N.

When I passed him on the street he was speaking in that appealing way of his, waving his hands in front of his face, yellow hair streaming out from his head. I imagined he was talking about something utterly quotidian, something along the lines of finding food and lodging, or which train to take to Bergen and how to escape harassment by the authorities. Imagine my surprise when I heard the name of a certain noted thinker temporarily filling the air. He was speaking with another like himself. This other looked far worse than he; he also seemed lost in his own poetic reverie, his hair too was matted with bits of material sticking out of it. His face seemed blackened as if with coal, probably from not having been washed for weeks. Both inspired a touch of envy in me, particularly as I was on my way to work; I was going to catch the train to my office. Wittgenstein, I think I heard him say as I passed him on the street, which seemed inconceivable coming from the mouth of a blond urchin who seemed barely past the age of eighteen. What struck me most was the look on his face: it was a face inhabited by ideas. An expression of thorough contemplation and whimsy sat there, as if he got the joke about discussing the products of cultured minds while being in the gutter. I very badly wanted to talk to him, to invite him out for a cup of coffee, to make an inquiry into his life and thoughts. He lived on the street, scrounging crumbs from trash bins; I once caught sight of him emptying the soiled contents of a bakery bag into his fresh mouth. Heroin chic was in that year, and he fitted the mold perfectly. Although he was filthy, one couldn’t mistake his beauty, with days’ growth of stubble giving his face a rough-hewn quality, accentuating the planar rise of his cheekbones. Admittedly, I’d passed him several times on the street, with the most intense interest and the most careful observations. I formerly thought he might be a bit of an imbecile, because he was barefoot when I first laid eyes on him. This struck me as definitely out of place in the city. He’d gazed back at me then.

Chance had it that I found him standing on line in a patisserie, looking unshaven and bereft. He apparently took pride in being able to buy a cup of coffee for himself. Because I was ahead of him in line I had to think of something so I spilled some loose change all over the floor. As coins rolled in all directions I found myself scrambling needlessly at his feet. Can you lift your foot? I asked politely. He looked down and lifted his foot; for all his worries he seemed indifferent to my gratuitous groveling. I noted the red lace that bound his boot together; a very worn boot it was, with frayed tongues of leather. I could smell the unmistakable odor of his body too, unadulterated by perfumes or soap or even the application of a washcloth. I quickly ordered a latte and lingered while it was prepared. When his turn came, he ordered a coffee, black with no sugar. At the last second, when his blackened fingers were placing his few coins on the counter, I slid a bill across the surface. For a split second I thought I saw something indiscreet come into his eyes. He thanked me with a shy nod, reverting his eyes quickly. God forbid I should think I could actually buy a part of him.

I sat beside him on a stool at the counter. He was obviously hungry, making do with the coffee. His bare kneecap jutted from a not unfashionable rip in the leg of his jeans, which gaped widely, allowing the viewer a glimpse of still-tanned thigh. I told him I’d seen him before, on the street in fact, talking with “a fellow traveler.” You mean a bum, he said. Before he could say anything further I said I couldn’t help but notice you were speaking about Wittgenstein. Wittgenstein? he asked. Yes, I said, burning my mouth on the latte. You were talking with your carefree friend about matters of philosophy it would seem...Wittgenstein? he asked. The man, I said. The thinker. Almost saying out loud—the homosexual—but thinking better of it. He sat silently over his coffee. The Blue Book, I said. Have you read it? He remained grimly silent. No private languages, I said. The world is a word game. The set of its rules is...

The gloomy look in his eyes made my heart sink. It was evident that what lay in my wallet would far better serve his needs. Would you like something to eat? I asked. He glanced at his dirty fingers, holding the handle of the cup tentatively outward, the little pinkie separated from the rest. His eyes cast about for the menu that hung on the back wall of the cafe. Not this place, I replied. I have something better in mind.

I asked for nothing in return, though I am by nature thrifty, conservative, and a bit of a cheapskate.

