No Start. What a finish.
Banging along, slowly. Stopping only to start again.
Never understanding why, or even when.
I feel rich in the cum of total strangers.
For I am a bastard child, without a name.
No one to blame.
Feel the need to self-destruct.
Always wanting to get fucked.
Rude wake up call.
Some guy smacks me.
"Pay attention!" he barks and I wish he’d drop dead.
His jiz splashes across my chest,
Forming perfect pearl like droplets almost evenly spaced
Apart.
Drifting again.
Meaning flows through from lips,
like semen sliding though my slit.
Slow. Deliberate. I wait.
No more trouble. Fury. Pain. Stains.
I know because I can’t say it.
I’ll only give my love to those who’ll play it.
I reach, grab for things that aren’t mine.
Seeing nothing but my own decline.
Wish for more, less. Mess.
Daydream over.
I can smell last nights puke under the rim of my nose
and suddenly I imagine my body riddled with tumors.
Yet I don’t die.
The thought of this guy touching me again spreads like
Cancer.
Slowly,
eating away at my heart.
It was then that I realized the only thing keeping me
from killing myself was the fear that I would burn in
hell.
But I didn’t believe in all that religious crap. Did I?
"My son," God would say.
"You have committed the ultimate treason against me by
destroying my greatest gift to you; your life."
Then like a genie, he’d blink his eyes and I would fall
through a trap door to burn eternally in hell.
Never turning to ash, always feeling the pain of my own
disappointment and his.
It’s time for a drink. Again.
I’m sitting in a bar and the clock above the cash register
says 11:00 am in blinking red digital letters. The
bartender is twirling his mustache, an extra long and
super curled handlebar and pouring out two shots of
bottom shelf tequila. He walks over to me and we knock
them back, toasting each other by mumbling something
neither one of us can actually make out.
As I sit back and feel the cheap booze roll over my
senses like a Mack truck, all I can imagine is another
shot, another respite, another completely inexcusable
exercise into inebriation.
Then she walks in, slamming the door behind her and
takes a seat at the far end of the bar. She’s got long
blonde feathered hair and is wearing a sparkly gold
shoe lace as a headband. Her long, lean body is encased
in powder blue spandex zip front jumpsuit that
pushed her tits so far out that they defy not only gravity, but
my imagination as well. A full length pale pink Ultrasuede cape
was casually tossed over her shoulders, while her legs
were covered almost up to the thigh in lavender patent
leather boots sporting six inch heels covered in
reflective Mylar. Her arms were swathed in white vinyl
gloves that ended in sharp fins just below her shoulders.
She was a super vixen, yet she was soft, almost child-
like. No Varla, she. Not even super Haji. Yet she was
still a vixen, full of superior sensuality and an unending
capacity for counterfeit astonishment. There seemed to
be a force around her that could best be described as
magnetic. Magical. Meticulous. Marked. The walking
embodiment of semen depletion.
She pulls out a book. Maybe it’s a book, I can’t really
see. I get up and walk past her, but she’s in her own
world and seems to be completely absorbed by what
she’s reading. I sneak a look over her shoulder and
notice it’s "The Love Machine," a Jacqueline Susann
classic.
Suddenly the bartender appears in front of her. The
blonde goddess orders a vodka Martini with "five
Maraschino cherries please!" I walk back to my stool,
but when I look behind one last time, she’s looking at
me. Smiling. Big and super toothy and I know where
this is leading. Or do I?
Part of me wants to explore her. Discover her. Yet I
know I can’t. I like boys. No, I love boys. I want boys.
Need them. I feel rich in the cum of total strangers,
malestrangers, not freaky deaky super divas. Still, I can’t
shake the grip of her intensity, the fear that her smile
stirs in me. I want to kiss her, yet I know I can’t.
She turns away and sucks down the drink in front of her
like a Hoover over a dirty carpet. Her tongue swirls
madly around the cherries and she chews each one off
it’s pit in slow motion, little streams of cherry juice
dribbling across her lips and down her chin.
I pretend not to notice, but I want to walk over to her
and lick the juice off her face and then thrust my tongue
deep down her throat, extracting the flavor of her
tonsils, the secret of her mouth, the saliva from inside
her lips.
I order another drink. A double. No, make that a triple!
I know no bounds. My depth is limit less. I am capable
of anything. I slug back the foul liquid, gulping it like a
man, grimacing only slightly. Just as I have decided to
walk over and wrap my arms around her and kiss her so
hard our lips will seal together as if we used Elmers for
lip balm, he walks in.
