Studs: Gay Erotic Fiction (14 page)

I remember jacking a guy off under the stall. As I followed him out, he kept waving me away. When we got outside, his wife and kid were waiting.

I remember a man in Macon, Georgia telling me that his dick was only six inches. I remember peeking through a glory hole at a guy wearing panties and stockings. I remember a guy being thrown out of an adult video store for pissing in one of the booths in the back. I remember a man from Tennessee rimming my ass so good I came without him touching me. I remember getting my toes sucked and wondering why anyone would want to suck these crusty, calloused things. I remember finding a white pubic hair in my groin.

I remember calling the 1-900 numbers in the back of magazines. I remember lying about what they were when Mama saw a list of 1-900 numbers on the phone bill. I told her I was calling admissions offices of colleges out of town.

I remember jacking off to the drawings in
The New Joy of Gay Sex.

I remember the first time I saw my daddy’s dick. It was hung and uncircumcised. I remember using my daddy’s tape measure to see how long my dick was.

I remember it all….

 

 

 

 

 

 

One day Jimmy Dragon went crazy. He showed up at my apartment with a black eye and a loose front tooth, and when he stripped down I saw it wasn’t only his face that had been hurt. He had hand-sized welts on his arms, chest and belly, and what looked like boot prints on his legs. I knew enough not to ask what had happened. When he fucked me that day, he told me to grab his ass, grab it hard and pull him in as far as he would go, leave marks on him if I wanted, scratches down his back.

“Hit me, goddammit,” he said, his breath hot in my ear, his hands pulling my hands up to his chest. I tried to pull away, but didn’t try very hard, even though I could have thrown him off me if I’d wanted to. My knuckles made weak slapping sounds against his skin.

“Hit me,” he said, growling the words out. “Hit me.”

I was on my back, my legs over his shoulders. Sweat was sprinkling down on me, dripping off the tip of Jimmy’s nose, off his chin, falling to my lips, where I licked some of it up. Jimmy’s humping made the rest of the sweat roll down the sides of my neck, tickling into my ears. Both of us were breathing heavy, gulping the apartment’s stale air. Jimmy rose up on his haunches, shook his crew cut so that more droplets of sweat rained down on me. He let go of my wrists.

He grunted and said three or four words, what sounded like
something-something-blood,
and I was thinking,
Oh shit
. But I couldn’t be sure if he was really saying what I thought he was saying.

Suddenly he stopped humping and, like a little monkey, flipped himself around so his ass was in my face. He grinned back at me with bared teeth. “You can’t hit me, then at least get your fist in there. Right? You can do that, can’t ya?”

I could. I could do anything for him except hurt him. I’ve always had a thing for him, always figured I’d do anything he asked. Something about his size, I think, not dick size because he’s only pinky-finger big, but his body, I mean, him being so little you could carry him around in a backpack or a suitcase if you wanted. Maybe that’s an exaggeration, but you get the idea. Back in high school he was just Jimmy Delano, one of those quiet kids sitting by himself in the back of the class, or in the corner of the cafeteria, not enough of a pain in the ass to make himself known, or to call down some bully’s attention, just the quiet sort, reading
Star Trek
anthologies or the latest Frank Herbert, going unnoticed through his high school years. Maybe I was reading things into him that weren’t there, but I always suspected there was more to the little guy than met the eye. And later, whenever he showed up at my apartment, whenever he said he wanted to fuck me, I told myself it was that sweet quiet old-time Jimmy I turned over for. I was fooling myself, but at least I knew it.

“That’s it, big guy, keep going, keep going. Ah. Yeah. That’s it.”

I had about four fingers in there, working around. He’d never let me so much as touch his hole before, but I didn’t ask questions. I tried never to ask any questions that Jimmy didn’t want me to ask.

He leaned forward, knees and elbows on the mattress. He squirmed his ass at me, pushing against my hand, trying to get the whole thing in there. I finally got my thumb into the act, squeezing it in between my fingers, but then everything seemed to stop.

“Jimmy,” I said, “I don’t think—”

“It’ll go, goddammit. It’s going. It’s going.”

