by Matt Silverstein

A man shows up at my apartment for his massage appointment. He got me to say over the phone that I am 5'10"-dark-hair-dark-eyes-thirty-fit. He is twenty-two. His body is maverick, flesh pumped. (I want to eat him.) His muscle is barbed wire and cement: a warning not to enter. As he breathes and loosens his grip, fear hisses out of his heart. He is uninitiated. He has never been touched without the threat of being ripped off, trading his life span for his pleasure.

I am volunteering at Century City Hospital: the "Special Services" ward. A man's skin rolls loosely under my fingers. I can feel his bones easily through his atrophied muscles. He is thirty-five. He remembers his flesh pumped body like meat gone bad. (I want to cure him.) He reaches out his hand for me. He says, "Let me give you a tip." I say, "That's okay, it's free." He says, "Stay out of the hospital." → Read more