Archive for May, 2013

Rome Was Not Burned in a Day

Ugh. Monday.

I always dread Monday mornings, but this one was worse than usual. What a crap weekend it had been! Saturday was my Aunt Flora’s memorial service; what a disaster. Plastic sunshine, and bottled saccharine; half-truths and blatant lies; and it had dragged on for hours. They made her out to be some sort of saint, when in reality she had been a crabby, alcoholic old biddy. To make up for that torture, on Sunday after church I had locked myself in the apartment with my illicit vibrator, about forty gigs of confiscated porn, and a jug of bathtub vodka. And now I was paying the price.

At least the coffee was hot. I looked at our list for the day. It was like a thousand names long. My Chief Inquisitor and I exchanged a look. Melinda knew just as well as I did that there was no way we were making it through that list in one day, and tomorrow there’d be a fresh one, just like it. Ah well, we’d do what we always do: start at the top and work our way down.

Melinda put in her earbud, and I took my seat in the control room behind the mic, and I had them bring in the first client.

A pair of burly Adepts walked him in. He came along meekly, already naked of course. I checked my list. Ezra E Elmendorf, 25, single, male. Occupation: Topiary Artist. Topiary artist? For real? It was either a joke or the perfect cover story. This guy had no red flags against him, but a list of yellow ones a mile long. The usual collection of questionable, but not quite illegal, internet hits. He’d been suspected, but not actually accused, of writing anonymous erotica in high school. He went to the same church as Samuel Sikes, the Seattle bomber. Again, in high school he’d been friends with Damien Davies, the convicted pornographer. His name had been mentioned ‘under extreme duress’ by both a defrocked librarian and a female ex-coworker. A short list of girlfriends, all of them with dodgy, but not quite loose, moral ratings. He’d been in Boise two weeks before a bomb blast that had killed sixteen people. And he’d just bought tickets to Denver. Holy shit, no wonder they’d hauled him in.

He wasn’t bad looking, not at all. Even naked and in custody, he stood tall and defiant, doing his best to look unafraid. His genitals betrayed him, though. His gear was all shrunk up, tiny and wilted and trying desperately to hide. One of the nifty things about male equipment is that the flaccid state tells you almost nothing about the excited version. Under the right circumstances, this shriveled and cowering frightened little penis might well blossom into a proud, solid, aesthetically pleasing erection.

I spoke into the mic, “Warm him up.” And the Adepts did their job, bouncing him off the plywood walls like a dodge ball; punching him in the kidneys and gut; and kicking him roundly once he went down and stayed down. I liked these guys. Very professional. Some Adepts take way too much pleasure in their jobs; these fellows were all business.

“Let’s see what Mr. Ezra has to say,” I said, and in the room Melinda took over. The Adepts backed off, leaving him prone and gasping.

She nudged his penis with the tip of her boot. Classic. Implied threat. I love working with Melinda. “Let’s talk,” she deadpanned.

She worked him for the full twenty-five minutes, occasionally letting the Adepts step in and dribble him off the walls and floor, or hose him down with cold water, but mostly just asking questions: Where were you, when? What did you do there? Why did you make that trip? And always: names, names, names. He gave her nothing. He was either completely innocent, or doing a very good job of playing dumb.

We had a list to get through. “Let him go,” I said into the mic, “We’ll bring him back in tomorrow.”

Next up was a weepy adulteress from East Brooklyn. She was easy, but loud and shrill. I finished my first cup of coffee and poured another. The hangover was pounding between my ears. It was going to be a long old day.

I looked Ezra up after work. He was exactly where his personal file said he would be, in a medium-sketchy coffee saloon on the Lower East Side. I sipped decaf and watched him from across the room. He showed no sign of having been worked over that morning; but our Adepts are well-trained, and a Derma-Patch will work wonders on bruises and abrasions.

I went up to him. This was all way outside my brief, total yellow flag territory. “Pass the milk?” I bent over, practically dangling my cleavage in his face. Nothing. He looked up at me, smiled, handed me the little metal carafe. He was reading a novel; not exactly scripture, but nothing too racy either. I took the cream and went back to my seat, quietly seething. I sat and watched him read his book and sip his latte for the next hour.

He was a good looking man. I tried to picture him naked. I had, of course, already seen him at his nakedest, but with male nudity, it is all about the circumstances. And, I thought, under the circumstances of my bedroom, he’d look pretty good indeed.

