On New Year’s Day, 1993, I turned eighteen. The night before had been a busy one—and the Escorts’ gala New Year’s Eve ball wasn’t the half of it—but I had the day off, and I didn’t even have to do the cooking. Paul ordered a couple of six-foot heroes, a big birthday cake, and invited all the boys to stop by for a bite. It was as if our apartment had a revolving door as they came and went. We played poker for slices of the salami, pepperoni, and provolone from the hero, and we danced to cassette tapes I’d been given as gifts.
It was a great birthday.
And a few weeks later, we did it again for Paul.
* * * *
“We protect our clients.” Tim had pounded that into us, and even after he left, I followed his policy.
We had a high-end clientele, which was why boys wanted to join us. New boys wer