And suddenly I was inside him, up to the wrist, my arm poking out of his asshole like he’d just given birth to a twenty-year-old, six-foot-tall man, and the hand was the last to come out. Like I’d just been born, and Jimmy Delano was my creator.

“Holy shit,” one of us said, but I couldn’t tell you which one.

 

Our senior year, Jimmy had gone away for a while, disappeared, not noticed by anybody but me, probably. There was just a silent place, something empty, me wondering where he’d gone, wishing I’d had the chance to talk to him, get to know him.

When he came back two years later he’d already had the dragon tattooed across his back. I heard rumors about him before I saw him, that he was crazy now, that he’d walk up to anybody, peel his shirt off, and make sure they got a good look at the tattoo. Suddenly he was all about being around people, couldn’t get enough of people, telling everybody, like some maniac carnival guy, “Step right up, take a look, take a look at this.” He’d take off his shirt, turn around, and start talking.

The story changed every time he told it. He’d been in the Navy, he said, and got the tattoo in a shop in Bangkok. Or Fiji. Or he’d hiked across Europe and then Asia, ending up in Ti-bet, where he got the dragon during some kind of secret Buddhist ritual. Jimmy was smart, he’d read a lot, that much was obvious. But he couldn’t keep his stories straight.

Fucking liar, everybody said, but not to his face. Most of the local guys, the few remainders of the old gang who were still in the neighborhood, turned and ran when they saw Jimmy coming their way. Couldn’t take it, they said, telling me about it when they stopped at Koessler’s, where I’d be sweeping up, cleaning the bathrooms, wiping down the tables. They’d shake their heads and laugh, “That Little Jimmy Dragon, what a fucking nutcase.”

 

At first I couldn’t figure out why he came to see me. I’d kept in touch with one or two people from school, but didn’t hang out with them. I knew that Jimmy was back, but didn’t have any reason to think he’d try to contact me. I was just biding my time, keeping to myself, telling myself I was trying to make the Big Decisions about my life. I did my bit at Koessler’s, and jacked off when I got home every morning, pretending I’d get off my ass someday, apply to the local college, Be Somebody.

Then Jimmy showed up, out of the blue, knocked on my door like some fucked-in-the-head Cupid had shot an arrow into his ass, and he just somehow knew I had its twin sticking out of mine. When I opened up, he came in, looked around a little, sat down on my filthy old couch like he owned the place. His foot jounced on the floor like he had something to say, but couldn’t decide whether or not to say it, so he didn’t say much of anything. Finally he said
Hey
, and then he looked around some more. When I asked, he said
Nah
, he didn’t want anything to drink, just wanted to see where I lived. A few minutes later, he stood up like he was ready to leave, but then he came over to me, pulled his T-shirt off over his head, turned around so that I could see the dragon on his back. I’d heard about it before, of course, but it was the first time I’d seen it.

“Go on,” Jimmy said, quiet, his voice an octave too low. “Touch it.”

I touched it.

“You’ll never guess how I got this motherfucker.”

 

I don’t think it was really the sex he was after. Some people say sex is the answer to everything, but it seems to me like that’s too simple an answer. Sex is never just sex. Mostly Jimmy came to my place to try out the new stories, I think, since I never questioned him, never let on that he’d told the story before, or that he’d said something completely different last time. And I was horny and I guess lonely, and wanted a little human contact, and my crush on Jimmy hadn’t gone away, never did go away, even after I found out about the lies. I think Jimmy fed on that need, my need, satisfying needs of his own that weren’t just about getting his rocks off.

He’d put on some weight while he’d been gone, muscle weight, not much but just enough to show the veins in his biceps and the ones running down by his hip bones, blue-green veins worming up over the washboards, held down tight by his light brown skin. He liked it when I traced them, my fingers running along his arms, his shoulders; down his belly to the insides of his thighs. He wouldn’t put it into words, or ask me outright to do it, but Jimmy liked it when I touched him slowly. He liked to be…adored.

He came around more and more, started telling me about his family. From Puerto Rico, he said. Or Cuba. Or Venezuela. He told me his sister had had her head cut off by a sugar cane harvesting machine. He told me his little brother died from asthma in the Andes. His parents had been killed by rebels, or had died of diphtheria in some jungle.

