I don't like looking at slutty guys. And this one, I note, looks like trash on two legs about to be spread for anyone who so much as asks. Or plies him with poppers; he's just that sort.

I mean, I'm not a snob - who am I kidding? I'm a complete snoot about this shit; I don't make stupid decisions and fuck random people, get myself into trouble, risk the STIs and the sore ass in my desk next morning, feeling crappy 'cause I couldn't restrain myself. I've seen a few of my friends do it. Like I want to suffer that sort of humiliation. Because it is humiliating, even if you don't tell anybody about it, even if nobody ever knows.

Anyway, this guy is the sluttiest I've seen in a long time.

For one thing, his jeans are so low on his hips that if he didn't shave or wax or somehow depilate, his pubic hair would be easily visible, and for another, I swear if he bent over, they'd slide all the way down his ass, though maybe they're too tight to do much more than strain the seams.

I'm not sure why anybody'd want to dress like that, not even here. Not even Travis, standing next to me with a cigarette dangling from his lips and a shirt plastered to his chest with sweat and too-tight cloth. His trousers are higher on his ass, at least. I guess you could say that in this sort of distasteful, hideously dark but candy-coated environment, I'm grateful my friend isn't the tackiest thing in the room.

"Lookit that," Travis says.

If we were anywhere else - you know, where you can hear people when they want to lean over to direct attention to a hot guy ("specimen" or "piece of ass," says Travis) - he'd be murmuring. But in here, the bass is pounding and I swear my cochlear fluid is gonna explode out my ear and burst my eardrum. I hate loud music, but this is Travis's birthday. I owe it to him to let him check people out, including supremely slutty, long-haired boys not twelve feet away from us.

Travis gestures with his cig toward the slutty boy - he's slim enough he could pass for underage, a twink like Travis likes them - and says again, louder, "Look."

So I look. "Huh," I say, "want chlamydia?"

"Jesus, pull it out your ass, Nick," he says, but he flicks some ashes and gives me a half-cocked grin.

"You're gonna stick it in his, more like."

"Tempting."

"But...?"

Travis waves his cigarette nonchalantly and I worry for a few seconds that the dyed-to-death brilliant red hair of a nearby girl in a tiny skirt is about to say goodbye to her ironed and frizzed mane. His smile doesn't flicker, though I'm close enough to see that his eyes are narrowed. "But he's got a piece of ass with him."

I switch my focus from Travis to the skank across the way and see that another man - a shorter, stockier guy who looks like he might kick ass harder than he fucks it - has a possessive arm around his waist.

"Huh," I say.

It's amazing there's anybody who'll lay claim to that teeming cesspool. I mean, I'm not bitter - wait, that's a blatant lie. I'm jaded and bitter as aspirin dissolving on my tongue when my headaches won't leave me alone. I hate a whole lot of things, to Travis's, and our friend Bran's, disappointment and insistence on encouraging me, or trying it. Bullshit. I'm not about to fall into the casual sex trap. Or relationships. I've had them. They don't work.

"Jesus," says Travis again.

The stocky guy runs his hand over his possession's hipbone and slips away through the crowd, probably to get another drink off the bartender, with whom I see him chatting like they've known each other since they were seven. This is, unfortunately, Travis's window of opportunity. I don't waste my breath telling him it'll be the other guy's opportunity to whale on him for trying to mack on the long-haired, carefully depilated, obviously easy boy.

I keep calling him boy in my mind and I look away, study some other people, farther on from the wall he's decided to lean against. Need to concentrate on something other than the livid plum color Travis's face is gonna be, how crooked his nose'll be, when the muscular, sturdy pimp comes back for his whore-boy.

Down the way, there's a couple making out, two girls with long, long black hair, one who's done a, well, interesting job streaking hers with what looks like - in this dim light, it's hard to tell - purple. They're groping like they need to find a back room or the coatroom so nobody has to see them wrestling tongues I imagine are pierced and smearing dark, bloody red lipstick. There's a lone girl, her dress riding up her hips and her hair short, choppy, and blonde. Her back is turned, but I see her face as morose or bored, nothing positive about her posture. I look on. Just behind her, partly obscuring my view of her back, is a group of three guys grinding against one another. They're not on what I'd consider the dance floor, but they don't care, nor do they give a damn that anyone can see that one of them has his hand down another's trousers. The one who's left out looks like he could be almost cute, if he weren't acting like a humping Great Dane against Handjob-Boy's waist. He's tall and looks a lot like Bran, only with "artfully" (yeah, my ass) messy hair and too-long arms and too-big hands. A little awkward. And too horny for my taste, too horny to be Bran, who's a dog, but closer to being neutered.

I let myself check up on Travis. He's standing a safe distance from the slut, his cigarette now held farther away in a stiff arm, like he's trying to keep the smoke away from the boy's face. So far, no bruises or cuts. The muscular boyfriend-type is back talking to the bartender, not even paying attention.

I don't like watching this.

Somehow, it makes me feel dirty. Slicker and stickier than I already am. Makes me want a cig even though I don't smoke, makes me want something to do with my hands other than propping one against my hip and, as soon as it's there, deciding I don't like the strange heat against my belt, then crossing my arms loosely across my chest.

I'm thinking of going to bum a cig off Travis when he looks my way and gives me a kissy face that looks like those exaggerated coloring book pictures of goldfish.

I look away. What a tacky asshole he can be. When I look back, it looks like he's pointing at me with his cigarette, but I see that he's flicking ashes again and the boy is laughing about something he's said, wide mouth split into a huge grin. What the hell, really. Travis isn't that funny.

It's all about sex, I have to tell myself. Nobody laughs at lame jokes like that unless they're out for a lay. I know; I'm never out for one and I never laugh at those jokes. Even Bran only laughs sometimes. He's more forgiving than I am, and less a prude.

I wonder why he's not here in my stead.

If Bran were here with me, he'd help me mock Travis, make bets on how long it'd take before Travis got rebuffed and how much Travis'd bitch about being turned down. If he were the one here with Travis, he'd have a drink in his hand or be pulled onto the dance floor and shining with sweat, his black clothes a second skin and his long body moving naturally, putting even Travis - who practices in front of a mirror - to shame. Bran can be trashy, when he wants to. Sometimes. Most of the time he's pretty tasteful and he won't let guys grope him, won't make any motions that look like fucking.

He did it to Travis once, both of them laughing at my face when they saw me on the sidelines. But they stopped pretty quick when I threatened I was gonna leave, disgusted they'd act like that in public and be able to have straight faces, ironed collars, and neat slacks with neat belts and neat oxfords at work the next day.

I don't like working with friends who've slipped into the clubbing niche more easily than they slip out of their underwear. But maybe Travis isn't wearing any tonight. The boy he's chatting up definitely isn't.

Travis makes the kissy face at me again and gives me a two-fingered "c'mere" gesture, but I pretend I've been studying someone else down the room from me; I'm leaning against the wall, a wallflower wilting with annoyance, and down from me, closer to the door - the escape route, lucky bastard - is a tall blond. I think he's blond. Can't always tell, not with the lights that flash and change, the haze of cigarette smoke that can build up 'round the walls, where the smokers gather and chatter, where they put their cigs out in shot glasses.

They're rude, Travis included.

Out of the corner of my eye, I see he's lit up another and he offers his pack to the slutty boy, who declines and smiles at him. "Come to bed," his mouth seems to be saying. Intellectually, logically, I know that's not it. But it sure looks like it. Bullshit, you want to talk, I think toward him. You want to fuck.

Travis is a moron.

I'm about to get damn fed up and go tell Travis I'm going home and getting out of these clothes that make me look bedraggled, too many rips in the jeans - borrowed from Bran, who's only a few inches taller than me - to look healthy. Then there's the tall guy from the trio of dancers, the other two of whom have slipped off to God knows where and God would never want to know. I've been told he hates faggots.

The tall guy is standing not three feet from me and he's saying, "You here with someone?"

Sudden inspiration strikes me - I've gotta avoid a nasty situation here - and although I can't bring myself to smile convincingly enough to let even a hint of the expression make it onto my face, I manage not to look like I want to smack him away. Now, though I can't give this guy a smile, I can smile somewhat weakly at Travis, who's turned and talking to the skanky boy till he feels me, and probably the guy trying to pull - dream on, stupid bastard - looking over at him. Travis gives the "c'mere" gesture again.

The guy says, "Oh." He's gone. Almost in a flash of the horribly jarring lights, and I decide I have to be convincing before he comes back and asks why, if I'm with someone who's ignoring me, I can't just dance with him.

I know what he wants. I know what they all want, and I'm not up for it; they may be up for it, but they get it up for anything. The men in here, combined, have more bones than a mastodon skeleton.

Reluctantly, I go over to Travis and his new little friend.

"Hi," says the boy.

I look at him. Up close, he is pretty. I'll give him that much, though my type isn't pretty and most of the time, it's not Travis's type, either, but I bet it's the jeans that make him want that face to be slack while the hands, holding a drink I hadn't noticed before, scratch down his back.

I say, "Hi," but the thought of smiling, or even attempting it, chokes me.

Travis is oblivious, fucking moron who wishes he could be fucking already. He beams crookedly at both of us and says, "I was talking 'bout you, Nick."

"Huh," I say.

"Yeah, he knows how to make a guy feel inferior, going on about you," laughs the skanky boy.

I blink, but I'm sure I succeed at throwing a sheet over any overt or overwhelming displays of surprise. What's Travis's game here?

I control my voice carefully, but keep it loud enough so they can both hear me; I say, "He's a meaningless flatterer."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Travis takes a drag and blows his smoke out one side of his mouth, the farthest side from me and from the pretty-skanky-trashy boy. His smile is smaller, but it looks to me like he's gonna smirk any minute and decide to embarrass me.

"And Nick's jealous," he says.

