quarry, picking it up fast
and holding it triumphantly.  His victory was short-lived, as the bottle was
now completely empty since he was holding it upside-down.  Frustrated, he
threw the bottle weakly across the room.  It broke against the far wall.

	"Aww, fuck," he whined pathetically, trying to sit up straight.  His
stomach decided that wasn't an appropriate position, telling him so with a
spasm and a sudden wave of severe nausea.  He laid back down, clutching
himself and moaning softly, lying as still as he could while his insides
churned away madly.  A cockroach skittered by, stopping less than a foot
from his face. It watched him closely, its antennae fluttering.

	"Get lost," Jon croaked, coughing.  The cockroach ignored him, sniffing at
the wet stain on the carpet before continuing on its way, apparently not
impressed.  "What, not good enough for you?"  He looked for something to
throw at it, but besides the table there was nothing handy, and Jon felt
that the table had already been through enough today.  He finally managed to
sit up, moaning as his head began to swim again, the combination of the fire
on his temple from hitting his head and the dull throb of a splitting
headache conspiring to make him thoroughly miserable.

	Slowly and carefully he rose to his feet, wobbly and uncertain.  The room
was still blurry and his head pounded all the more fiercely now that he was
upright, but he had some motivation to keep himself moving towards the
bathroom.  It was only by luck that he avoided the large pile of assorted
trash in the middle of the room that would have sent him crashing back to
the floor.  He reached out to push the bathroom door open before he
remembered that there hadn't been a bathroom door since that fit of rage
weeks ago.  Still unable to see, he shuffled into the small room and aimed
as best as he could, not needing to bother with clothing because below the
waist he wasn't wearing any.  By the sound, he had aimed well enough to get
most of it in the bowl.  When he was finished, he reached for the chain to
turn on the light, but the room remained dark.  He yanked it a dozen times
before he remembered that the  bulb had burned out three days ago.

	"Fuck," he said again.  The cockroach, knowing it had little to fear from
him, ran across one of his feet.  He tried to stamp on it, but it easily
avoided him, lazily crawling into a hole in the wall.  Jon was certain as it
left that it had given him the finger.

	When his eyes finally came back into focus, he stared into the cracked
mirror at the man staring back at him.  It was someone he didn't know.  The
man's dirty face was covered in a scraggly, unkempt beard, his hair long and
greasy, his eyes bloodshot and weary looking, a long ugly gash running
across his forehead.  He ran a little water in the sink, wetting a filthy
towel and dabbing it against the wound, wincing in pain.  Then the smell hit
him, a rank, putrid odor of stale piss, mildew, and rotting vomit.
Involuntarily, his stomach churning once again, he sank to his knees and
began his daily ritual of worshipping her holiness, the cracked porcelain
goddess.

	He stumbled from the bathroom when he was finished, wiping his mouth on the
sleeve of his stained shirt, crossing the short distance across the dingy
one room apartment to the kitchen.  His eyes wild, he caromed around what
few cabinets and drawers there were in the tiny space, hoping against hope
that he might have been mistaken, that there might be something left.  He
already knew that there wasn't, he'd been through this twice already, but
that knowledge didn't stop him.  That bottle, that precious bottle that had
tumbled from the late coffee table had contained the last few drops of booze
that he owned in the world.  It didn't matter to him that although he had
eyed hungrily the bottles of rare aged liquor that he had so highly prized
at one time in his life, the stuff he bought had been the cheapest the store
sold.  It didn't even matter that the stuff was exactly like how he'd always
imagined that battery acid would taste.  He had barely managed to scrape up
enough loose change from his pockets and the cracks in the couch for that
bottle's six dollar price tag, and there was no more, not a single red cent
left in his wallet.