The next day, I had the Adepts spend the first fifteen minutes of the session working over the soles of Ezra’s feet with rubber straps. He screamed until his voice was a ruined husk. “Please! Stop! No more! I’m a gardener, for God’s sake! I take care of plants!”

Melinda dumped a five-gallon bucket of ice water over his head, and the Adepts stepped out of the way. “Well, let’s talk then.” She squeezed his scrotum; technically in violation of protocol, but she always knew exactly how far to push it. “Give me some names.”

“I don’t have any names! I don’t know anything,” he sobbed. “I don’t know anyone.” I was embarrassed on his behalf.

I had the Adepts go back to work on his feet, beating them left-right-left with all the regularity of a metronome while Melinda waited, one eyebrow slightly raised, shadow of a smile on her face, pencil and notebook in hand, just waiting for him to name some names. We went four minutes long, and he screamed until his screams were a hideous choking croak, but not one name did he name.

Not that night, but two nights later, I saw him again at the sleazy coffee dive. He sat there, calm and composed as the Buddha, reading his novel and sipping his latte. He’d discreetly slipped his shoes off under the table.

“Is this seat taken?”

“Be my guest,” Ezra rasped. His larynx was still trashed.

I sat down next to him, letting my knee brush casually against his. He flinched as if I had just touched him with a live electric wire. I did it again, pressing my flesh against his, just to let him know it wasn’t an accident.

“This drip coffee isn’t too bad,” I said, “but I have a new espresso machine at home. Would you like to come over and try it out?”

As far as dropping hints, it was only slightly more subtle than pulling off my panties and waving them under his nose. Ezra wasn’t stupid, nor was he gay. He took the hint. He gingerly put his shoes back on, and we walked out the door together, arm in arm, and took a taxi back to my place.

Premarital sex is straight-up illegal, a big fat red flag. Fooling around, on the other hand, is a grey area, a statutory demilitarized zone; officially frowned on, unofficially permitted. As long as it is done discreetly, between a man and a woman, a little heavy petting is generally tolerated as a kind of pressure relief valve. Yellow flag at worst. We shamelessly and un-discreetly made out in the back of the cab all the way back to my place in Park Slope, while the driver tried hard to look like he wasn’t watching in the rear view mirror.

Ezra was a good kisser: neither too tentative, nor too sloppy. He kissed like a man who had some experience kissing, and I liked it. I snuggled up next to him in the back of the cab, enjoying the warmth and solidness of his body next to mine. I squeezed his erection through his pants. “I am going to eat you alive,” I whispered in his ear.

Back at my apartment, we wasted no time. His shoes came off first, followed by the rest of his clothes. He looked beautiful in this context; tall and lithe, he reminded me of some graceful bird. A crane, perhaps. His cock jutted out eagerly, thick and taut and proud.

I stripped down to my panties, leaving them on out of some vestigial sense of modesty, and we curled up together on my bed. We kissed and touched a little more. It was delectable. His cock got even harder than it had been before, straining purple and urgent. His balls were plump and warm. His feet were swollen, and there were bruises around his thighs from the restraints, but we didn’t talk about that. I got down to the business of sucking his dick.

It was a real pleasure to go down on him. He tasted clean and male, and he was trembling with excitement. Just trailing my tongue down the underside of his erection made him groan with pleasure. I kissed his balls, kissed his perineum, kissed the underside of his drooling glans. Then I swallowed him whole, lavishing my tongue all around the head while my hand stroked his shaft. He came hard, and he came fast, filling my mouth with his salty-bitter semen, hot and sticky and sexy beyond measure. I held him between my lips until he finally popped out, soft and spent.

We drank a little bathtub vodka, and kissed some more, his come fresh on my lips. He fingered me through my panties, and found my pussy wet and ready. As he probed my juicy pussy, his cock slowly got hard again, rising like a phoenix.

“I want you to fuck me,” I said, and I meant it.

“What?” his voice was painful to listen to.

“Fuck me,” I repeated. “There’s condoms in the top drawer.” Funny. Condoms are illegal, but everybody has them. Even the Inquisitor has a stash, tucked in under her prim and proper undies.

He pulled back hard. “I’m sorry,” he rasped, “I’m not sure I can do that for you. I think you’ve got the wrong guy.”