The brunette behind the counter catalogued our departure, judging by the vulgar expression on her face as she watched us leave. As for myself, my eyes were on his ass, watching a torn globe moving stealthily beneath filthy denim. Score one for the gentleman in the velvet coat, I mentally noted. He carried a small satchel against his right shoulder and wore a battered leather jacket whose original color was left to the imagination. He appeared more vulnerable out on the street as he awaited further instruction. It was clear he was in need of simple fare. I queried as to the cuisine he preferred but his only response was a word that sounded to my car like pits but was actually pizza. As it was too early for that kind of food I suggested a small cafe that served Italian. We found the place and sat down at a small table, where we carried our conversation further. Perhaps you could tell me a little bit about yourself, I said. Do you go to school? I read books, he said, looking about him. But you’ve quit school. Something like that, he said. And you’ve read Wittgenstein? I asked. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, whether at the mention of Wittgenstein I wasn’t certain. He seemed to be eagerly awaiting the food and kept turning his head in the direction of the waiter. When it came finally, he shoved as much of it in his mouth as he could, saying I don’t give a figs ass about Wittgenstein. Then: It seemed he didn't like people very much. Yes, I said, placing a glass of red wine to my lips. He was some kind of inventor, I think. A designer of airplane wings, I volunteered. And Derrida? I asked. Have you read him? Derrida? he asked, wrinkling his nose again. I prefer Lacan. But then you haven’t read Derrida? I asked. He grunted, in between attempts at plying his mouth with yet more food. It took me a while before I got around to asking him if he’d like to come over to my place. “To get cleaned up,” I suggested.

 

G.

I met this guy on the street today. The first thing I thought was, He wants to screw me.

I’d seen him before. You couldn’t mistake the velvet jacket and the awful sunglasses. What he wanted with my ass I had no idea. Of course it all boils down to that in the end. The meat-rack. He pretended he wanted to talk about Wittgenstein, and to get my attention he dumped a handful of coins at my feet. I knew I had it coming when he practically licked my boot while he was crawling around on the floor. Then he bought me a cup of coffee. Before I knew it he was buying me lunch, and I stuffed myself on whatever I could get my hands on. All the while lie kept on about Wittgenstein, even asking me about the other philosophers, you know, the French ones (the only interesting ones as far as I’m concerned). I wasn’t really in the mood to wax philosophical and I said so. His hard-on was obviously making him desperate; he kept looking at my kneecap, then checked out my ass, even while I was sitting. I knew I had to placate him, so I told him some boring story about being remotely related to Wittgenstein—you know, a nephew's nephew. Idiot that he was, he’d never heard of Thomas Bernhard, so he didn’t get the joke, but I bet he’d heard of Steve Forbes (or was it Malcolm Forbes?). He drank a lot of wine and started to make passes at me from across the table. At one point he broke off a piece of bread and shoved it in my mouth. I don’t know what his thing was. With all the money he had, and he positively stank of it, he must have been pretty secure. Having a guy suck my prick isn’t exactly my bag, but these days if such a thing should happen, I might just look the other way. When he babbled on about Wittgenstein, talking about private language, even intimating that the guy had been queer (first I heard of it), I jumped on the bandwagon and said up front: So you’re looking for sex~ It was more of a question. Dessert had arrived. His mouth dropped open, and his eyes lit up. He let his fork fall into his Napoleon, and for a moment he just stared. He was going to come out with a proposition, I was waiting. He apologized, as if he had to cover for my indiscretion. What makes you think I want to do that? he asked, carefully avoiding the word “screw.” He didn’t say anything after that, just paid the check, then invited me to his place, “to get cleaned up.”

When we passed the doorman on the way in, he put a pile of books in my hands (did I mention that he was carrying books?), as if I were his flunky. He was an editor of one of those pretentious magazines, fashion, pop culture, it’s all the same to me. My eyes almost fell out when I got a load of his flat; he had paintings hanging off his walls by de Kooning, Leger, Beckman, real vintage stuff. In the bathroom there was an obscene photo of a dick, cock-ring and all. I supposed that he masturbated to it after he finished pissing. It was a real tearoom. My first intention was to take him for all he was worth. It’s embarrassing to admit, but it’s the only idea that motivates me these days. I took a shower.