       He collapsed into a worn kitchen chair, his head sinking into his
hands.  If he could have, he would have started to cry, but there were no
more tears.  They had already been shed.  In their place was nothing, just a
deep, dark, empty abyss of despair.  He had to find a few dollars, replace
that bottle as soon as he could.  He had to keep drinking no matter what the
cost, no matter if he had to forego even the most basic necessities.  When
he was drunk, he didn't realize that he was living in squalor, didn't
remember that he was utterly alone.  When he was drunk, he was blissfully
free of the thoughts that plagued him in those moments of sobriety, the ones
that terrified him, rising up from a deep place within him that knew that
things would never get better, would never go back to the way they had been.

       The familiar three note chime from the computer caused him to look
up, the sound that someone out there actually wanted to communicate with
him.  He didn't really want to talk to anyone, but the habit was so
ingrained within him that he found it impossible to ignore.  He couldn't
ignore the phone either when it rang, but at least that doesn't happen
anymore, he thought while trudging across the room to the computer.  The
phone had been disconnected weeks ago.  All that remained was his Internet
connection, his only lifeline to the outside world.  They had been
threatening to shut that off for weeks as well, but they didn't seem to have
the courage to actually do it.  He sat down at the computer, turning the
screen on, squinting to try and make the small type come into focus.

       Sivasiva: JM, are you there?

       Sivasiva: Jesus, JM, would you answer me already?

       JM911: I'm here.

       Sivasiva:  I was about to call the paramedics.

       JM911:  Good idea. I nearly killed myself on the coffee table.

       Sivasiva:  Are you alright?

       JM911:  I'm in better shape than the table.  Barely.

       Sivasiva:  I've been worried about you.

       JM911:  Why would you be worried about me?  No one should care about
me.

       Sivasiva:  That kind of self-pity isn't doing you any good.  Have you
even left your apartment since we last talked?

       JM911:  I had to get something to drink.

       Sivasiva:  JM, I'm serious, you need to get some help.

       JM911:  Why?  So that someone can tell me that I deserve everything
I've got?

       Sivasiva:  JM, you don't deserve this.  Have you reconsidered my
other suggestion?

       JM911:  Please don't bring that up again.

       Sivasiva:  It would be good for you.

       JM911:  It would only make me worse.

       Sivasiva:  You're wrong about that, my friend

       JM911:  Look, you know that I seriously doubt it's for real anyway,
so why do you keep bothering?  Just leave me alone.

       Sivasiva:  You can believe me when I say it's very real.  I know from
personal experience.

       JM911:  You didn't tell me that before.

       Sivasiva:  I know, but if it convinces you to give it a try, I'll
admit to it.

       Jon looked up from the computer screen, his eyes fixed blankly on a
hole in the bare wall in front of him.  For months, ever since he had lost
everything, Siva had making his suggestion.  When he had originally refused,
it had been out of fear, fear that something that sounded just too good to
be true had to be just that.  Fear of what might happen if it wasn't for
real.  But now, it was different.  Fear had to be founded on something to be
lost, and Jon had nothing left to lose.  Don't you understand, Siva?  He
balled up his fists and slammed them into the table.  The only thing that's
holding me together at all is the belief that it can't be for real.  Because
if I find out that it is, I'll have to make a decision that I don't want to
make.  Long ago, I swore to myself that what I desire the most I will be
forever denied, and it's only that promise that has kept me from meeting an
even worse fate than this.  And if I make the decision to break that
promise, then what?  With my oath shattered, what would stop me from needing
to do it again, and again, and again, and again, no matter what the cost, no
matter how, no matter who gets hurt?

       The cockroach crawled onto the desk, staring at Jon.  "What should I
do?" he whispered at it.  The cockroach continued to stare indifferently at
him.  "It's not as though I really have anything of a life anymore," he
muttered.  "Or ever will again."  The words echoed over and over again in
his mind.  If nothing would ever get any better, if he had no choice but to
resign himself to this hellish existence until he managed to drink himself
to death, then why not do it?  Why should he not be granted this one last
selfish indulgence before losing himself in the bottle forever?  Jon looked
back at the computer screen, his fingers typing in the words mechanically,
somehow disconnected from his mind.