“Are you for fucking real?” I pulled back the crotch of my panties to reveal my hungry hole.

“I’m just not sure I’m comfortable with that… I’ll go down on you if you want.”

“Forget it,” I said. The moment had passed, my mood was shot. “Get dressed. Go home. I can take care of myself.”

Sullenly, I watched him get dressed and hobble out of my bedroom. I suppose I should have let him stay and have a go at licking my kitty, but that was not what I was in the mood for. My mail-order Canadian vibrator did the trick. It did the trick very nicely indeed, and when I was done I slept harder and deeper than I had in a long time.

I had Ezra pulled in again. Bumped him to the top of the list, and then skipped a few names past him, just to make him wait. We came back to him just after lunch. The Adepts brought him in, naked and obedient. I could smell his fear, all the way through the thick plexi window.

“Dunk him in the bucket,” I whispered to Melinda through my headset, “Four minutes.”

“Three minutes is the legal limit,” she subvocalized back, not telling me anything I didn’t know already. “Do you want to kill him?”

“Four and a half,” I said, “He’ll live.”

The burly Adepts crammed his head into the five gallon bucket, and held him there while he kicked and struggled. As the seconds ticked by, I felt my cunt getting wet and my clit tingling inside my uniform pants, and I know Melinda was feeling the same thing too. Four and a half minutes, not a second longer, and they yanked him out and dropped him on the floor, where he vomited profusely, coughing, choking and convulsing in a puddle of his own urine; his bladder had emptied involuntarily.

“Talk to me,” Melinda urged gently, towering above him.

“Fuck you,” he croaked.

“Take his fingernails,” I said.

Melinda did it herself, with a pair of stainless steel pliers. It only took three before he started singing. He named names for the next twenty-six minutes, as fast as she could write them down. He left the room a broken man, hands bandaged, head bowed.

Melinda and I screwed that weekend. I went over to her place, an austere apartment in a neo-art deco high-rise on the Upper East Side. I brought a briefcase full of files with me; if anyone asked, I was there for a business meeting.

We had been together before, but this was the first time we had ventured into full-on unadulterated red flag territory, which only made it all the more exciting.

Melinda possessed an exquisite, hand-carved strap-on walrus-tusk dildo, smuggled in from Canada, and she proceeded to fuck me with it. She did it exactly the way I had imagined Ezra doing it to me: from behind, tucked in close with her breasts pressed against my shoulders, tugging my hair and nipping at the back of my neck while she fucked my hungry pussy.

She fucked me hard and mercilessly. She pulled hard on my hair and drilled my cunt. She fucked me until I didn’t think I could take any more, and just as I was about to ask her ‘Please’, she released my hair, put one hand over my mouth, and reached down between my thighs with her other hand and found my clitoris. I came, screaming silently into her hand, impaled and writhing on her ivory phallus.

I gave just as good as I got. Melinda didn’t feel like getting fucked, so I licked instead, starting with her firm, perfect breasts, and working my way down to her petite, wet and slippery, red-hot little pussy. She was so sopping wet down there my face was more or less instantly coated with her juice. She tasted fresh and musky, a little bit salty, a little bit tangy. Her pea-sized clitoris was pink and swollen. I lapped up and down her vulva, parting her labia with my tongue, teasing her clit. I ventured down between her ass cheeks, experimentally brushing her tight, crinkled anus with the tip of my tongue. I was rewarded with a husky moan as she pressed back fiercely against me, spreading her cheeks wide for me. I drilled at the tight little hole with my tongue, straining to get deeper up her ass.

I ended up finger-fucking her asshole and her pussy at the same time, the flat of my tongue pressed hard against the bulging button of her clitoris. She came hard, her entire body shaking, chewing hard on her pillow to keep from screaming out loud. Her body squeezed my invading fingers spasmodically. It was deeply gratifying.

Afterward, we kissed and cuddled for a long while, and inevitably, we both got excited all over again. This time we both did it with our fingers, lying face to face on her bed, kissing throughout as we molested each others’ wet and slippery pussies, and when we both came, our lips were pressed together, and we moaned softly into each other’s open mouth.

I would have liked to have spent the night, wrapped comfortably in her arms, but that would have been far too dangerous, so instead I got dressed, packed up my briefcase, checked my hair and wiped my face, crotch, and pits with a moist towelette, and took the elevator down to the lobby, past an impartial-looking doorman who, I’m sure missed nothing, and out into the street. I hailed a taxi, and rode back to my place in Brooklyn. Alone.

