Ok. I'm going to start over, just to refresh your memories. What are we dealing with here? Fucked up people, right? And me? I'm nineteen, fucked up and I've got my head up my ass as well. It's a who-screws-who party with me doing everyone and getting done by everyone.

How long have I been doing this? I know America isn't Eastern Europe but it comes pretty close sometimes. I was young when I started.

I had a dream last night. Some people wanted me to teach a scuba diving class. I've never scuba dived before so I thought they were crazy. The people seemed pretty convinced I could do it. I wasn't so sure.

It's too bad that the most unattractive men are usually the smartest. It doesn't say too much about me, but it's true, the piggiest looking ones usually act like pigs. I always thought that the way a person looked corresponded with some kind of order in the universe. Like if you were perfect looking, then you had to be sort of perfect inside. And those who are less than perfect on the outside must also be less than perfect on the inside. Are you with me so far?

Maybe that explains why I treat piggy men like pigs. Of course you know that even real pigs aren't that bad in comparison to certain human beings. Sure it's the pot calling the kettle black, but that's me.

About one particular pig I have the following description: He was of average height, but one could see he was far too intelligent for his own good. How could I tell? By the way he couldn't look anyone directly in the eye--particularly me--while he was trying to get me to consider. A shrewd and essentially fucked up character, this piggy was. At first I didn't want anything to do with him. You take Porky Pig I said to a richly endowed friend of mine. No, he's yours, he said. It depended of course, on who porky wanted. Super ten inch or me.

He was balding and had a small upturned nose (what else), plus small beady eyes and short, stubby fingers. He didn't dress too piggishly, though; Piggy was rather turned out. The tweed suit fit him even though the collar was too tight and his round belly was bursting a few buttons here and there.

He was dawdling at the bar. Any hustler worth his salt can identify his mark.

He'd take a quick sip of his drink, his little eyes darting to and fro. He was going to take my ass and treat it like a truffle, I could see that. I imagined him rooting away in it... No innocence there, I can't help but see them for what they are (porkers).

Intelligent people aren't always that patient, and piggy was no exception. Again my friend left me to the wolves.

When it came down to him and me, piggy would not look me in the eye.

I stood stock still with a corner of my mouth turned up.

What next? A trite dialogue followed. His name was Terry, which somehow fit him. I gave him the Simon bullshit and he took it and kept glancing over his shoulder like he was waiting for someone to join him. He wanted to drink and talk, said he was 'nervous'. Looked like he had just come from somewhere where he'd done something naughty. Naughty Mr. piggy, what are you doing out so late at night chasing boys, I thought; I pegged him for a cheating-on-the-wife type. A pillar of society, except when he was coyly eyeing illegal rough trade; I was sure he could easily be found sticking knives into unsuspecting hustlers' insides--a specialty fetish, you might say.

I have too much imagination and I know it. Well, shit, standing around and looking at these faces can set a person's mind tripping. Imagination makes up more than three quarters of one's reality anyway.

I tried the old trick of getting him to light my cigarette; then looked at his watch. Is that a Rolex? I asked. A Rolex? He asked sounding perplexed. Don't be ridiculous, he said. It's just a Longines.

Just a Longines. But a nice Longines. What time does it say? I asked. It says 11:25, he said. What a waste of a night this is going to be... I thought.

You could see he wasn't taking the bait. He needed to get sloshed first. Then his greedy little mouth was going to open and sleazy propositions would fall out. But I made it easy for the prick; I propositioned him.

He was no virgin; just hung up with psychological complexes that fags sometimes have. (Remember the phrase: Closets kill? Well, they do.) He spoke in low, furtive tones, as if I might have a tape recorder hidden on me and might be in the blackmail business, which I'm not, in case you're wondering. What's your figure? He asked.

I did the routine. Stating that I was not a urinal, or a place to ejaculate into … Perhaps the crudeness of my language shocked him, but he said ok.

As to locale…We're going to my place, he said. My friend Robbie was busy making faces at me off in the distance. I grinned and left.

It was nice him having his own place; I could curl up in a ball and go to sleep maybe. I wouldn't turn down a penthouse there if it were offered to me. He had no wife, just a cat. He could very well be a fag, I realized. He seemed nervous; guess he couldn't believe he was getting what he wanted, finally.

These kinds of situations often freak me out. When there are no glitches you wonder if something's up. He was a quiet, polite pig. I was waiting for the nasty stuff to appear.

He wasn't exactly butch. He gave me something to wear. A bright yellow pair of bathing trunks with a white line down the sides.

