The Manhattan Hunt Club by John Saul

chest.
    Then came the worst part. He didn’t want to touch Jimmy’s dick—didn’t even want to look at it. But he had to, in order to cut it off. It was a lot bigger than his own, and it seemed to take a long time to get it off. But finally he cut it free, and then everything was all right.
    Jimmy didn’t look like a guy anymore—he looked like a girl.
    A pretty girl.
    Exactly the kind of girl his mother would have wanted for him.
    Taking off his own clothes, Jagger lay down next to Jimmy.
    He stroked Jimmy’s face with his finger, tracing his smile, brushing a lock of hair back from his forehead.
    He kissed Jimmy, gently at first, then harder.
    He pressed himself close to Jimmy, pressed their bodies together, rubbed himself against Jimmy’s strong torso, until . . .
    He couldn’t remember anything after that—not until the police came.
    He’d told them it wasn’t his fault, that it was Jimmy and Cherie’s fault. If Jimmy hadn’t been planning to go away with Cherie—
    But they’d locked him up anyway, locked him in jail.
    Locked him up, and told him he’d never get out.
    And that was where he’d stayed until they came for him the other night. He hadn’t said a word when they took him out of his cell and put him in the van, but he listened, and he heard where they were taking him.
    To a hospital.
    He figured it must have something to do with Bobby Breen. Jagger had liked Bobby Breen almost as much as he’d liked Jimmy. And Bobby Breen had liked him, too. But something had happened to Bobby—something Jagger couldn’t quite remember. They’d been together—real close together—in one of the little closets behind the kitchen where they both worked. Then something had started happening to Bobby. He’d started turning into a woman—a beautiful woman. Jagger had wanted to kiss the woman, to make love to her.
    And she’d let him. She let him do everything he wanted to do.
    She hadn’t moved, hadn’t tried to push him away.
    She’d just lain there on the floor, very still, and for a long time after he’d loved her, he just looked at her. She was beautiful—even more beautiful than Bobby Breen had been. He didn’t remember much after that. Some people asked him what he’d done, but he hadn’t said anything, knowing that nobody was going to listen to him anyway.
    They’d taken him to the hospital, but instead of putting him in a room, they brought him down into the basement. That was when he began to think maybe something was wrong, and he’d finally spoken. “Where the fuck are we?” he demanded. “What’s going on?”
    But instead of answering him, one of the orderlies hit him—hit him hard enough to knock him out. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the room he was in now.
    A room that didn’t have any windows, and stunk of urine and shit and garbage. There were a couple of moldy mattresses on the floor and only one light—a naked bulb hanging from a wire in the ceiling.
    The only door was locked from the outside.
    Jagger didn’t have any idea how long he’d been in the room—didn’t have any idea what time it was, or what day it was, or even if it was night or day. Every now and then the same guys who’d taken him out of the hospital opened the door and gave him some food. Mostly it was stale bread, but sometimes there was some meat, and they usually gave him an old tin can filled with water to wash it down.
    Every time they came, he asked them what was going on, but they never told him. “You’ll find out,” was all they ever said. “And when you find out, you’re going to like it—you’re going to like it a lot.”
    Now he could hear them coming again, hear their footsteps outside the door. He heard the key working in the lock, and heard the bolt slide back.
    The door swung open, a man was shoved inside, and then the door was pulled closed again.
    Pulled closed, and bolted.
    Jagger looked at the man. He was young—maybe twenty-two or twenty-three.
    Just about the