Her scent still lingered on my fingers.

Early on Monday morning, a bomb went off at the Denver office of the Department of Moral Hygiene. Six people were killed outright, dozens more wounded. Try as I might, I just couldn’t bring myself to care.


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The Ten Thousand Things

It is far too early on a Saturday morning, and outside my apartment, the Peaceable City slumbers silently. The empty streets are a still life, a daguerreotype, an idealized architectural sketch, and it is shaping up to be another grey and rainy day. I am going to be hung over. I can tell already: the buzz behind my ears rings threateningly, an angry hive, an unrelenting alarm clock. I want a cigarette, badly, though I haven’t smoked since my senior year of high school. Not tobacco, anyway.

I don’t feel like masturbating, no not at all. I feel like going back to sleep and staying that way, but my body insists, and I am nothing if not a slave to the flesh.

So I roll over, unsnap my rig, and slide out of my harness. Ever since college, I’ve slept wearing my strap-on. It’s sort of like a phallic security blanket.

I let my hand slide inside my boxer shorts, past my scruffy patch and down in between my labia, where my liege and master, that impatient little nubbin Mistress Clitoris lies waiting for my undivided attention.

It isn’t happening. The requisite wetness simply isn’t there. I get up, pee, and swallow a mouthful of water. Then I climb back into bed.

I pull off my boxer shorts and my red t-shirt, and sprawl across the crumpled sheets. My mouth feels like the factory floor of an asbestos plant. Never drink and wallow at the same time: it always leads to disaster.

I close my eyes, and think about one of the first times Jeremy and I were together. Not the very first time. Like most first times that was an awkward experience; rushed, clumsy, hot as a flash fire, sexually unremarkable, and rather blurry in my memory.

This was the second or third time, and though I’m by no means a prude, I’m a little embarrassed to say just how early on in the relationship this was. I think it was our second ‘official’ date, and I think we ditched the ‘date’ part. Such is life.

I was packing, and I wasn’t at all sure how Jeremy would react. We’d been making out in his open front doorway, halfway into the hall, and I could feel his erection pressing against me through his jeans, and I was pretty sure he could feel my own boner through my skirt, and he tugged me back inside in the direction of his unmade bed, and I put up no resistance. I proceeded to spend some quality time sucking his dick: I’d already gotten intimate with his gear, but this was the first time I’d had the opportunity to enjoy him at my leisure, lights on and unrushed, and I was enjoying myself immensely.

And then he reached up inside my skirt, and found my own cock. It was roughly the same size as his, but perpetually firm, and an entirely different shade of electric blue. I wasn’t wearing any panties under my harness, and my cunt was as wet as Niagara Falls.

He didn’t skip a beat; that was the moment I knew he was a keeper. He opened his mouth wide, swallowed more of my hard-on than I would have thought possible, and proceeded to suck my dick while finger-fucking my pussy to a quick-and-dirty, wet-and-squirmy orgasm. Then we fucked.

Jeremy did it to me from behind, jerking me off as he slid his dick in and out of my pussy, and teasing but not actually penetrating my asshole, and I remember thinking it was hotter than hell. My tits swung like pendulums, and my silicone cock felt like an extension of my clit. But he couldn’t come through the condom, so we disengaged, and ended up sitting on his bed, watching each other whack off, which was also pretty damn hot. I’ve always liked watching dudes masturbate. It’s sexy.

Ok, so now I’m plenty wet, and my clit is hard and poking out, and this is happening for a second. And then I think about the very last time Jeremy and I had sex, and I totally lose it. Breakup sex is supposed to be wild, rough, and uninhibited, a last hurrah; ours was saccharine, mediocre and apologetic. Unsexy like a credit card bill. Just like that, I am dry all over again, arid as alkali flats.

I get out of bed all over again, and go for the quick fix: internet porn. I want to watch some videos of cute guys with big dicks jerking off, or jerking each other off, or shyly kissing and giving each other head. But between my antique laptop and my crappy internet connection, it is more frustrating than a fistful of limp dick, and I am forced to fall back on my imagination. Which, when it comes down to it, has always been my drug of choice anyway.

I walked in on my brother masturbating once. Looking back, I’m pretty sure he set it all up. His bedroom door was halfway open, and he was naked on his bed, surrounded by magazines.