       JM911:  Ok.

       Sivasiva:  You've changed your mind?

       JM911:  Yeah.

       Sivasiva:  Done.  They will contact you through IM.  The password you
will need is Nightshade.

       JM911:  Nightshade.

       Sivasiva:  You've made the right decision, my friend.  Your thanks
will be profuse and extensive.

       JM911: I suppose.

                                    **************

       Immediately after his conversation with Siva, Jon had gone downstairs
and in one of the best performances of his life managed to persuade the
manager at the liquor store to let him run a tab.  He spent the better part
of the next two days drunk, until the cryptic IM showed up on his computer.
It was a single line, reading "11PM payphone 31st and State," nothing else.
By the time he found it, the user had already logged off.  He didn't
understand it for a few moments, but when his memory came back to him he
felt an icy chill run down his spine. Fear clawed at his mind, fear that it
was just an elaborate setup, fear also that it was real.

       As the hours passed and the clock ponderously counted down to the
appointed time, Jon found himself unable to sit still, his mind racing
uncontrollably.  I should just stay here, he thought.  Don't go, don't pick
up the phone, don't find out either way, just try and forget.  No, I should
go, I need to know, but if it's a trap things go from bad to worse in a
heartbeat.  When the time came Jon put on his threadbare coat and took it
off three times before finally leaving his apartment, descending down the
six flights of stairs, listening to shouts of arguments in foreign languages
seeping from every doorway that he passed.  He stepped out onto the
unforgiving pavement, shivering in the frigid January air.  It was so cold
he found it hard to breathe, the stiff wind blowing between the buildings
and whipping up the snow on the ground right into his face.  Jon hadn't
dealt with real winter since he was a young child and he was sure he would
never get used to it again.  Pulling his coat tighter around his body, he
set off to walk the twelve blocks to his destination, his stomach turning
cartwheels.  Paranoia gripped his mind as he stared at the few bundled-up
people he passed, certain they all knew where he was going, why he was out,
the crimes he was about to commit.

       31st and State was in the worst part of this mid-western gulag where
he had been sentenced to spend the rest of his life.  Jon didn't feel
worried about that, he had nothing for anyone to take and he figured he
looked like a junkie anyway.  He reached the corner, half expecting to find
nothing there, but sure enough there it was.  An actual honest-to-goodness
old-fashioned payphone booth, covered with graffiti but still intact.  He
pushed the door open with one finger, amazed to find the handset still
attached to the phone itself.  He was even more amazed when he held the
handset to his ear and heard a dial tone.  Stepping fully into the booth, he
let the door close behind him and placed the handset gingerly back on its
cradle.

       What the hell are you doing here?  Get out, get out now.

       But I need to know...

       They're watching you, photographing you, there's a microphone hidden
in some clever place where you can't see it.

       But if it is for real...

       You're being set up!

       Jon shouted out loud and nearly jumped through the roof when the
phone suddenly rang.  Paralysis gripped him as the phone sat there silent
for what felt like an eternity until if finally rang again.  It sounded
insistent, demanding to be answered.

       GET OUT NOW!

       His hand shaking, he reached for the phone and picked it up, placing
it to his ear.  Silence.

       "Hello?" he said softly, his voice cracking.  There was no answer.

       "Hello?" he said more insistently.  He was sure someone was at the
other end of the phone, it didn't sound dead.  He was on the verge of
hanging it up when it occurred to him.  "Nightshade?" he asked tentatively.

       "Evening, Mr. Mitchell.  Hope it isn't too cold out there tonight."

       "Jesus fucking Christ," Jon swore, his heart pounding.  "You
son-of-a-bitch, how did you know my real name?"

       The man at the other end of the line laughed.  "Don't be so jumpy,
Mr. Mitchell.  I've checked your references and I've done my homework."

       "You have?  It would be nice if I had the same opportunity.  Couldn't
you just call me Mr. Smith?"