He was really into me and obviously couldn’t come to terms with his homosexuality because he persisted in intellectual discussion, despite the obvious bulge in his pants. I don’t know much about Derrida, except that be suffers from logorrhea, I told him. Bookstores have entire shelves of his books; there must have been at least thirty books by him the last time I looked... He (his name began with an N) said that I seemed like a smart lad and that I could probably make something of my life. So I can be like you, I said, and pick up homeless kids...

At this point things took a queer turn. He was playing this antiquated jazz music; I thought I was going to keel over. I told him I’m not into this crap, it’s techno I’m into. He asked me where I bought my clothes. I told him everything I wore was donated. Then he bent down to read the label on my jeans, and once he reached dick level I knew he wouldn’t come up for air. I was looking out of the window into the courtyard below, where an old woman was trying to place a bag of empty bottles into a large bin.

While on his knees, he asked, Who donated their Armani jeans to you? A friend, I said. A generous friend, he replied. The best kind, I said. He was down there, poking around, uncertain whether to unzip or not. He pretended to be embarrassed. I moved away toward the bookcase. There were only philosophy books there.

He wasn’t joking about Wittgenstein, there were at least five by him alone, as well as some French titles.

He’d been drinking a beer, and it really loosened him up. Look, he said when I turned around to face him, you must have the most beautiful ass...I moved backward until my hands met the bookcase. He unzipped my fly.

What bothered me most was that I could still see the old lady by the bins through the window. She was scrambling inside them now, looking for deposit returns, I suppose. It bothers me to look at such things, especially when I’m trying to get it on with someone. By the time I shot my wad, some of the books had fallen off the shelf. He wiped his mouth and picked them up and pressed them to his chest. His eyes glistened gratefully and glowed with a peculiar glint that seemed to approximate desire...or love...

Now that you’ve practically fucked Wittgenstein, I said, how about contributing to my education?

I put my prick back from whence it came. He ran into the kitchen to get a glass and poured me some wine from a refrigerated bottle. Strenuous, he said. Yeah, I laughed, like a marathon. He leaned over and put his tongue in my mouth, but I didn’t like that so I bit it. I’m not a fag, I said. Neither am I, he replied.

I looked at him real hard and thought, Man, this guy hasn’t been paying attention to his Lacan. Shit, I said.

What? he asked. Man, you are repressed, I said.

While I sat eating biscuits, he said I’d like to buy you a pair of shoes. He took his wallet out and laid two twenty dollar bills on the table in front of me. Instead of saying for the blow job, he said for new shoes. I thanked him, of course. And finished off his tin of biscuits. You are one square dude, I said. Who needs shoes? You need them, My dear boy, he replied. As well as a desk to sit at, food in your stomach, a bed to sleep in...Sure, I said....

—and strong arms around you, he said. Yours? I asked. I prefer chicks, I continued, in case you’re interested. A faux pas. He recoiled, as if struck. Girls? he asked. Yes, I said. The species. Chicks. Babes. Dolls. Molls. Women. Whatever. With a nice pair of jugs too, I said, holding my hands in front of my chest. I retreated to the far end of the table. It’s too bad you’re not a girl, I said. This is a nice setup. You’ll get used to it, he said. I didn’t say anything.

Shouldn’t you have said, I asked finally, that I could get used to it? That’s what I meant, he said, but he was full of shit. I led him further into the trap. Get used to what, I asked? A man’s affection, he said tentatively.

By now I’d been fed, relieved of sexual tension and compensated. I really don’t equate the preceding with love in the remotest sense, I replied.

Well, that’s the most philosophical thing I’ve heard out of you all day, he replied.

Philosophical as opposed to amorous? I asked. It takes a while, I told him.

Then I added: You know, it’s difficult to philosophize on an empty stomach.

Philosophy bakes no bread, he said.

But advertising does, I said. Or whatever shit it is you do.

The shit I do, he replied, emphatically, takes care of the little things...

I imagined my sperm in his stomach, a pod of live creatures driven deep into his guts, doomed to extinction.

He had a little dried cum at the corners of his mouth.