He had the biggest dick I’d ever seen, at the time; and at the time (I’m ashamed to say) that was a huge turn-on for me. He didn’t stop what he was doing; he just looked up and leered. I turned right around and ran back to my own bedroom, where I masturbated like a feral weasel. This was before I’d discovered the joys of pornography, and that was the single sexiest thing I had witnessed to date. In retrospect, I’m fairly certain that Leo had intended for me to stay, and maybe join in with him. In retrospect, sometimes I wish I had.

Much, much, much later, I stumbled across my dad’s porn collection, hundreds, maybe thousands of photoshopped and airbrushed pictures downloaded off AOL. His taste was not my taste: he was big on 25-year old cheerleaders and busty women in improbable-looking Little Catholic Schoolgirl outfits, all neatly indexed and catalogued.

The image of my dad, bathed in the blue light of the computer monitor, dick in hand, masturbating to these images is almost painfully erotic. I imagine ambushing him, catching him in the act, wearing nothing but thigh-high stockings and my rig. I sit on his lap, our boners wagging in concert as we browse porn together. I stroke him, and he strokes me. And then he slips his penis inside… I may be a sick little cunt, but at least now I am wet.

Filthy and disgusting. Now things are slippery enough that I can masturbate. As long as I am thinking perverted, disturbing thoughts, I imagine fucking a dog, a big, black, shaggy dog with a long, slobbery tongue, sharp nails, and a fat, bulbous dick.

I manage to rub out a small orgasm. It is distinctly unsatisfying, and leaves me feeling frustrated and disgusted with myself. My hangover is rolling in like the high tide. I decide to take a shower. Lord knows I need one.

Red, red wine stains my lips like cheap lipstick. My mirror image sizes me up. Overall, I don’t look too bad. My tits aren’t the perky things they were back in college, but they’re still pretty cute. I’d fuck me. I crank the water up as hot as I can stand. My mirror-self disappears behind a billow of steam. She’s got a pretty cute ass, too.

In the shower, I think about my college girlfriend, Cynthia. We taught each other about kinky sexy, making it all up as we went along. One time she told me that I couldn’t do anything to her that she’d ever say ‘no’ to.

The first harness I ever bought was made of crappy black plastic that looked awful and fit worse. The dildo that came with it was an obscenely veiny latex schlong, the exact same grey color as cadaver flesh.

I bushwhacked her one afternoon while she was studying. Grabbed a double-fistful of her long, brown hair, and dragged her struggling across the dorm room. Never once letting go of her gorgeous, nut-brown locks, I crammed my dong down her throat until she choked and gagged. While she coughed and dry-heaved, I took the opportunity to handcuff her to the immense Victorian radiator that clicked and hissed and spat. Her pussy was sopping wet, purple, swollen, pouting open and droolingly ready. I poured lube all over my dildo and down between her pale ass cheeks, and shoved my dick up her virgin asshole. Cynthia screamed until I thought she was going to cough up blood. The rest of the dorm must have hated us. She never said ‘No’ to me.

Afterward, I lounged on the bed and stroked my cheap latex dick and ogled while she masturbated. It was the best sex I’d ever had, though I didn’t even have an orgasm. She looked at me like a beaten dog, and we broke up shortly after that, and I went back to dating guys, for the most part.

I only pegged Jeremy once, which is kind of ironic because I’d been wanting to do exactly that to him ever since I first set eyes on his sweet little ass. When he finally asked me, shyly and sweetly, my heart swelled up inside my chest, my clit stiffened and my pussy drooled.

Jeremy was nervous, and crazy tight. I tried to be super gentle with him. I can’t tell you how sexy he looked, splayed out before me, back arch and muscles tense, dick pointing straight out, impaled on my fat blue cock. I think I enjoyed the experience a lot more than he did. He never asked me to do it to him again.

Thinking about all this has made me hot and bothered again. I could masturbate right here in the shower, under the hot spray of water. I even own a vibrator designed expressly for that purpose, a small waterproof unit. I used it on Jeremy sometimes, when I would blow him in the shower: I’d hold it against his soft skin, that spot just below his ball sac, while I sucked his dick. That used to do the trick quite nicely.

