Money Boy by Paul Yee Page B

buzz cut and a blue-jean shirt stretches out and does yoga poses when there are no cars on the road.
    I stand by myself. It’s cool and I could use my jacket, but money boys don’t cover up. They — we — need to show as much body as possible. I pray the cops don’t show up.
    I feel as though I am in a jerky fast-forward video. Monday I get kicked out of the house. Blippety-blip. Tuesday I am homeless at a shelter. Blippety-blip. Wednesday I dine with a drag queen. Thursday I sell my body. Blippety-blip.
    Now that’s what I call a good education. I should earn credits for living on the street.
    In a movie from China, a gay man from the countryside arrives in the big city. He’s cheerful and tells everyone everything about himself, as if rural folk are all innocent and trusting. He meets the editor of a gay magazine. They start living together. Days later, they have sex. Even I know that’s fantasy. But I can’t help but dream that my first guy will be a nice fellow, gentle and sensitive, and maybe even good-looking.
    What a way to lose my virgin status. Go hunt for a stranger on a dark street. Forget dating, forget romance, forget someone cute.
    The cars coast by slowly, as if on parade at an auto show. That is strange, because the money boys are the ones on sale. A Mercedes goes by. It is so clean and shiny that it looks new. The boys gaze after it hungrily.
    They play with their cellphones, too, which makes my fingers itch. I long for my cell, my iPod, my laptop, my music. The stupidest thoughts cross my mind. If Ba were to drive by and stop, I would jump into his car right away. I should have gone home with Jian.
    After a while, I recognize the cars that keep circling. There is a boxy European sedan, a Japanese SUV and a low-hung American sportscar. It’s too dark to make out exact models or custom colors. A BMW returns at ten-minute intervals, as if wanting to see all the night’s faces before making a final choice.
    Then a Lexus stops, and the window slides down.

NINE
    â€œWant a ride?”
    The man calls out in Chinese. A fellow countryman. Speaking Chinese will speed up things.
    I pull the door open and hop in. The man has a tired, middle-aged face. His glasses are sleek black rectangles that have arms etched with thin gray lines. In the dark, I can only see an outline of his hair, but it seems thick, pulled up in short little spikes.
    This man is trying hard to look younger. His car reeks of cigarettes.
    â€œWhat’s your name?”
    â€œRay.”
    â€œReal name?”
    â€œYes.” Rot. Forgot to lie. Ah, not to worry. English names don’t matter.
    â€œI am surnamed Han.”
    He reaches over and we shake hands. His palm is warm. Mine is icy cold.
    The money boys are looking at us. They must be annoyed that a Lexus man picked me. I want to sail by them.
    â€œAre we going?” I demand.
    â€œOf course. Of course.”
    But the car doesn’t move. The man frowns at me, as if trying to recall my face from somewhere. Is he a cop? Maybe I should run. Then the money boys on the sidewalk would stamp their feet and hoot with laughter, watching me tumble out of the car so quickly.
    Loser!
    â€œWhat’s the matter?” I demand.
    â€œThis . . . this isn’t your first time, is it?” he asks.
    â€œOf course not.” I act insulted and grab the door handle. “Shall I leave?”
    He shifts gears, the car lurches, and we swerve into traffic on the main road. Bars of golden streetlamp light pass over his face. He’s better than average looking, almost handsome with a lean nose and thick eyebrows. Too bad he’s so old.
    He runs through a red light and rumbles over streetcar tracks. At a bank, a sign blinks out the time and temperature and stock market prices. It’s almost nine p.m.
    How long will this take? How much can I earn in an hour?
    â€œWhere to?” I try to sound bored.
    He exclaims, “Hey, you know