And the not so little things, I said, as I was dying to mention his amateur art collection, which I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off since I walked in the door. I envied the bastard and felt a vague desire to bludgeon him to death. There’s always that risk; either he could do me in, or vice versa. If he kept this up, he might find himself in a compromising situation someday. As for myself, my position was already compromised. That is to say, there was no way it could actually get worse.

Well of course it could.

But, like my semen, I was swimming in a pretty rich sea.

 

N.

Logorrhea, now that was a big word. Never mind what it meant, the question was where had he learned it? All my gentle inquiries were met with cold stares of incomprehension as if I had asked him the secret code to his phone card. But he owned neither a phone card nor underwear, nor that brand of self-esteem that lets everyone know that he is not to be trifled with. I let everything he said pass through me like a knife into ether. I paused when asking him pressing questions. (Do you do drugs? What kind of sex are you into?) It turned out that he was kind of square—conservative—in the hetero, sense. He hadn’t yet been dragged down to the extreme level of those willing to pay for satisfying their greatest desires. Anything was possible; the way his white teeth sat in his mouth, set in a shark’s grin, but also easily reminding me of a pearly shore I’d like to wash my tongue against. You’d think he’d only just graduated from washing behind his ears and playing with his rubber ducky in the tub.

 

G.

How many do you bring in here? I asked. He was washing the glass I’d drunk from. How many guys have you brought up here—you know—to fuck?

He winced again. He smiled. Not many, actually...

I wasn’t happy with the forty bucks. It seemed I was worth more than that. Yes, I wanted more. It would have been nice to walk away with a small lithograph, the one in black and red ink, for example, a Miro perhaps? I was certain I was worth the price of a small artwork. Of course on the street a Miro would make a poor pillow, and it would be worth crap with my connections.

He could tell I was thinking about flying the coop. You could stay here, he suggested.

I laughed. With a key to his flat I could walk away with everything. This guy was a pansy through and through.

I just looked at him. He wasn’t bad looking, really. The first thing you notice when you get down to these well-bred types is how clean they are. His skin was like a baby’s after it was scrubbed. His hands were soft, womanly, and smelled of soap. It was obvious that he’d never done a stitch of hard work in his life. His body, though a little too bulky on the bottom, was well-formed and not too hairy on top. He had removed his tie and unbuttoned his shirt, so I could see halfway down his shirt when he was blowing me. He also kept his eyes fixed on me the whole time. I hate that, when someone’s watching you when you’re about to get off.

He left the room and returned with a pile of books. Wittgenstein and Lacan, of course. For you, he said, placing them on the table in front of me. As if the first thing I’d do was open them and start reading them. To tell you the truth, I’d probably hock them first chance.

I opened the cover of one of them and looked at its table of contents. Groovy, I said. He disappeared into his closet to look for a pair of shoes that might fit me, “in place of those useless boots.”

A cock ring might fit me too. He had a La-Z-Boy chair, one of those numbers you can fall asleep in. I wanted to see how far I could push him. No homicidal impulses rose in my throat this time. He came back into the room while I was setting myself up in the chair. As I leaned back in the chair he stared unabashedly at my crotch. He held the shoes before him.

Some of them just want to get you in a back alley. This one was thinking about love. Boy was he going to get screwed.

He held the shoes in his hand as if they were brand new. They were those corduroy jobs, dark green, square in the front. I tried them on, and they fit. But there was no telling how long they’d stay clear of piss and filth.

You’re welcome to stay here, he told me, as I stretched out in the chair. Then I actually fell asleep. When I woke up a note on the table told me he’d be back by eight. He’d written his work number, as if I’d need him. His handwriting had that pathetic spindly quality that little boys’ writing has. Splayed out and unsure, the letters barely held themselves together. It amazed me that this guy could function at all.

Feeling strangely discreet, I decided not to poke around. I just went through his refrigerator to see if he was one of those well stocked types. All he had was cheese and some grapes. And a bottle of wine. A real gastronome.

 

N.

One of the first things I noticed was that his dialogue was peppered with the most vile language, mostly slang from the street, but utter filth nonetheless. One ought to wash his mouth out with soap, I thought, and realized that the idea gave me a certain pleasure. His language, which suited neither his features nor his angelic mannerisms, surprised me at first, but like every thing concerning him I quickly got used to it.

I fetched him home, making him carry a parcel of books on the way in. We skipped the elevator and took the stairs. It was only two flights, but he appeared fairly winded judging by his labored breathing. When we got to the flat, I told him to go in first. He looked about with surprise; it was impossible to tell whether he’d expected a minor castle or a major dump. Put the books there, I said, and he dumped them onto the couch as if he hadn’t heard me. I winced perceptibly, but he was too busy sticking his hands into the back pockets of his jeans and examining the walls, where several of my collected artworks hung.

Though I love filthy but beautiful bodies I bade him wash up, at least in the sink or whatever. He suggested a shower, much to my delight. I could hear him lathering up and singing lustily in jock fashion while I set about straightening up the place. The place suddenly seemed to me dry, fusty, with too many porn magazines lying about. When he came out of the bathroom he caught me sticking a pile of Gerbils under the cushion of the easy chair. He walked in a sprawling way with his legs turning outward, as if he weren’t certain which direction they were taking him. He darted in and out of the rooms wearing only a towel and disappeared only to reemerge wearing jeans and an undershirt.

It was only a matter of time before I had him cornered against the bookcase while I unfolded his lovely cock out of the confines of his Armani jeans (donated, he informed me, by friends). At first he protested, saying that he didn’t screw boys. My groping intentions were then met with a blithe indifference as he looked away, toward the window. As he charmingly put it, he let it slide when someone was willing to compensate him for the “gift of unloading.” I kept an eye peeled to his face as I took his cock in my mouth, running my tongue up and down his shaft. I tried my best to accommodate him, more for my pleasure than his. I could have prostrated myself before his dirty feet, sucked his toes, and considered myself happy.

It didn’t make me feel valiant or dignified in the least to have this young urchin pressed against the bookcase, while almost imperceptible moans escaped his lips and I gobbled his prick. I didn’t care what it made me look like, I cared only for the feeling. His eyebrows were dark in contrast to the rest of his hair, and his lips stayed open in a gentle o. He threw his head back in the brief spasm that overtook him while coming; I couldn’t quite get enough of his taut blond thighs as I stroked them. Just as he peaked, his lips parted and some smut flowed out: “Oh, you fucking scumbag”—is what I caught; it was a literal sigh.

When it was over he folded his prick back into his pants like a wilted flower and guiltily looked down at the floor where several of’ my books had dislodged themselves.

I plied him with juice and an old pair of shoes. I left two twenties on the table in front of him. He examined everything with a rough-and-ready expression, as if, having exposed his prick to a stranger, he was now open to the most unexpected of assaults or situations. I noticed the haughty expression on his face when I offered him the money, as if he wasn’t certain he was going to accept it, but I offered it with the whitewash of using it to buy new shoes.

He smoked extensively and asked me about my work. Then he went through my cupboard in search of sweets. It was late afternoon, and I had not returned to work yet, having gone out originally for an early lunch.

I told him he could stay of course and make himself at home. Which he did with a somewhat indignant air.

We talked very little about Wittgenstein, because he was tired and nodded out in the easy chair. I left him there, asleep. I was almost incapable of keeping my eyes off his crotch as he lolled there, completely unaware of my presence, that rip in the pants leg intriguing me with its implications...I wasn’t certain whether it was his sweet face I craved or the lovely tumescence of his crotch. I hastily scribbled a note and fled to the office, uncertain whether I’d still find him there when I got back.

I found him curled up in a ball on the floor when I got home, naked except for a pair of my underwear. My place is covered wall to wall carpet, so I suppose it made a nice resting place. Oddly, he was right next to the bed, facing it in a pseudo-fetal position. This disturbed me a little. Evidently our student had a tendency to revert to the wild when left on his own. I’d have to rectify that. I stood staring at him for a long time, watching his milk-white skin aglow from a distance, his spine bent in a sublime curve as he slept; the golden array of his curls lying flat on the surface of the floor startled me with its beauty.

I thought how nice it would be to keep him in a cage, this leonine youth, whose energy I could share, whose body I could have as my own. I felt a certain need to trap him; I couldn’t just let him wander in and out at will.

I went into the kitchen. The books I’d given him were still piled on the kitchen table, apparently unread. There was a plate beside them with the remains of grapes and a few dried pieces of Swiss cheese. I looked in the garbage and saw an empty box of Camels.

What a specimen he was. I didn’t know whether I should step over him to get into bed or wait until he awoke. I suspected that if I woke him he’d want to go out. A creature such as he probably came alive only at night. The idea that I’d get into bed and he’d knife me in my sleep—something weird like that—occurred to me. So why should I trust him? I had a shower, prepared my clothes for tomorrow. It was past twelve, and he’d barely moved. I cautiously stepped over him and he grabbed my ankle suddenly in a kind of reflex. It’s me, I said. His startled eyes peered out from beneath his wild locks, but his face was suddenly blocked by my erection, which filled a good deal of the space above him. Come into bed with me, I said. You can’t be too comfortable down there.

He uttered some curses, words that I didn’t catch this time, but minutes later he had his back to me and was in the bed with me. I placed a hand on his slender waist, but he appeared a little uptight about it so I removed it, only saying good night, my angel.

 

G.

So what’s your story? I asked. Mine? he said. Yeah, what’s your story? You’ve got to have a story. Everyone does. Immediately his hands started to flutter to his lips; it made me want to hit him.

He saw the malice come into my eyes and swallowed rapidly. He was probably getting a hard-on. It’s complicated, he said, for now.

Oh, I replied, a real fairy tale gone awry, right? Well, not exactly, he said. He appeared uncomfortable for a moment. Then he folded his hands in his lap, in an attempt to placate some kind of innate tendency. I went to school, he began, at very distinguished institution. He’d studied, of all things, architecture. This ornate travelogue concerning the milestones in his life proved so uninteresting that I preferred him naked with a paper bag over his head. But to get what I wanted I decided to play the game—not to speak out of turn and to reward his arduous foray into his past with a boyish smile or something I thought was innocent.

It must be difficult living alone, I said, with the heavy responsibility of being executive editor of some sloshy fashion mag. It was known as the “cake”, this slick packet of pages whose icing was advertising. Well, whatever, I said. Then we got down to the business of skin on skin again, that is, to the blowing of my cock.

It seemed he wanted it shoved down his throat at all hours of the day. And I was always a little drunk when the time came around. He started to talk garbage after only two beers. For a man who liked boys, “cunt” seemed to be his favorite word. Besides Wittgenstein and those ridiculous word games he kept mentioning.

A word game is...the use of language is... —even between mouthfuls of prick, mind you. As if I needed a lesson in the use of a phrase to gather its meaning. The man was a zealot in the worst way. Bordering on pathology. I got sick of it pretty fast.

I think I fascinated him because I was exotic to him; he was interested in me precisely because I was of the street; plus I was young, fair-skinned, while he was dark, overweight, and stuck in some middle-aged rut. For these reasons I tried to look on the good side of my predicament. The less fixed I was anywhere, the more attractive I became to the fixed types. I would win, he would win, but who would come out on top, I wondered. I didn’t have the right to an attitude but I did have the right to something. I needed so much, and I knew nothing would ever satisfy me. I was suffering from some kind of deprivation—who knew what it was? But paired with this guy who was hard up, I realized we had this complementary thing going, his hard dick for my hard ass, my hard heart for that soft thing fluttering in his chest, his softness and kindness bringing out the worst in me. It was a Jigsaw puzzle I fell into. Soon it got to be that I was fucking him, and I developed a taste for things I’d never done before.

He was all over me as usual, praising me from here to hell and back, smoking like a fucking chimney. We were smoking together. He let on like I was his soon-to-be husband and that I was going to marry him.

Are you kidding? I asked. I told him I’d think about it.

Here we were shacking up, and the time frame was barely two and a half weeks. Some people know how to go for broke in the shortest time imaginable.