       "What would be the point?  We're on a secure line.  My name is Mr.
Moon, and I understand you might have some interest in a service that I
provide."

       Jon's knees began to knock together.  "Umm, yeah, I guess so," he
stammered.  Sweat beaded on his forehead.  Mr. Moon was silent.  "Yeah, I
am," he said a little more forcefully, but his words still sounded hollow in
his ears.

       "What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Mitchell?"

       Jon looked outside the phone booth wildly, trying to find the
undercover cops that would descend the moment he said the wrong thing.
There was no one, it was too cold, anyone caught on the street that night
would have been a frozen corpse in less than an hour.  "What do you mean?"
he said warily, not wanting to be the first one to say anything.

       Mr. Moon laughed on the other end.  "Relax, Mr. Mitchell, no one is
coming to arrest you."  Jon swore silently.  How the fuck did he know that's
what I was thinking?  "Don't be so nervous."

       "No, no, I'm not...nervous," Jon stammered nervously.  "I'm just...I've
never...done anything like this before and...actually...I still don't think this
is for real."  The last part he just blurted out.  He closed his eyes and
swore at himself, trying to find a little shred of his old self, the part of
him that handled things like this for breakfast.

       "All right then, just calm down.  How about we try this, I'll ask you
some questions, and all you have to do is provide the answers.  Easy enough,
right?"

       "Easy enough," Jon repeated.

       "All right then," Mr. Moon said soothingly.  "Girl or boy?"

       Jon closed his eyes, his entire body beginning to shake, his throat
closing up, hopelessly trapping any words before they could be uttered.  For
all those years, he had poured out his soul to almost anyone who would
listen, sharing every sordid detail of his most intimate dreams, desires,
and perversions.  He'd had the courage to achieve a level of intimacy with
people that he could never have imagined, people whose faces he had never
seen and voices he had never heard.  It was strange, he had once thought.
He could share the deepest and darkest parts of himself with people he had
never known, while all the people that were supposedly the closest to him
had no idea those parts even existed.  It was so much easier when all you
had to do was to press a few keys.  Speaking the words out loud, that was
much harder.

       "Mr. Mitchell?  Are you still there?"

       "I'm here," Jon croaked.

       "Girl or boy?" Mr. Moon asked a little more insistently.

       Don't say it!  Hang up the phone!

       It's just one word...

       HANG UP THE FUCKING PHONE!

       "Boy," he whispered.

       "I can't hear what you said."

       "Boy," he said, just a little louder.

       "There now, that wasn't so bad, was it?"  Jon didn't answer, his head
swimming.  "Next question.  How old?"

       Now that the ice had been broken, he found it wasn't as hard to get
the words out.  "Eleven...twelve...I mean, thirteen or fourteen or older would
be fine too, if that's too young..."

       Mr. Moon interrupted.  "Mr. Mitchell, I can arrange a boy as young as
five if that is what you would prefer."

       "Jesus," Jon whispered.  "Five?"

       "So eleven or twelve would be your preference?"

       He nodded before he remembered he was on the phone.  "Yeah."

       "White, Asian, Black, Hispanic, something else?"

       "White," Jon said softly, closing his eyes again.  "With blonde
hair."

       "Ok, see, we're getting somewhere.  A white boy with blond hair,
eleven or twelve years old, correct?"

       "Yeah," Jon answered.  His head swam.  He felt like he would pass out
at any moment.

       "Mr. Mitchell, as you're probably aware, my services are provided on
a fee basis.  The fee varies depending on what you want to do."

       "I don't understand," Jon stuttered, confused.

       "It's really quite simple," Mr. Moon said in a condescending way.
"Your base fee includes your basic vanilla services, sucking and fucking to
your heart's content.  There's additional fees if you're looking for
something a little more kinky, you know, things that require special
facilities or equipment, bondage, S and M, piss, shit, that sort of thing."