Try these on, he said. They fit. He looked pleased. We'd talked cash and he'd paid without a whimper. I was looking for a diversion and he pulled out a little spoon and fed my nose with white powder. We were bonding…

He didn't change in his private sphere; still the furtiveness and that inability to catch one's eye. You could see he was up to something. I couldn't help but feel like a piece of flesh picked out at the local butcher.

So my boy, what's next?

It's up to you, I answered.

Well, what does one ordinarily do in these situations? He asked. I found a station I liked on the stereo and he poured me a drink. Then I danced for him in his living room. It was just me dancing, not the romantic kind where two people cling to each other while sappy music plays. I wanted to show him that I didn't care one way or another.

He came over and reached out his hand, like Adam in the Garden of Eden to touch the forbidden fruit…

He caressed my cock through the swimsuit; it was a soft, tentative caress. He couldn't seem to touch anything else. And I wasn't about to make it easier for him.
I could take off the suit and watch an SHO movie. That was his suggestion. Cornball, but so what. What's on? I asked. He threw me the TV guide. Have a look. I did another line of coke and perused the movie listings.

You must work out, he said; you have quite a physique. I scuba dive once in a while, I said.

Oh really?

Yep.

I like to swim, he said.

How romantic. It was all fitting into his fantasy. What exactly do you do? I asked.

Well, it's rather complicated, he said; it has to do with the stock market. Oh. Only an asshole would think otherwise. It was clear that he'd been looking at a computer screens for the last fifteen years. Porn. You're not married, are you? I asked. I was in the bedroom. The trunks were still on. The remote was in my hand. He was in the kitchen.

Oh, no, he called out. Why would you say that? He stood in the doorway and I could see that he'd removed his pants.

His ridiculous little legs were crossed at the ankles; one hand was on a hip.

Well I don't know, I said. You just don't seem—gay. But all of a sudden he seemed gay. I turned my eyes to the TV screen. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre was on IFC. I changed the channel.

I don't think I was being paid to watch cable. But Guilty as Sin was on channel 55.

I found him in the kitchen dancing next to the refrigerator. He had a glass in his hand and short, grey socks on his feet. A tight pair of white boxers did a poor job of containing his bulging stomach and equipment. I needed a refill and reached for the icebox.

You're a prince! He sang. Did anybody ever tell you that? Once in awhile, I said. Do you mind if I get some ice cubes?

Not at all; help yourself. I was getting the ice cube tray when he suddenly started touching my shoulders.

You must show me how you swim, some day…

Sure, I said.

Perhaps we could go to the shore together…

There's a good movie on, I said. It's about this guy who marries rich women and then murders them…

Really…? he said, doubtfully.

It's got Don Johnson in it.

Oh, that queen, he said.

Would you care for a little more coke?

Sure, I said. I'd fallen into some kind of role with piggy. It was too easy. He wasn't all that bad, but he acted a little like an asshole. I'd taken him for someone a little more serious. He was a little plucked, over-the-hill peacock who stood in front of mirrors, and there wasn't much to coo about.

Do you think we could rent a car and drive to the shore one of these days? He asked.

Summer was months away.

Sure, I said.

Simon, he said suddenly. You know, we are not here just to talk. I was on the bed watching the movie. Rebecca DeMornay had Don Johnson hanging by his fingertips.

Well, you suggested it, I said. I know, he said; but I'm feeling a little… neglected.
I could stay here, I thought; if he'd only leave.

Come here, I said, patting my side of the bed. He sat down next to me, and ran a hand tentatively down my leg. Let's take these off… he said. The trunks came off.

Suddenly piggy switched into overdrive; I don't know what his problem was, something must have broken the restraints in him, drink probably—or the prospect of dick being so near. Whatever the case, once he caught a glimpse of my pecker in the blue light of the television he was like a bridegroom on his wedding night.

I practically had to beat him away with my fists.

He was one priapic pig intent upon sticking it in and telling me how good it was going to be for me.

I grabbed his hands and told him I didn't deserve to be treated this way. He acted surprised and hurt. Well, you have to do what I say, he said.

Says who?

He pulled some string out of a draw. What's that for?

It's for bad boys who don't know any better, he said.

I had my face down in the pillows. My ass was in the air; he was… well, doing what pigs do.

Whoa. I almost laughed. He huffed and he puffed, and he snuffed his way in; then he yelled out I'm coming! That stupid string was around my wrists, decorating them.

I thanked god when it was over. But I was hard for some reason and he smiled when he saw. Don't worry, he said, I have just the solution…

He didn't know much about giving head, so I pushed him off me. Let me do it, I said. Take these fucking strings off me.

I did one of my lightning fast hand jobs then said, now, if you'll excuse me, I think I'll take a shower.

There's food in the fridge, he said as I headed for the bathroom.

