"This will let my baby have me when he needs me," he said when he strapped the square watch to my wrist. "It's a camera so I can always see and hear what you're doing." He slid his phone to active and then hit an app that instantly popped up a camera view from my wrist. I saw my face staring back at me on his phone. I smiled at myself awkwardly.
"Now, if you need me you just hit the side button." He pointed to the watch face which now displayed the time. On the side was a little button and when I hit it his phone vibrated and a little window popped up saying "Lincoln needs you." He turned his head and whispered into his phone. It came out through the watch, "Yes, my heart? What do you need?"
"Wow, sir. That's... wow," I smiled at him feeling a mix of being ready to strike out on my own a little and already missing him. He leaned over and kissed my smile, bringing his face to my cheek to cup it adoringly.
"I always keep up with my boy. When you need me, I am here. With this, I can see that my boy is focusing in his classes and no one is bothering him," he beamed proudly and seemed to sense my slight anxiety.
"Thank you, sir," Something inside me felt special that he cared so much. No one had looked out for me like that before.
We were parked in front of a shiny glass three story building where I would take my classes. It was attached to the university, but it was its own private offering for foreigners taking language classes and houseboys learning to take care of Arab men. He told me all about it on the way there and even gave me a brochure though it was in Arabic. It showed blonde boys like me in navy blue uniforms preparing meals, making beds, sitting in classes with Arab instructors.
The blonde boys always looked so focused, happy to be learning to serve. I wasn't sure I would get into the houseboy parts, but he explained that it is about learning the lifestyle of the world's elite. It wasn't focused on becoming gay. I'm not gay.
He pretended to fix the color of my navy blue polo shirt with the school's logo on the chest. It was a bit tight and hugged my pecs, so were the blue pants, but it covered me. He gave me one last kiss and I was reassured by the cologne he wore for me as it filled my nose and warmed my chest. We got out and he met me at the sidewalk, pressing a button on his key that made the car chirp securely.
Inside the large glass doors he stopped me for a second and brought me in for a last hug. It felt like he was sending me off for good. With his lips close to my ear, he said, "I know you will be frustrated for the first week, it is ok. They know what they're doing here. It's all part of becoming successful, learning our ways. Don't think about the day to day or the menial tasks you'll be instructed to do. Think about me and making me proud, becoming my boy I can take around the world and mold into success. Ok, little one? Think before you act. You represent me here. You carry my name."
"Yes sir," I nodded uneasily, unsure of what was to come. He slipped my backpack up my arm and over my shoulder with one last squeeze to my bottom.
"Be good and do as you are told. If you need me, for whatever reason, even just to say hi. If you need me, press the button." He pushed past me then and I followed him to the reception desk. He spoke with the man behind the counter in Arabic and a few seconds later a tall, dark man appeared at my side. He wore an expensive shirt like the one Mr. Hamad had on. He was older, maybe 40, but in awesome shape. He had at least 6-8 inches on my height and his imposing frame made me feel small.
He greeted Mr. Hamad warmly as though I weren't there and then sent him on his way to work. I turned and watched as he left through the glass doors with one last warm, hopeful look at me. I swallowed hard and instantly felt loss as he slipped out into the sunshine.
"Don't waste time, boy. There is much to learn here and I don't want to hear English," I heard the man say.
"I'm Lincoln, sir," I said with a smile and offered my hand but he didn't take it.
He came in uncomfortably close and I was hit with the scent of his natural, unshowered body. He had thick fur on his bulging arms and a look of disdain for me. "No, you are boy and I am sir and your English ends now. If you can't speak to me in Arabic then it is best to keep silent," he growled. I felt myself shrink into his shadow and felt my heart pounding in my ears.
"Yes... sir," I said and that was not the right answer. He roughly grabbed the back of my neck and pushed me forward towards a door. He started walking and pushed me along impatiently.
"Taharruk!" he said several times insistently. I guessed it meant let's go because he kept pushing me towards a doorway. This wasn't in the brochure.
He shoved me towards the door and then pushed it open for me. I nearly fell through it, but caught myself on the wall. I went through a hallway and then into a little classroom where two equally scared blonde boys sat in desks.
We looked at each other, each with faces of "What the fuck?" The man pushed me down into a desk beside them and roughly slipped off my backpack. He barked something at me in the language I didn't know and then opened my backpack and took out a notebook and a nice pen. He slapped it down in front of me and said something else and then walked away.
"What's going on?" I said to the blonde guy to my right when the man had left. He turned to me and said something in another foreign language I didn't understand. I guessed I was the only American.
"I Anders," he said, trying English, and offered me his hand lightly.
"Lincoln," I said back, pointing to my chest as though speaking caveman and then shook his hand. I pumped it firmly and he winced. Maybe I needed to feel bigger than I was with the teacher.
"You very cute," he said and nodded with twinkling blue eyes as blush spread over his pale cheeks.
"Um thanks," I muttered and took my hand back. He was ok looking, sickly thin, not beautiful. I imagined the fat, older oaf of a man who must have ended up with him. If he had been anything resembling my Mr. Hamad, this Anders wouldn't be fawning for my attention.
I found supplies in my backpack. Two beautiful wood pencils sharpened for surgery, a brass pen with Mr. Hamad's name in script, and a black notebook with thick suede covers and a steel spiral. The front cover had my name scripted in gold print.
"Lincoln Karsten"
It was like someone had gone to a back-to-school sale at a palace. Inside the notebook was a note from Mr. Hamad folded neatly and sealed with a little gold sticker. I was pretty sure it was actual gold with his initials, "S.H." The note read:
