Apollo

The first time I saw him he was playing pool in the bar where I work. I was captivated immediately. In the dim smoky light I could see that he was young, too young to be in a bar. I wondered idly how he was allowed in, then dismissed the thought. It really didn't matter; he was here and he was beautiful. He was tall; his body, although mostly hidden by his jeans and a jacket, was lean and sculpted. My eyes traveled to his face; he looked like a young Greek god, Apollo the sun god, clad in denim and leather with his regal face and his light brown curly hair and full lips. His eyes were a mystery to me. He was much too far away and the lighting was too bad for me to see them. I guessed they would be blue, for no other reason than that I thought that color would suit him. After all, Apollo had blue eyes.

As he prepared for his next shot, he moved slowly and sensuously as if he were making love to the very air around him. He moved like a man on display, one that knows his every move is being watched and devoured by those around him. And indeed they were. The other patrons were staring at him in rapt fascination. In a bar that caters to gay men, he was the star at the center of the universe. He took his shot and missed and smiled as he straightened. I watched as he took off his leather jacket in one fluid movement and tossed in carelessly on a chair behind him. He was wearing a tight black t-shirt that accentuated his well-muscled chest and smooth stomach. I could almost hear the collective sigh from the crowd at the sight of this beauty undressing. If you let go of reality for long enough, you could imagine he was undressing just for you. Maybe he was.

I wrenched my eyes away from him and concentrated on the task at hand. This was a bar, people were thirsty, and I was the bartender. I resumed mixing my concoctions and actually managed to forget about that beautiful creature for awhile. That is until he sat down at my bar.

I lifted my head to take the next order and found myself staring into his eyes. They were indeed blue, as blue as the ocean itself. I found myself wondering how many people had allowed themselves to drown in the depths of his eyes. Wondering how many victims they had claimed. Seeing him this close, he no looked less god-like and more human and vulnerable, but no less beautiful. We didn't exchange many words that first night. He asked for a beer and I supplied it. That was the extent of our transaction.

The man he had been playing pool with sat down next to him, one arm around his shoulders in an almost protective gesture. One could almost believe they were father and son. Almost. That impression was shattered when the older man asked Apollo (that's what I had come to think of him as) "You want to just go to a motel or what?" His hand massaged Apollo's shoulder firmly.

Apollo looked at him with those bottomless eyes and smiled. "If you want. I know a good one. Very private."

They paid for the beer and walked away into the night. For awhile I entertained myself with thoughts of what might go on in that motel room, but soon enough I dropped the fantasy and relegated Apollo to the back of my mind.

The second time I saw him was approximately two weeks later. The toll of daily living had pushed all thoughts of him out of my mind by then. Yet as soon as I saw him, they came flooding back.

He sat down at the bar, this man-child, and ordered a beer. I looked at him as I pushed it across the table towards him. He gave me a small sad smile that nevertheless made my pulse quicken. I looked at his face and noticed bruising along his cheek and jaw. His lower lip was split and still puffy from whatever hit it had taken. So...someone had decided that Apollo needed to be taken down a notch. I was not surprised. That's what always happens to the pretty ones. Sometimes I wonder what it is about us humans that makes us long for beauty but yet propels us to destroy it once it is within our grasp. It's almost as if some people shine too brightly for our eyes and we feel compelled to darken them. Apollo certainly had been darkened.

Without really thinking I asked, "You're new around here aren't you?"

"Yeah," he said, voice soft, slightly feminine. Beauty.

"How long?" I asked.

"What?"

"How long have you been here?"

"Oh. Two months. Tomorrow it will be two months. My anniversary," he said and laughed without humor. Music.

Where are you from?" Probing now.

"Tennessee. Memphis. Awful place. I couldn't wait to get out of there," he answered.

"Why did you leave?"

"It's a sob story, you wouldn't be interested."

I was but I let it slide. "How old are you?" Probing still.

"You ask a lot of questions," he said, suspicion clouding his eyes.

I shrugged. "Doesn't matter to me how old you are. I'll still serve you."

"Ok," he said slowly. "I'm 17." Daring me to judge.

I merely nodded and asked innocently, "Isn't that a little young to be a whore?" Pushing now. Crossing personal lines.