Did piggy make me feel good about myself? Not really. Being looked at and admired by a john was tantamount to looking in a mirror all the time. You get tired of seeing the same old thing. Besides he was as ugly as a car wreck.

When I came out of the bathroom he wanted to graduate into something more hardcore. He was swigging alcohol from a bottle and talking about videotaping me.

'For his personal records'. I'm no porn star, I told him. But you could be, he said. Just like he could be a jackass. The television scenario suited me better.

He kept indiscreetly grabbing my pecker, and I thought it would serve him right if I bashed his head in. It's what he deserved. Maybe every john deserves his head bashed in. But that was his bag, anyway. I mean—he was pushing me to the limit.

We were on the bed, getting sloshed; another movie was on; Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil, though I didn't catch most of it. That's because he had me tied and he wanted to stick things in my ass. I was ok with that as long as he didn't go in too deep. But of course he did. When I cursed him he seemed to hold his breath and wait for more. Then he was the one who was tied and I was sticking things up his ass.

Pretty humdrum, right?

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I felt the urge to hurt him for real.

I knocked him on the side of the head with this see-through glass unicorn paperweight; he gasped, looked at me in disbelief, then fell back on the bed. That was easy. It wasn't like I did it all the time, but it was damned easy nonetheless.

I took a look around, because it seemed different now that I was alone all of a sudden. I wanted to see what I might pocket. His watch, of course. He was moaning on the bed. Apparently he'd live. I managed to get the watch off and decided to go through his wallet as well; it was in his jacket. Why, not. There were some $50 bills and a picture of him with a woman in there. Looked like a wife. He had a 1,000 lire note in among the bills and I took this as well. It seemed like a lot of money.

I walked out and left him like that. The lire bill came out to a measly .45000 cents, when I looked it up on the exchange. I got pissed off and gave it to a bleary-eyed bum sitting on the sidewalk examining two packages of bologna. The guy must've thought he'd hit it the jackpot. I laughed as I imagined him trying to buy a bottle of whiskey with it.

I shouldn't have done that to piggy, what had come over me? Still, I did it. I didn't head for the hills, though I knew I might be in a peck of trouble. I took a three-week vacation. Went out to the country, where I got some peace and quiet, finally. It was time I got away.

Pigs are hard to kill. I was to run into him some two months later. It was early summer and I was back in action, hanging in my usual haunt after having avoided it for over a month. It seems he'd come around looking for me, but people told him I was no longer around.

He seemed altogether different when I saw him again. Still very much a pig, but now jovial, happy even.

If it isn't sexy Simon, he said. I was in the middle of a conversation with someone.

I'm sorry to butt in, he said, but the lad and me need to have a word.

He grabbed hold of my arm and pulled me off to a corner. You've got some nerve! Hitting me on the head like that… You nearly killed me, you know. And taking my wallet…

Don't you have anything to say for yourself?

I wanted to see if you had a picture of your wife in it, I said; you did.

Where did they make you? He asked.

It's not too late for an apology, he said.

Well, I'm sorry.

You should say it more like you mean it.

I'm sorry for almost bashing your head in, I said.

That's better. Have you thought about professional counseling?

No, I said.

Oh, what's the matter, he said, the Longines didn't pull in what you'd thought, did it?

On the contrary, I lied; I traveled in style for quite some time on that little object alone.

He was obviously not from New York and thus played by a different set of rules. He'd probably call it honor or something.

But it was a thief's game and there was no honor. You had to know the combination of the safe and be in and out quick.

So now, where were we?

You wouldn't happen to be in debt to an old man, would you? He asked.

I stared back uncomprehendingly. Stupid me, at the time I didn't know that in a way I was in the process of being robbed. Of my innocence. A thief's comeuppance, someone would say.

I don't know what you're talking about, I answered.

Yes you do, he said. His piggy face was in my face.

You ungrateful little fuck! He said. What was the purpose of that?

Of what? I asked.

I treated you well, he said, and what did I get?

You were acting like an idiot, I said.

Don't talk back to me, he said. As far as I can see you don't have a leg to stand on.

And neither did he, potty queer.

But you know what, he said… His expression changed. Now he was smiling. I'm going to let it slide… because you're—I see you as my special boy.

Fine, I said. Why don't we have a drink. We have a lot of catching up to do. I humored the bastard, then gave him the slip as he probably knew I would (if he didn't, then he really was hopeless). It was the old I've got to go to the head trick.

Sure I enjoyed sex once in a while, but I couldn't get off unless money was involved. It may have been a sickness of some kind. You could look it up in the DSM under the heading: 'Can't fuck unless gets paid'.

But that swine, I saw that he paid.

 

©2003 Van Scott - Contributor's Bio