He’s the most beautiful boy I’ve ever seen. I
immediately forget about her and center all my attention
on him. The boy. The dude. The slice. The piece. The
mother fuckin’ ultra fiercely correct effect. Hello.
He’s a tad under six foot, with black hair cut into a
jagged cliff that haphazardly frames his youthful face.
Blue gray eyes bolted from narrow slits, while his lips
were full. Thick with pleasure and attitude. He was
wearing a pair of day glo orange nylon pants with legs
so wide it looked like he had on a full length
skirt.
A lime green velour hoody sat across his chest and
obscenely reflects the rude yellow light of the bar as he
walks across the room, stopping when he gets to her
stool. She ignores him for almost a minute until it
seems he’s almost about to explode, then slowly spins around
and wraps her legs tightly around his waist. They kissed
like it was their first time, for a long time.
The rest of the night made no sense.
They left and I drank until I puked.
Right at the bar, on the bar. On the bartender.
On me.
It was fuckin’ pathetic, so I dragged my sorry ass up
and out the door, went home and fell asleep sitting on
the toilet.
I awoke a few hours later and scuffled off to my
bedroom where I sank deeply into the sheets, feeling
their scratchy coolness against my skin.
I sleep for almost twenty hours, but when I wake up I’m
still tired. I roll a fat joint and selfishly smoke the
whole mother fuckin’ thing.
A Fun Lovin’ Criminals lyric pops into my head.
"Never fly coach, never saved a roach…"
Yeah, that’s me.
I’m a fun lovin’ criminal.
I get out of bed, shower and eat a huge bowl of Smurf
Berry Crunch.
It’s 2am.
I get dressed.
I go to the bar.
I get royally fucked.
I look for super vixens, imaginary or real.
Life is good.
Right?
As the clock turns 3am, I notice the bartender seems
pensive. Frozen. Like a man waiting to be executed. I
nod at him and he instinctively walks over and pours me
another shot. I think back to my night clubbing days
and wish I could pay with a drink ticket. But those days
are gone my friend, so I pull out my last twenty and
motion for him to hit me again. He does and I leave an
extra large tip simply because it makes me feel good.
Not like a big shot, or some rich ass mother fucker. Just
because and for the moment, it actually feels good and
that’s good enough.
Exactly ten seconds after I down the tequila she makes
her entrance. There is no doubt as to her fierceness, but
her mood is hardly tangible. Unlike the other day, she
seems sullen. Sad. Almost corpse like. Something has
happened to make her seem so different, yet I can’t
figure it out. In the next instant thought, it all becomes
crystal clear. Just as she takes the same seat at the bar
that she sat at yesterday, he walks in. The boy. The
cute piece.
He starts yelling at her, but she ignores him and orders
a drink. The bartender looks nervous and I myself start
to sweat bullets the size of extra large hail.
He turns around and looks at me, cocking his head
towards the bathroom. Then he gets up and walks
towards it with me following a few steps behind.
I stand next to him at the piss stained urinals and watch
closely as he pulls out his thick cock. As he holds it
with his right hand, his left grabs the back of my head
and forces my more than willing lips down on it. He
comes instantly, leaving his salty deposit half in my
mouth, half smeared on my chin.
He pulls me up by my hair and fixes his pants. I smile
and lean forward to kiss him, but he pushes me away
and bolts out of the toilet. Without even thinking, I
walk into an empty stall and jack off until I come with a
silent fury all over the tips of my black Converse hi-
tops.
When I walk out of the bathroom, he’s gone. I’m feeling
A little cocky, so I saunter up to the blonde goddess and
take a seat next to her. She angrily slurps the drink in
front of her until the sound of the straw sucking at the
glasses’ bottom echoes between us. Then she casually
slides off her stool. I think of something to say, but I
can barely breathe, much less speak.
She walks to the door, then starts laughing. At first
softly, then loud, harsh, almost a witches cackle. She
turns around to catch both the bartender and myself
staring at her with our mouths gaping open in
astonishment. She runs up to me and slaps me so hard
across the face that I tumble off the bar stool and fall on
my ass to the floor.
"Faggot!" she screams, then walks out of the door and
out of my life. Hopefully forever.
I lose it and feel the need for numbness creep into my
system. I say good-bye to the bar and head across town
to the club. I pay my social dues at the door and stroll into the place,
stopping only when I’ve spotted my prey.
Dealers, dealers. Everywhere.
It’s like a gorgeously decadent epidemic. It’s like a
fuckin’ convenience store. He has coke. She has K.