He wasn't expecting that. He sat up straighter with a comical look of shock on his face. He looked at me and I met his gaze unwavering. After a moment the shocked expression left and he answered, "It pays the bills."

"They like to hurt you." It wasn't a question.

He looked at me as if unsure of what to say. Time passed in silence and I figured that he would not answer. "I don't know why," he finally said softly. "Some of them just want to talk, some just want it vanilla, but most of them hurt me."

"What's your name?" I asked.

"Justin. What's yours?"

"Trinity," I answered.

He laughed. More music. "That's not your real name."

I leaned in close to him. Close enough to kiss. "Never tell them your real name Justin. It's like giving away a piece of your soul," I whispered, and with that said, I walked away. Apollo wasn't the only one who knew how to perform for an audience.

He came in often during the course of the next few weeks. Sometimes with someone, sometimes alone. It was rare that he ever left alone. In that time we managed to talk often. He began to open up to me and I began to think of him more as Justin and less as Apollo.

We talked about many things. He told me about his abusive stepfather and his weak alcoholic mother. He told me about leaving home to become a movie star, told me about his failed hopes and dreams. He told me how much he hated being a whore and of how all he had done was trade in one abusive man for several, although at least now he was getting paid for it. He told me about feeling trapped, with no choices and nowhere to run. He whispered to me that sometimes he wondered if it wouldn't be best to kill himself and end the farce that his life had become. "There has to be something better than this life," he had said.

I listened to it all. I watched as his beautiful lips formed the words and listened as they poured out along with his soul. I became his confidante.

That final night, he had stayed with me until the end of my shift. He asked me, "What do you think my alias should be Trinity? So I don't give away a piece of my soul."

"Apollo," I answered without hesitation.

He laughed, "Why Apollo?"

"Because I mistook you for him the first night I saw you."

He laughed again. I reached over and touched his face lightly. "My shift is over. Do you want to go to my place?"

He smiled as bright as the sun. "I'd love to."

We drove to my place in silence. Once there we fell upon each other in wild abandon. We kissed hungrily, as if our very lives depended on it. His taste on my tongue, a combination of beer and mint and tobacco, drove me wild. The scent of him, the pure scent of a man, pushed me over the edge until I lost all rational thought. I tore his clothes from his body and pushed him onto the bed. I looked into the oceans of his eyes and found myself drowning as I knew I would. I reached into the nightstand and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. His gaze of lust melted into one of uncertainty.

"I don't know Trinity..."

"It will be alright," I soothed.

I placed the handcuffs on his wrists. Immobilizing him as they hooked around the headboard rails. He was mine now.

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Sometimes it's hard for me to remember what happened that night. I like to blame it on his eyes. You lose yourself in them; you lose the real you. My memory holds few details, but I do know that I hurt him. Badly. I marked him. I hurt him even after he pleaded with me to stop and continued to hurt him long after his voice failed him. The whimpers and moans only turned me on more. They always have. I stopped only when I was satisfied. When I reached a peak of ecstasy that erupted within me like a starburst.

When it was over I undid the cuffs and looked at him. He was crying but his gaze was focused on something far away. He lay there, motionless, as if I had somehow robbed him of the power to move. He would not look at me. For this I was almost grateful. I could not bear the look of accusation I knew I would find in his eyes. I leaned in to touch his cheek, the very cheek that I myself had finished marking, and he flinched. I had betrayed him. He would not allow me to touch him now or ever again.

I ran to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. Then I managed to look at myself in the mirror. I did not recognize the person that stared back at me. What had I done? I was no better than those men who groped him in the night in anonymous motel rooms. No better than those who caused him pain for their own pleasure.

By the time I walked back into the bedroom, he was gone. I never saw him again. I like to think that he's alright. That he found a place in the world where he would not hurt, but deep down inside I have little faith of that happening. I have been here too long and seen too much. Peace is sometimes an unattainable goal for people like us. I know now that I will never find it. I doubt he has, but I still pray although the words are foreign on my tongue.

Sometimes I wonder what it is about us humans that makes us long for beauty but yet propels us to destroy it once it is within our grasp. It's almost as if some people shine too brightly for our eyes and we feel compelled to darken them.