       "My god," Jon breathed.  "People really...you let people..."

       Mr. Moon interrupted again.  "I'm a businessman, Mr. Mitchell.  As
long as my merchandise is still saleable, what you do with it is your
business.  Besides, when you come down to it, I have a number of boys that
don't really mind being tied up and having their asses beaten to a nice
shade of purple.  Then again, if you're so inclined I have a number of boys
that do mind."  Mr. Moon's voice turned more serious.  "And I have a number
of boys that don't have to be returned in the same condition as when they
left, if you take my meaning."  The hair on Jon's neck stood on end.

       "Jesus, no, no, nothing like that...just..." He grasped for the words.
"Just vanilla."

       "Fine.  The rates are five grand for a four hour period, ten grand
for an entire night, twelve hours.  You'll need to provide a certified blood
test as well, all my kids are clean and I want them to stay that way."  Jon
was speechless.  "Here's how it works.  You send me half of the money, I
send you instructions on how to get to our facility, you bring your dick and
the other half of the money with you.  Nice and simple."

       "Your facility?" Jon croaked.  "They don't go to..."

       "No, of course not.  You really don't think that I'd let eleven-year
old kids wander the streets on their own, do you?  That would be dangerous.
You never know what kind of sick pervert they might run into.  It's really
for protection, yours, mine, the kid's.   They don't leave my facility."

       Chills ran up and down Jon's spine.  An image born from the man's
cold words played over and over in his mind, a poor defenseless boy,
terrified, about to have unspeakable things done to him because he doesn't
have to be "returned in the same condition as when he left."   Images of
children in prison cells, forced to endure endless streams of men having
their way with them, tying them up, torturing them...He even called them
merchandise!  What kind of a fucking monster was he dealing with?  He was
the sick pervert!  Fury grew in Jon's chest.

       "What the fuck kind of place are you running there?" Jon shouted
hotly into the phone.  "How fucking dare you lock children up and treat them
like commodities to be purchased and sold!  They're flesh and blood, living
breathing people with feelings and you treat them like animals!  For
Christ's sake, they're only children!  I can't believe I let myself get my
hopes up, that I might actually be able to spend a few special precious
moments with a sweet little boy.  Not like this!  This whole thing disgusts
me!"

	Jon finished his tirade, breathing hard, his face hot and red.  The man at
the other end was silent for a few moments before he spoke, his words soft
but dripping with ice.  "I don't think we'll be able to do business after
all, Mr. Mitchell."

	"You're damn fucking right we won't!" Jon shouted into the phone.

	"But I know where you can get what you're looking for."

	Jon tried to compose himself but failed.  "What are you talking about now?"
  he screamed into the phone.

	"Look, Mr. Mitchell, I don't go around judging how other people live their
lives, but you can do whatever the fuck you want.  It's a free country,
right?  I don't have what you want.  I cater to men who want to have a
sexual experience with a kid, plain and simple, no strings attached.  That's
obviously not you."  Jon stayed silent, still fuming.  "But I know someone
that does have what you want.  He's something of an independent operator,
but I help him out from time to time.  You know, I doubt he'd even be
interested.  Last time I checked he had all the work he can handle, but you
never can tell, things change."  Mr. Moon was silent for a moment.  "He's
what you want.  He's something special.  I'll give him a call, and if he's
interested he'll get in touch with you."

	"So what makes him so special?"

	Mr. Moon laughed.  "He's a professional."

	The phone went dead.


                                      *********

	In the three days that had passed since his conversation with Mr. Moon, Jon
spent a great deal of time pacing back and forth from one end of his
apartment to the other.  When he wasn't pacing back and forth, he took long
brisk walks through the city at all hours of the night.  He hadn't slept or
eaten much, and he hadn't drank as much as a swallow of anything stronger
than a coke.