But I am not in the right head space for the vibrator. I am feeling perverse and perverted. So I turn off the water, and exit the shower, leaving wet footprints across my bedroom floor. I strap my harness back on, and my cock juts eagerly out in front of me, bobbing as I move. I grab my fleshlight from its hiding place under the bed, and I slather it in lube. The orifice is shaped like a crinkled little asshole, soft and creepily realistic.

I jam my dick up inside. The toy swallows me readily. I hold it still with both hands, fucking it with my hips. I fully intended to start slow and soft and work my way up, but that isn’t happening. I back the toy up against the wall, and slam it with everything I’ve got. Each time I thrust, I get a jolt of pleasure from my clit as it is crushed against the base of my dildo. Harder and faster, and I am grunting and grimacing, the fleshlight is squelching satisfyingly, my dick slides in and out, and I am going to fucking come. This time it is for real. My ass clenches, my toes curl, my boobs shake and my nipples stiffen, and I howl out loud, and keep on fucking. The orgasm washes over me, pounding through me. I am tossed and tumbled, lost in time and place.

It wasn’t the sex that did Jeremy and me in, not at all. It was the Ten Thousand Things. All the small, stupid, mundane, crappy things that just piled on and added up and gummed up the machinery of our relationship until it simply didn’t work any more. Too much weight and friction. I’ll miss him, but now I am ready to face the day.

I take three Advil and get dressed. As usual, I am packing, a smaller, more discreet rig than the one I use for play time. If you look, you can see the bulge in the front of my jeans: a tangible ambiguity.

Outside my apartment, the sun is peeking through the clouds, and the Peaceable City is just waking up.


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Blessed Be

I found him hiding in a culvert in the far back, downhill end of my property. I wasn’t entirely surprised to find him there: the dogs had been barking overnight, and I’d heard helicopters.

I’d brought my shotgun, but I didn’t need it. The kid was in a bad way. He was covered in more-or-less congealed blood, twigs, dirt, and mud, and he wasn’t really conscious. His eyes were open, but I don’t know how much they were seeing. He looked up at me from about a thousand miles away, and made a noise that might have been “fuck’ and might have been “help”.

He was a skinny sack of shit and bones. Young kid, probably about the age of my own son when he died. Israel was driving drunk. I guess I’m just lucky he didn’t take anyone else with him. He was such a smart kid; how could he do something so fucking stupid? I never did forgive him for that.

I threw this kid over my shoulder and carried him, fireman style, back to the house.

Found his gun later on that same morning. It was in the mud, not far from that drainage ditch he’d crawled into. Nickel-plated Glock knock-off. The magazine was empty. There was still a round in the chamber. Jammed more than likely. The whole business went to the bottom of the lake, as far out as I could throw it.

Kid slept and slept like he never wanted to wake up. I wasn’t at all sure he was going to make it. He’d lost a lot of blood. Bullet had grazed his neck, just missed his right jugular. A fat chunk of shrapnel had lodged itself deep in his left gastrocnemius. He had a pretty high fever too, that just didn’t want to go down. I pumped him full of horse antibiotics. That seemed to do the trick.

I was jerking off when he finally woke up. Nothing unusual about that, for better or for worse. I was hanging out naked, just idly stroking, flipping through my stack of glossy old 1970’s skin mags, when I heard him croak out something that sounded like “water”.

My cock swinging back and forth like a pendulum, I brought him a tall, cool glass of water that he drank thirstily down. Didn’t say ‘thank you’. Didn’t say much of anything. I went back to what I was doing. I don’t know whether he watched or not.

Kid didn’t talk much. Even when I got him up and about, and on solid food, he mostly held his peace. Sullen, or just the quiet type, I don’t know. I never did learn his real name. Sort of didn’t want to, if you know what I mean. On the second or third day, a uniformed cop came knocking at my front door, asking if I’d seen or heard anything unusual in the past couple of days. Of course I hadn’t. On TV and the internet, the hubbub died down and faded into the usual background noise.

He walked in on me jerking off to an old VHS tape that Miriam and me had made way back when, years before she’d passed away, when she was still healthy and we were both young and good-looking. I heard him come in, but I didn’t stop. He was leaning pretty heavy on a cane; he’ll probably always walk with a limp.

“That you?” This was about as verbose as that kid got.


“Shee-it.” On the grainy TV screen, Miriam is riding me cowgirl-style, bouncing up and down on my vertical cock. Her tits bounce in unison, her face is thrown back, pink and flushed with ecstasy. I’ve got to get around to converting those old tapes to digital.

