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thick smell of smoke and that indefinable, antiseptic aroma they put into the casino air system
     to hide the scent of fear and defeat. The high noise level seemed to make the whole environment seem anonymous, which gave
     me some comfort.
    I saw Rico waiting at the appointed spot near the bowling lanes. He looked like a construction worker—about five-ten, 170
     pounds, with short brown hair. He didn’t look at all like what I pictured a male prostitute to be. He looked . . . I don’t
     know . . .
normal.
    As I walked up to greet him, it occurred to me that this is just what Gacy would do, this is how he’d find someone to rape
     and kill. I was thinking about what Gacy might feel as he approached a prospective victim when Rico began the conversation.
    “So what can I do for you?” he asked with a smile, as if we were both already well aware of what that might be.
    “I was wondering,” I started hesitantly, “I was wondering if I could pay you just to talk to me and give me some information
     about what you do.”
    The smile on Rico’s face immediately froze, then turned downward into something not nearly as inviting. I quickly hurried
     on before he bolted altogether. “It’s not what you think. I’m a student from UNLV and I want to write a paper about your lifestyle.”
    I could tell he was immediately suspicious. Maybe I was a cop? But I was too young to be a cop. More likely, he was guessing
     I really
did
want his services but was uncomfortable accepting my homosexuality.
    Straight off, he wanted to eliminate his first suspicion. “Are you a cop,” he asked, “or are you in any way related to someone
     in law enforcement?”
    “No way,” I reassured him. “I really just want to talk with you. Look,” I said, showing him my student ID card.
    He thought for a moment, then nodded. “For twenty dollars, I’ll talk to you for a half hour. What do you want to know?”
    “I really don’t know where to start,” I said as the two of us moved to a table. “I just need to know the basics about what
     you do. I need to know about the language you use and the terms for describing your various services.”
    He watched while I struggled with this. I was feeling very uncomfortable about the whole situation. Irrationally, I was sure
     I was going to run into someone I knew, and the next morning the TV would be broadcasting that I’d engaged the services of
     a male hooker.
    Even more disturbing were the images that formed in my brain of what Rico did for a living. The very
idea
of two men having sex together stirred up some of my most conservative values, so much so that his taking money from almost
     anyone for his services seemed secondary. Vaguely, I wondered if I was being too judgmental.
    Finally, I got right to the point and asked Rico what most of his customers asked for.
    “Most guys just want to be blown,” he said matter-offactly. “Others want to be the top man.”
    “What’s that?” I asked, having a feeling I knew.
    “That’s where they get to do me from behind. That costs the most. I get it all, though. Everything from guys paying to suck
     my dick to them paying me to fuck them up the ass.”
    I couldn’t believe I was hearing this stuff! But I was very careful to maintain a blank expression. I could tell he was trying
     to shock me and I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of knowing how uncomfortable I was feeling.
    “So,” I continued, “how do you usually get propositioned?”
    He then proceeded to educate me about the ins and outs, so to speak, of male prostitution. I learned the terms “hookers” and
     “Johns” use to describe their roles, how they recognize one another, what they do and how they do it. To tell you the truth,
     I was totally into this conversation. I couldn’t believe how easy it was to pay someone for a half hour of his time and have
     him reveal the most bizarre, secret aspects of himself. I knew this was just what I needed to authenticate the