	Things had changed, his life filled with a purpose once again.  He was
furious with himself about the way that he had exploded at Moon over the
phone.  After all, what Moon was offering was the impossible, the chance to
have a carefree night of hot sex with a forbidden partner and make a clean
getaway in the morning.  No strings attached, just like Moon had said.
Something like this had never really entered into his carefully constructed
world before.  As far as Jon was concerned, there were only two ways that he
would ever be able to indulge his perversions.  The first involved months or
even years of painstaking work, gaining the trust, confidence, and love of
an innocent boy and then betraying him in an instant, leaving him damaged
and scarred for life.  The second option was even more terrifying to
imagine, and Jon was thankful that even in his darkest moments he had never
contemplated something so purely evil.  Every pedophile Jon had ever met
over the Internet would have been drooling for the opportunity that he just
threw right back in the guy's face.  Not that he wasn't still filled with
disgust about the idea of children being treated like merchandise, but he
had come to believe that he had made too many assumptions from the scant
information he had been provided.  Moon probably treated his children well.
He just had to, because the alternative was unthinkable.

	The purpose he felt now was based on his now unshakeable faith that
everything was for real, that there was no elaborate trap.  And now that he
knew it all to be real, he no longer had any doubts in his head about his
willingness to go through with it.  Even if he had blown it hopelessly with
Moon there was still a shred of hope.  The independent operator, the one he
called special.  His head told him it was a long shot at best, but his gut
told him otherwise, that the phone call would be coming any moment now and
it would happen.  He imagined the phone call with the pimp at the other end,
arranging to meet this special boy, how he would be respectful, polite, and
accommodating.  So when the chime of the IM went off and Jon found the same
cryptic note beckoning him to the payphone at 31st and State at 11:00, he
wasn't at all surprised.  He barely felt the cold as he arrived at the
payphone a half an hour early, just to make sure that he wouldn't miss the
call.  Strangely, it didn't feel as cold that night, even though the
thermometer said otherwise.  Maybe it's the excitement, he told himself.
This time, when the phone rang at exactly 11:00, he didn't hesitate for a
moment to pick it up.

	"Hello?"

	"Jon?"  The voice caught him completely by surprise.  He had expected to
hear the deep bass or tenor of a man, the pimp.  In the three days he had
fantasized about this conversation, not a single time did he ever think that
he would hear the gentle soprano of a young boy.  In that moment, every bit
of confidence he had painstakingly built up over the last few days vanished.

       "Jon?" the voice repeated.  "Are you there?"

	"Yeah," he finally spat out, still stunned.

	"I'm Elliott," the boy said brightly.

	"Elliott," Jon repeated softly.  "That's a nice name."

	"Like the kid in ET," the boy said just as brightly.

	"Right, like him."  I can't believe this is happening, I'm talking to him,
the actual boy...

	"Mr. Moon said you're someone that might wanna meet me."  He said it so
matter-of-factly that Jon almost had to laugh.  Meet him, like they were
going to get together for something as innocent as a soda at the mall, not
something as sordid as what they were actually planning.

	"Yeah, I guess...yeah," Jon stammered.  "How old are you?"  He immediately
regretted the question, the implication that he didn't trust that the person
at the other end of the line was anything but what he claimed to be.  He
wanted Elliott to trust him, and trust had to be offered to be received.

	If Elliott was at all thinking along the same lines, his quick and open
answer didn't show it.  "I'm eleven," he answered.  "How old are you?"

	Jon was again caught off guard by the question.  "Thirty...thirty-six," he
stammered.

	"Thirty-six is a nice age," Elliott commented.

	"Not as nice as eleven," Jon countered.  Elliott giggled at his pathetic
joke.  Jon sighed at the sound of the boy's laughter, so clean, so pure.

	"So, I was talking to Mr. Moon and he told me about you, that you wanted to
meet someone special.  I kind of don't have any more room for new clients
but then Mr. Moon told me what you said, about his business, and I thought I
would call you up and just talk to you for a little bit."