I was about to tell him to pull up a chair and join in, but he turned away, went clunk-clunking off into the kitchen. I heard him open my refrigerator. Kid was on the mend. I returned my attention to the television and finished up what I’d been doing.

A couple days later, I walked on in on him. He was in the living room, trying to get my old Atari working, tangled up in a spaghetti mess of cords. I pulled the plug out of the wall, threw the console across the room. He didn’t say anything, but he gave me a filthy look.

I popped in a tape. This was one I’d shot myself, of Miriam giving me a blowjob. She loved to do that, and she was an artist when it came to fellatio, a true virtuoso. She could make me last for hours, blissful hours if she wanted to, bringing me off at the exact moment of her choice, and not an instant before. God, she had beautiful lips.

I pulled out my dick and stuck it in the kid’s face. “Go on,” I said, “Have a suck.”

“I have a girlfriend.”

“Used to have a girlfriend,” I corrected. I made the gun sign with my thumb and index finger: *pop* “Go ahead, it don’t bite.”

Well, he made it clear that he didn’t like it, but he had a go. I can’t tell you that he was very good at it either. Whatever else that kid might have been, he wasn’t no natural-born cocksucker. I ended up just jerking off onto his face. Which he just plain hated.

I took him that same night, in the upstairs bed I’d fixed up for him. He was asleep when I came in. I pulled the blanket off, and he stirred. He had a heavenly body, young and lithe, and the ugly mess of scar tissue on his leg and neck just made him all the more beautiful.

He was sleeping face-down in a pair of my old white-and-blue striped boxers. I cut them open, straight down the ass, with my deer-hunting knife. I thought for sure that would wake him up, but it didn’t.

I gave his plump ball sac a squeeze. That woke him up.

I went down on his asshole for a little while; as much to relax and moisten him, as for my own pleasure. He certainly wasn’t complaining. Kid was definitely a virgin. Holy shit, he was tight! I could barely get the tip of my tongue past his sphincter.

I probably should have worn a condom, but the fact is I just didn’t feel like it. Once I’d eaten him out a spell, gotten us both nice and hard, I climbed up on top of him and lay down. He knew what was coming.

He screamed when I penetrated him. For real. There was nothing fake about it, a long, drawn-out howl of pain and protest, insult and injury. Now, I don’t like to think of myself as a sadist or anything, but that scream was pretty damn gratifying. He grunted like he’d been stabbed every time I shoved my dick further in. His asshole gripped my cock like a fist. For me, it was pure bliss.

The kid may have been hating it, but his dick stayed nice and hard. “Go on, jerk off.” I whispered in his ear as I fucked him. I was going deep and slow, making every thrust count. “I’m not coming until you come.”

His face was buried in the pillow. He reached down between his legs and started frantically whacking off. I increased my tempo, pummeling his asshole with a literal vengeance. When he finally came, his whole body spasmed, and he cried out like a wounded animal, and it totally set me off. I shot off deep inside him, and collapsed on top of his prone body, kissing his head and the sweaty back of his neck, my penis still wedged up inside his twitching anus.

Back before, before the cancer had taken over Miriam’s body, she used to do that to me, now and again. I hated and loved it, craved and feared it. It was just one of those things that made our relationship so special. She used to call me a ‘sexual omnivore’, in the fondest way possible. I’m glad she didn’t live long enough to see Israel die.

I cut him loose the very next day. Drove him over to Union Station and dropped him off. Gave him a wallet with three hundred bucks inside, and Israel’s old driver’s license and social security card. It wouldn’t stand up to a serious background check, but for just getting by, it oughta do the trick.

I didn’t expect gratitude, and I didn’t get none. He looked at me, his big brown eyes utterly unreadable. “I done some fucked-up shit, didn’t I?”

“Yes you did. And now you get to live with that.”

I did some pretty bad stuff too, back in my wild days, but nothing on that level. He’d winged a cop, killed a pharmacist. I didn’t tell him that two of his stray bullets had killed a three-year old girl and put her mommy in a wheelchair, paralyzed from the waist down.

I watched him hobble off, leaning heavily on my old wooden cane, until he disappeared into the milling crowd, a pebble in the churning rapids. The kid’d be alright, I reckoned, so long as he stayed out of trouble and kept his head down.


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