about the temporary discomfort or the occasional beating.
As long as he didn't have to look into their eyes and see the way they glowed with a perverse sexual energy that always made him feel like they had torn away chunks of his soul, Gunther knew he would survive.
All he had to do was close his eyes and he could transport himself inside the dream world he had built, a place of constant blue skies and oceans and streets that didn't reek of dog shit, a warm sun, and a house with the kind of parents who could see the love inside the heart of a fourteen-year-old boy. The dream would die in the morning's harsh gray light.
The defining moment came on a winter evening. The man was a well-dressed foreigner from the United States who had been gentle, even loving, in bed. The man was buckling up his pants when his hands started shaking and he broke down and cried. Gunther had recognized his torment. He put a hand on the man's shoulder and told him it was okay to be gay, that he understood. The man's face twisted, and he turned around so fast that Gunther couldn't prevent the storm of fists from hailing down on him.
The air was cold, the wind biting into his skin like nails when Gunther bolted outside. He turned into an alley and found a stairwell that was out of the wind. He sat down and wrapped his coat around him and cried more out of anger than from the throbbing mess of welts and cuts. He touched his nose. It was bleeding.
"Don't worry, Gunther. It's not broken. Tilt your head back and the bleeding will stop."
Gunther looked up. An older man in what looked like a blue suit under a long black cashmere coat stood with his hands folded behind his back.
His head was shaved, his skin pale and stretched close to the bone.
"What do you hate more, Gunther? Your mother or the fact that you're a whore just like her?"
The man's deep voice was pleasant, though oddly flat, with a distinct monotone quality that reminded Gunther of the space ship's voice from that movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. The man came toward him, speaking.
"How would you like to start your life over? Leave all of this behind?"
"Who are you?" Gunther asked.
"The person who can make it happen. I can give you the world you dream about."
Gunther tried to see the angle, couldn't.
"In exchange for what?"
"Loyalty."
"Loyalty," Gunther repeated.
"That and one other item, by far the most important." The man knelt down and handed him a handkerchief. His blue eyes were as bright and clear and as warm as the morning sky from Gunther's dreams.
"Under no circumstances do I tolerate lying," the man said.
"Always tell me the truth, even to the most personal, and sometimes embarrassing questions."
Loyalty and don't lie? It couldn't be that simple.
"And I have to do what, blow you once a day?"
"No need to be crude, Gunther. You're a good-looking boy, but I don't view you in that way. I never will."
"What are you, like some sort of good Samaritan?"
The man grinned.
"I've watched you on the street. You're cunning. Very adaptive. And you have other qualities I admire. I hate to see talent go to waste."
Gunther watched the man's face carefully when he spoke next.
"I'm gay."
The man's eyes, his face, did not change.
"Did you hear what I said? I'm a faggot, I get off on sucking " "Thank you for enlightening me on the proclivities of homosexual men." The man reached inside his jacket and handed Gunther a sealed white envelope.
"Inside is the name of my hotel, my room number, and a passport. You'll find enough money to buy a good meal and some nice clothes. The name and address of my tailor are in there."
Gunther ripped open the envelope. American money and a first-class plane ticket to New York.
"My flight leaves tonight. If you want to join me, come to my hotel no later than eight. The choice belongs to you, Gunther. It always will."
In the United States, Amon Faust provided him with unlimited educational opportunities, introduced him to culture, fine dining, showed
As long as he didn't have to look into their eyes and see the way they glowed with a perverse sexual energy that always made him feel like they had torn away chunks of his soul, Gunther knew he would survive.
All he had to do was close his eyes and he could transport himself inside the dream world he had built, a place of constant blue skies and oceans and streets that didn't reek of dog shit, a warm sun, and a house with the kind of parents who could see the love inside the heart of a fourteen-year-old boy. The dream would die in the morning's harsh gray light.
The defining moment came on a winter evening. The man was a well-dressed foreigner from the United States who had been gentle, even loving, in bed. The man was buckling up his pants when his hands started shaking and he broke down and cried. Gunther had recognized his torment. He put a hand on the man's shoulder and told him it was okay to be gay, that he understood. The man's face twisted, and he turned around so fast that Gunther couldn't prevent the storm of fists from hailing down on him.
The air was cold, the wind biting into his skin like nails when Gunther bolted outside. He turned into an alley and found a stairwell that was out of the wind. He sat down and wrapped his coat around him and cried more out of anger than from the throbbing mess of welts and cuts. He touched his nose. It was bleeding.
"Don't worry, Gunther. It's not broken. Tilt your head back and the bleeding will stop."
Gunther looked up. An older man in what looked like a blue suit under a long black cashmere coat stood with his hands folded behind his back.
His head was shaved, his skin pale and stretched close to the bone.
"What do you hate more, Gunther? Your mother or the fact that you're a whore just like her?"
The man's deep voice was pleasant, though oddly flat, with a distinct monotone quality that reminded Gunther of the space ship's voice from that movie 2001: A Space Odyssey. The man came toward him, speaking.
"How would you like to start your life over? Leave all of this behind?"
"Who are you?" Gunther asked.
"The person who can make it happen. I can give you the world you dream about."
Gunther tried to see the angle, couldn't.
"In exchange for what?"
"Loyalty."
"Loyalty," Gunther repeated.
"That and one other item, by far the most important." The man knelt down and handed him a handkerchief. His blue eyes were as bright and clear and as warm as the morning sky from Gunther's dreams.
"Under no circumstances do I tolerate lying," the man said.
"Always tell me the truth, even to the most personal, and sometimes embarrassing questions."
Loyalty and don't lie? It couldn't be that simple.
"And I have to do what, blow you once a day?"
"No need to be crude, Gunther. You're a good-looking boy, but I don't view you in that way. I never will."
"What are you, like some sort of good Samaritan?"
The man grinned.
"I've watched you on the street. You're cunning. Very adaptive. And you have other qualities I admire. I hate to see talent go to waste."
Gunther watched the man's face carefully when he spoke next.
"I'm gay."
The man's eyes, his face, did not change.
"Did you hear what I said? I'm a faggot, I get off on sucking " "Thank you for enlightening me on the proclivities of homosexual men." The man reached inside his jacket and handed Gunther a sealed white envelope.
"Inside is the name of my hotel, my room number, and a passport. You'll find enough money to buy a good meal and some nice clothes. The name and address of my tailor are in there."
Gunther ripped open the envelope. American money and a first-class plane ticket to New York.
"My flight leaves tonight. If you want to join me, come to my hotel no later than eight. The choice belongs to you, Gunther. It always will."
In the United States, Amon Faust provided him with unlimited educational opportunities, introduced him to culture, fine dining, showed
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