	"I've been wanting to apologize to him about that for the last three days,"
Jon said, relieved that he had the opportunity to finally convey that.  "I
was way out of line."

	"Why are you sorry?" Elliott asked softly.  "You have nothing to apologize
for."

	"Well, I..."

	"I liked what you said."

	"You did?"

	"Yeah," the boy said softly, a little hint of sadness creeping around the
edges of his words.  "I did."

	Jon felt his heart seized by this boy, understanding that he had struck a
nerve with him, that maybe he had been more right about Moon than he had
wanted to believe. Before he could speak, Elliott started.  "Anyway, I
thought that maybe we could talk a while and if everything seems ok we might
meet."

	"Really?"  Jon said, his heart pounding.  "How do we do that?"

	"You come out to where I live and we spend some time together, you know, so
I can get to know you better.  Usually when I meet someone new, I like to
spend about five days with him.  Is that ok?"

	"Sure," Jon breathed until it registered on him.  "Wait a minute, did you
say five days?"

	"Yeah.  It gives me enough time, you know," he trailed off and spoke a
little more softly.  "Enough time for me to figure out what you really like,
what turns you on."

	Jon sighed again.  "I think five days would kill me," he said jokingly.

	Elliott giggled again and spoke sarcastically.  "It's not like we do it
non-stop for the whole time."  They laughed together for a moment.  "I like
to do more than just work, like go out to dinner, go for walks, swimming,
things like that.  Jon," he said, very tenderly, "I'm really good at this.
I promise that once I get to know you, I'll make you happier than any boy
ever did before."  Jon started laughing, and Elliott sounded offended.  "I
was serious!"

	"I know, I know," Jon chuckled, "but I was thinking that you won't have a
hard time with that since I've never been with a boy before."

	Elliott was silent for a second.  "You're kidding."

	"I'm not kidding, I've never been with a boy."

	"Come on, seriously," he said laughingly.

	"I'm completely serious," Jon said, all the laughter gone from his voice.
"God knows I've wanted to be, but it's just never happened."

	"Never?"

	"Ever."

	"Wow," Elliott breathed softly, and then started to giggle.  "You're a
virgin."

	Jon felt himself turning red.  "Well, technically, I'm not, but..."

	"A virgin," Elliott laughed.

	Jon eventually joined in.  "Yup, a virgin."  They laughed together for a
few moments until that strange and awkward silence after everyone had
stopped laughing filled the phone line.  Jon spoke in a more serious voice.
"Elliott, can I ask you a question?"

	"Yeah," the boy said, a little warily.

	"There's something I need to know. I need to know that you're doing this
because you want to be doing this, not because you're being forced by
anyone."  Elliott was silent.  "I know it's really not my business to ask.
After all, we've only talked on the phone for a couple of minutes, but it's
important to me.  I just...can't...I just need to know."

	Elliott chose his words carefully and slowly, his voice a little dreamy.
"I love what I do.  I guess part of it is that I love that I get to have sex
when all the other kids my age are drooling on Playboys."  He giggled.  "I
love how it feels, not down there, that's not what matters.  It's what's in
my head and heart that really counts, and I love what it feels like there.
You know what I really love?" he said softly.  "I love when I can look into
a man's eyes when I'm making love to him.  I know it sounds kind of funny,
but..." he trailed off.  "I love looking into his eyes while I'm giving him
the best fuck of his life, seeing how happy he is and knowing that it's
because of me that he feels like that."  There was silence on the line for a
moment.  "Does that answer your question?"

	Jon couldn't find the right words to express what he felt at that moment, a
tear coming to his eye.  "Elliott," he breathed gently.  "That's beautiful."

	"Thanks," Elliott said sincerely.

	"I think Mr. Moon was right," Jon said softly.  "You really are someone
special.  I...I had never dared to even dream that there was someone out there
like you.  You know how you made me a promise just before?  I want to make a
promise to you, too.  If we do meet, and I hope with all my heart that we
can, I promise that I will treat you with the respect that someone as
intelligent, thoughtful, and sensitive as you deserves."  Jon breathed
deeply, and when Elliott didn't speak he was seized with a terrible sense of
panic.  He had to meet this kid, he just had to, not just for lust but
because he had to see with his own eyes what he had always sworn was
impossible.  Every moment of silence was torture to him, the fear
overwhelming that Elliott might think him insincere or manipulative and
decide against inviting him out.  Finally, Elliott spoke, his voice
cracking.

	"I think we should meet," he said simply.

	Jon nearly jumped up in the air.  "When?"

	Elliott hesitated.  "Could you come tomorrow?" he said in a soft voice that
tugged at Jon's heartstrings.

	"Tomorrow, I...yes, I can come tomorrow if that's what you want."  Oh god,
YES!

	"Jon, there's something else I gotta talk to you about," he said, his voice
turning sad again.

	"What's that?"

	"The money thing."

	Jon suddenly felt cold.  His elation was deflated faster than a pricked
balloon, plummeting back to earth like a skydiver with a defective
parachute.  He spoke with sarcasm dripping from his words.  "Oh yeah,
there's the money thing, isn't there?"

	"Don't say it like that!" Elliott whined.  "You don't believe me anymore,
you think that I just do it for the money, don't you?"  He sounded close to
tears, and guilt instantly overwhelmed Jon.

	"No, of course not, honey," he said soothingly.  "I didn't mean it like
that. Of course I believe you."

	Elliott sniffled.  "It's just that I have to ask for a lot of money or I
can't do things the way that I want to.  I really like you, and...I really
want to make sure that it won't be too much.  I should have said something
before."

	"How much are we talking about, Elliott?" Jon said just as soothingly,
closing eyes.  Whatever he wants, no matter how big the number, I will find
a way to pay it.

	"Two hundred and fifty," the boy said softly, nervously.

	Jon opened his eyes.  That wasn't so bad after all, hardly more than Moon
was charging.  "Two hundred fifty an hour?  Elliott, that's..."

	"No," Elliott interrupted.  "Two hundred and fifty thousand."

	"What?"  Elliott didn't repeat the number.  "Jesus, kid, a quarter of a
million dollars?" he said, unable to hide his astonishment at such a
ridiculous sum of money.  "I mean, I knew that you weren't going to be...that
you would ask for a lot, but that's just..."

	"Yeah," Elliott said sadly.  Jon could feel disappointment clawing at his
chest, this charming boy slipping through his fingers.  "I...I guess I'll go."

	"Don't go," Jon said quickly.  "Stay and talk to me a little more."

	"I'm sorry, it's just...Mr. Moon usually only asks me to call someone if the
money isn't a big deal...I just... I just was scared...it's not fair, I really
like what you said to him, and I..." His voice cracked.

	"Shh," Jon said softly.  He couldn't believe what he was contemplating.  He
could get the money.  He had enough hidden away in a special place, but he
had been saving it until there was absolutely nothing else left, because the
moment he touched it there would be serious consequences.  Very serious.
"Elliott, the money is ok.  I have it."

	"You do?" the boy said, his sadness replaced by a wary excitement.

	"I do, and you know what?  I can't think of a better way to spend it."

	"Jon?"

	"Yes, Elliott?"

	"No one ever asked me before if I was doing this because I wanted to."  Jon
tried not to imagine how Elliott's other clients treated him if they had
never even asked him that.  "Wait, do you have a blood..."

	"Already did it two days ago," Jon said smugly.

	Elliott voice sounded exhilarated.  "Ok, I'll make the arrangements, I'll
send a plane to come and get you tomorrow and I'll send you instructions..."

	"So where is it that you live?" Jon interrupted.

	"Come on, you know where I live, there's only one place in the whole world
where someone like me would live."

	Jon laughed as he realized that he knew.  "Gotta be Vegas."

	Elliott joined in.  "Vegas, baby!"