 

Whenever Jimmy climaxed, it was like an explosion going off somewhere inside his brain. You could see it on his face, a thousand different expressions fighting for a place there. The first time I saw it, I thought he might be having an attack of some kind. I didn’t know him very well then—not that I ever got to know him very well—and I thought maybe he had epilepsy, or maybe he was having a stroke or a heart attack. He seemed to pull away from me completely, going somewhere all his own. His eyes shut tight, his mouth gaped open, looking like it wanted to yell something, but I guess I blinked and then he seemed to be smiling, peaceful, and I blinked again and then his thin eyebrows lifted up, questioning something, his eyes still closed. All this happened in the space of a few seconds, the time it took him to pump out a few squirts of cum. There’s more that happened, too, that face, but it’s not like I can put it into words. It just seemed like Jimmy took a trip when he came, maybe his life flashed before his eyes, or maybe he was on a planet somewhere where time happened a lot faster than it happened here. Maybe he was living a whole lifetime on that planet, just in the space of a few seconds, or maybe he was making a list, just that quick, of all his hopes and dreams and regrets and joys or whatever of his real life here on earth, adding them up, trying to figure it all out.

I couldn’t say for sure. I just know it scared me a little, every time.

 

Jimmy’d flipped around again, facing me, was bouncing up and down on my cock, but then suddenly he stopped moving. I could feel him loosening up. Not his ass I mean, which was about as loose as it could get, but just his body in general, his tight little muscles going slack. He leaned down close to me, close enough I thought he might kiss me, but at the last minute his body twisted and he rolled off, climbed off the bed, and marched across the bare concrete floor of my bedroom.

He’d done this before, climbed off in the middle of the ride, leaving me feeling empty, cold, sticky; now he had left me feeling suddenly alone, lonely, while he went to fetch his bag. He carried an old army surplus knapsack with him everywhere, not something you’d see the troops carrying these days, but an older thing, Vietnam or Korea era, a thin canvas thing, olive drab, worn and frayed by years of use. I don’t think Jimmy really thought people would believe he’d carried it in combat but it did give him a slightly military look, gave the impression that he’d been through something, been through a lot of something. At least to me it did. Like I said, I was pretty young back then.

But the bag he went to get wasn’t the knapsack. It was a bag within the knapsack, a small leather pouch, black and shiny, newish, hand wide, the top zippered and sloping, making the whole thing almost triangular. It never occurred to me what the bag was actually made to hold. I knew that Jimmy kept his stash in there, sometimes prerolled, sometimes loose but with a pipe. Sometimes it was a toy or two, something he wanted to try. It’d been seven months since we first started fucking, and I could tell that Jimmy was bored after the first couple of times. After that, one by one, came dildos, poppers, handcuffs. Once he had a thong in there, leopard-spotted, that he asked me to wear around the apartment, “just walk around, regular-like, like I’m not even here,” while he drank a sixpack of Old Milwaukee on the couch. Afterward he didn’t even touch me, just grunted and nodded and walked out the door. A few days later he was back, without the thong but with the pot, and he fucked me even if he didn’t want me, him blissed out, counting the tiles in the ceiling, with me doing all the work; fucked me because I was available, because I was willing.

A few days later he asked me to tie him up, burn him with a cigarette. Just around the nipples, he said, maybe a couple on the inner thigh. It was early enough in our relationship that the fire or whatever between us was hot enough, I was feeling I guess vulnerable enough, that I couldn’t say no.

 

When he came back from the living room, he didn’t even try to hide the gun. I didn’t know anything about guns back then, but now I’d guess it was a .38 police special Smith & Wesson, silver, shiny. It dangled at his side, carried casually in a limp arm. I noticed his dick, too, limp, withered up like it wanted to crawl back inside him.

I sat up on the bed. “What the fuck, Jimmy!”

“It’s okay,” he said. He sat down beside me, set the gun on his naked brown lap. A bruise on his left thigh was purple, turning black. He had another bruise on the back of his right hand, the same hand that was spread out gently over the gun. “I was just wondering if you’d do me a favor, that’s all.”