They have E. Nobody is famous or familiar, but all can
at least hope to be hacked up someday by a disgruntled
club promoter if they’re lucky.
I spot my guy and finger my pockets in search of some
bucks. Dinero. Currency. Cold hard spendable on
whatever you fuckin’ please cash. Shit. I left the change
from that 20 at the bar. That’s what I get for bein’
generous.
So I know I’m gonna have to pull something. A scam. A
technically tacky once over that could go wrong, but
hopefully won’t. I approach him slowly. His name is
Mookie and he’s wearing a burgundy faux suede
Member Only jacket. He’s super short and has a
mustache that looks like Oscar the Grouch’s eye-brows.
His hair is so greasy, it wouldn’t surprise me if he combs it
with "I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter…Spray."
He twitches every third breath and looks at me
nervously as I come closer. Suddenly, a group of
overbearing, French Euro-trash descend upon him like
vultures and he is temporarily distracted. Finally, I’m
standing before him.
"What’choo want?" he says as he finishes handing over
several vials to the girls and looks me in the eye. I hand
him a carefully folded single and whisper "a gram" as
he whispers one hundred. Without looking at the bill he
deposits it in his jacket pocket and slips me a vial a
second later. I turn around and head for the bathroom.
I’m praying he isn’t behind me, wise to my deception.
When I get inside the john I lock the door and turn on
the faucets until the sound of water splashing into the
sink drives me out of my skull and back into reality. I
pour some of the blow onto my fist and snort fitfully,
confused by my desire and momentarily paralyzed by
the strong cocaine oozing into my membranes.
I walk back into the room and notice Mookie. "Oh my
God, is he looking at me?" I imagine he’s not and
decide to try to glide by him as effortlessly as possible.
I begin to sweat and my balls feel like peanuts. He still
seems to be looking at me. I’m 50 feet away. 40. 30.
20. Now I’m 10. Now I’m right in front of his mother
fuckin’ face, but wait. He’s actually smiling at me. An
expression lacking only one thing…teeth.
He’s fuckin’ toothless. I smile back and try to hustle my
ass past him without flipping out. The exit is only a
hundred feet away, but I keep feeling like something is
about to go wrong. I get further and further. I’m almost
at the door. Then I hear someone behind me. I don’t
turn around, just keep on walking. The voice gets
louder.
I feel it reverberate against my spine, forcing the hair
on my neck to stank on end. It was fear. Pure, simple
terror. The kind that makes you shit your pants and
freeze in trepidation. When I felt the hand on my
shoulder I nearly jumped out of my skin. It spins me
around to face my foe. It’s Mookie and strangely, he’s
still smiling.
I’m certain he’s about to kill me, but instead he flashes
me a toothless grin and mumbles, "How was it man?
Good shit?" I nod yes as I feel my shirt collar shrink ten
sizes and strangle me. I turn back around and open the
door, not realizing that Mookie’s hand is still on my
shoulder, getting tighter by the second.
He’s playing with me and I’m too stupid to notice. I
start out the door, but stop when the pressure of cold
steel is applied to the back of my neck.
"If it was so good, then why don’t you pay me the other
99 bucks you little fuck!" Mookie screams, but I’ve got
other plans and getting my head blown off wasn’t one of
them. I broke free and ran across the street. Mookie
fired at me and hit a club kid instead. One less lolly pop
kid as far as I’m concerned.
I ran for blocks without looking back, through red lights
and throngs of unsuspecting trolls. I didn’t stop till I
reached the bar and had found my familiar stool and the
bartender had placed a very large glass of tequila in
front of my needy face.
I didn’t notice the boy until almost ten minutes and two
more drinks later. He was back, beautiful black hair and
all. He was staring at me, only I don’t think he wanted
me to suck his cock again. Then he got up, the sound of
his nylon pants swishing against his legs preceding him.
I held my drink up next to him, but he knocks it out of my
hands. The next ten seconds are a blur as he smacks me
with his open palms as easily as a Lion might attack a
mouse.
Before I’m dead and gone, anyway you choose me, it
won’t be long. He climbs off me and slowly walks out
of the bar. I roll over and fall off, laughing silently as I
hit the floor. I can once again smell puke under the rim
of my nose and the uneasy sensation of my own
swallowed teeth catching in my throat like a fish hook.
A slow, quick smile forms on my lips and I imagine I’m
in a honey colored Mustang accelerating down a long
stretch of empty road.
Time and space cease to exist and for just this one
moment I lose myself in a surreal train of thought.
Strangely unsoiled. Slightly serene.