Sometimes I wished he’d shut the fuck up. If you want to charming, it’s better to keep your mouth closed. I thought this as I watched his boring face go on interminably abut intellectual matters. As the words flowed ceaselessly I saw the grimaces he made along with the bemused expression that tangled up his face, I literally wanted to ball up my underwear and stuff it in his mouth. It made me sick that he was really talking to himself and not to me at all. I noticed how he didn’t make eye contact; he went on moving his hands in tight circles, talking to someone who obviously knew as much or more than he did, which wasn’t me. I was trying to keep from drawing conclusions that inevitably featured his body in ultimate states of torture—just for fun, of course, not to make any sense of what things could happen inside my head—but it didn’t matter, because he kept talking anyway, until I reached out a hand and held it to his lips. Whatever matters to you, I said, but what about me?

It was that fucking Wittgenstein again.

When he felt my finger on his lips, he said What is it, my dove?

I had to ask him to stop calling me those stupid names. They were driving me crazy. Sweetheart’s OK, I said, but I’m not your golden studkin or your sex kitten or baby doll. First of all, those are for girls, and I’m not a girl. I know; you’re my man, he said. OK, I said, I’m your man. just call me by my name and stop degrading me.

It seemed to hit him like a sack of potatoes in the head. I guess it was the word degrading. Who’s degrading you? I’m not degrading you, he said. If anything… (The silence made me complete the thought. I’m degrading him.) Yeah, love can be degrading. Just keep it to yourself, I said. I guess I looked like I wanted to smash him in the mouth, because he looked hurt.

I started pretty early on calling him pretty much anything that came to mind. I let myself run the gamut with every filthy word I could think Of course I couldn’t help but capitalize on the word fag. Your mother’s a fag hag, I told him, which happened to be true. She called him practically every day. I sat there listening to her stupid voice, the volume on the answering machine turned up (he was hard of hearing). She wanted to know how junior was getting on. Did she know that junior had a liking for the uncut cocks of street boys? I didn’t think so.

I wouldn’t discuss HIV. It’s one topic I hate to discuss. You been tested? Ever suck on a guy? Take it in the ass without a rubber? Man, what the fuck do I look like? I said, when he started getting on my nerves about the disease. I could be, you know. I’ve never been tested. Actually I’m afraid that I might have it, and I just don’t want to know.

That look on his face was like he had just fallen off a horse. I could see him counting in his mind how many times he had sucked me off. Did he have enough fingers? Well, it wasn’t that bad, considering.

Since I had never really fucked guys before, I guess he thought he was safe on that account.

It’s just that when the words came out of his mouth—those silly, ditty-like things—Tarzan, little goat (my wild goat, I liked that one). Hey, I was taking it in the ass but I wasn’t a fag. He was a fag, because he couldn’t get it up for a woman. He was a fag, because deep in his little heart of hearts the words love and lust were so mixed up with filth that had to put himself on the floor and let the desired love object piss all over him.

I didn’t object, of course. To pissing on him when the time came. And he didn’t object to my harping on the word fag. Just as he couldn’t help but call me “his beautiful cunt” when he was at the end of something; I called him “the fucking fag” whenever I referred to him un my head. Wittgenstein be damned.

 

N.

I walked in on him going through my drawers. In search of what, I don’t know. Can I help you with something? I asked. He was pretty suave about it, sliding the drawer shut neatly so that just the tips of his fingers were inside it. I was looking for matches, he said. I don’t keep matches in my underwear drawer, I said. He stood stiffly for a moment, as if I had pointed a gun at his head. Next time, I said softly, just ask. Oh, yeah, he said absentmindedly. Then, Thanks, man, when I handed him a pack from my jacket pocket.

I’d just come home from work, and as usual he had lounged about in my flat the whole day, apparently not lifting a finger to do anything, not to wash the dishes, not to clear the breakfast plates off the table, nothing. I could only imagine what he’d spent his day doing.

I walked into the living room and couldn’t believe my eyes; my porn collection (an indiscreet stack of videocassettes containing juvenile porn) had obviously been riffled through; the stack was just a little off center and tilted at a slight angle. The VCR was on, channel 03 staring me straight in the face. I looked at the easy chair and imagined him sitting there—in my underwear—with his legs spread, jerking off, or watching the action with a rapt expression.