It's hard not to smack his ass. I'm bigger than he is. I know I can hit that smile off his face if I need to, but I also know that I don't dare do that to one of the few people who'll put up with my...personality enough to tell me I'm his "best friend." So I give him a deadpan look. It's the least I can do, really. Besides, I have no idea what the hell I can say to him here in front of this other guy, watching both of us. His pretty mouth looks like his smile is on tenterhooks and it may slip off any second. I don't care.

"Pfft," I say.

I'm tempted to ask for a smoke, but I don't. I'm tempted, too, to ask the skanky boy for his glass so I can take down the last few swigs of its contents; the only thing holding me back is fear of herpes.

"Hey, I gotta go, Trav," says the boy.

"Trav"? God, even Bran doesn't do that to him - even Travis's sister doesn't do that shit.

"You have my number," he goes on, "so call me or something."

If I'm not mistaken - and I'm definitely not drunk, not after being Mr. (un-)Designated Driver and abstaining - he winks at me before he slinks off. I risk a glance and note with a mental sneer that his jeans are low enough that his ass is nearly hanging out, no matter how slender it is. They make him look like he's got too much back to force and pour and tug into them. Fine. I don't care.

Travis says, "What was that about?"

"What?"

"Nice face," he says.

Apparently my sneer was more than mental. I barely stop myself from rolling my eyes at how idiotic he's being, but that shouldn't be new to me. Travis can be positively, profoundly retarded about these things. About everything. Sometimes. I mean, he can be smart, too, else I wouldn't have to share a cubicle with him.

I say, "I can't help it you want some rare disease," and strain out a smile.

"Oh, shut up."

His cig's just about dead, but he keeps it clutched between his fingers as he leads the way around the walls, skirting his way past people, including the tall guy who'd tried to hit on me earlier and the blond I'd noticed nearby, who was heading toward the bar as we walked past him. Travis seems to be in a hurry, but I don't care. I am, too. I want out. The dark is rising and I'm suffocating on glaring colored lights flashing like lightning and fireworks across my tired eyes. I blink a long, slow blink and the colors trace on the insides of my lids like sunspots and fluorescent light tracers, pink and green and long streaks of white. It'd be pretty if I didn't want the hell out and if my head didn't hurt like a bitch - or like I'd been kicked in the head by a mare or five, whichever.

Out on the street, Travis said, "I dunno what your deal is but I'll see you Monday."

I nod. He stubs his cig out on the brick wall beside us and tosses the butt on the ground, something I used to lecture him about but've just given up on. Nothing gets through to this guy. I say, "On Monday. Don't be hung over." But I can't laugh.

Travis just bobbles his head back and forth, left and right, like a lopsided nod or a shake of his head gone wrong. I'm not sure what it means, but whatever it means, he gives me a weak wave and says, "'Night!" over his shoulder, headed for his car. He drove. I rode the train. I head that way but turn back on impulse and see his back retreating. His shoulders are slumped and for a few minutes, the last few minutes he's visible before he opens a door and ducks into a reeking parking garage stairwell, I think I should chase him.

Maybe I should, but I don't. I don't want to waste the time and get tangled in steel yarn, trip, and wind up breaking my face. That's what talking to him, running after him like I want him to sweep me up and drag me off - that moron? No way - would be like. The event horizon of humiliation, I'm telling you.

The last trains are gone and my cell phone, though it's dying, gives me one last call. I catch Bran on his house phone, which must mean he's sitting at home reading rather than trussing up like a slightly classier version of a whore out to get pissed and fucked. Bran sounds calm, so he hasn't been drinking. I feel better after he's said, "Yeah, yeah, I'll come and get you. Give me a few minutes."

Our definition - all three of us - of a few minutes is about fifteen, and he's accurate to the dot, at least according to my cell phone, which chooses that moment to make an irritating low beep signaling the end of its battery's current incarnation. Little piece of shit. I remind myself to buy a new one, a memo I'll forget by Monday, and when Bran unlocks the door for me, I fold myself into his car.

"Wasn't Travis giving you a ride?" he asks.

I say, "Hm. I don't wanna talk about it."

"You'll figure it out," he says. Infuriatingly, I think.

And it's doubly infuriating that I'm not sure what he's talking about or how long it'll take me to dummy out whatever it is he's alluding to like I'm his dutiful little pupil who needs to learn critical thinking skills. Yeah, my ass and the ass of every guy I've seen tonight. This time, I do roll my eyes, but only my reflection in the window glass sees it. Bran's concentrating on the road and on leaving me alone so he can think about his stupid riddles. I guess I give up. I'm not sure, but my face feels hot and I roll down my window to stick it out like a dog, my hair flopping around my face and slapping into my eyes like a hound's ears in the wind.

It's cool, the rush of wind, the smell of smoke, something fried and greasy, and gasoline. I take deep breaths - through my mouth after a while - and let the air sink into the parts of my brain where darkness, blinding-bright lights, and cigarette smoke have imprinted anger. I relax and I guess I'll give up until Bran sets me another puzzle, one I can figure out.

But I still won't like talking about it.