I went through my head imagining what other private things of mine he’d tampered with: there was the safe in the back of my closet...He must know about that by now. He probably knew how to break into it too. But he wasn’t going to let me know that he knew about it.

So, why was I doing this, housing this hoodlum? Because his face was angelic, haven’t I said that already? I kept telling myself, After all, it’s been so long since I’ve had someone who mattered in my life.

He was stretched out on the bed, naked as usual, casual as a young lion, smoking, his nicotine-stained fingers held the butt delicately, as a small frown on his face, showed how grave the situation was. What’s the matter? I asked. My dad...he said.

What? I asked. I said I thought there was something wrong with my dad, he said. Your dad? I asked. Yeah, my old man who was not my old man, he said. Because, you know, my mom remarried when I was still playing with Tonka trucks. He must have been off or something.

Mmm...I said. You want to talk about it?

A beautiful sneer appeared on his face, as if he were going to spit on me. Tell you what? he asked, defensively. What it felt like to have some old prick’s tongue in my ass when I was nine? He looked as if he were about to fall apart—or smash his fist into my face. I was anxious to hear every detail. But once he got an eyeful of my concentrated expression he became intractable.

Get the fuck off me, he said, jumping off the bed. His penis hung down between his thighs like an oversized dead snail; the golden triangle of his pubic hair seemed so perfect I could have fallen to my knees and worshiped it. I tried to tease the details out of him. They were essential to my interests, you see. I had to imagine that I was the first one who’d had entry into his body. He would always have entry into mine. And I would never get a chance with another like him.

I was ashamed and embarrassed at myself, further corrupting a youth who’d obviously been manhandled far too early in life.

Where is this bastard? I asked. Who the fuck knows? He said. I don’t know where my family is...and I don’t care, either. Any sisters or brothers? I asked.

Again that mistrustful look came into his eyes, as he squinted at me through golden hair. Yeah, a sister and a brother, he said. OK, I said. You’ll tell me about them when you want to.

He seemed to become more hostile and indifferent towards me after that. And we never got around to discussing things of a philosophical nature at all, though I continued with my usual studies, whether in his presence or not. After all, I couldn’t spend every minute sucking his beautiful cock or caressing his testicles—he wouldn’t have let me, anyway. He said that I made it sore, keeping it in my mouth for that length of time. I wasn’t certain whether I felt kinship or antipathy toward the man who’d taken advantage of him. Still, couldn’t contain my excitement when he finally spared me a few facts. I catalogued them in my head like vignettes from a porn film.

So I had him, all five feet eleven inches of him, Sprawled on my bed, ass checks resting against my sheets, head on my pillow, spilling his urine into my toilet bowl and pressing his lips against my drinking glasses. It was too good to true.

I wanted him to make use of my body in any way he saw fit—with the language of the gutter flowing from his lips—and I said so. If you could just understand that being in his presence alone was enough to satisfy me: to have his fingers trace the marks where they’d left their sharp indent, to see his features tighten while I sucked his cock and let his cum flow down my throat.

It was getting a bit out of control though, that is, our manner of congress was rapidly leaping into hard-core domain. He insisted that I pay him for the privilege of allowing him to come in my mouth. Then he insisted that I pay double for the privilege of my coming in his presence. He demanded that I “keep that vile shit directed somewhere else” when I inevitably shot my load, and I could sympathize with that request, as one must develop a taste for the fluid, at least these days. He didn’t want to admit it, but he had the makings of a real hustler, and he seemed very relaxed in the role, as if he would always fall into the right kind of situation, intuitively finding that special someone who would open up his life to my angel in a way that could only prove beneficial to him. And whether his eyes were closed, whether his hands were tied, whether he was floating on his back in the middle of a bed, staring at the ceiling, one could sense that he would always rise to the top, in any situation.

 

G.

I took one last look around his apartment going over in my head the things I’d like to take. He had this splendid painting of a bunch of flowers in a vase that were like zinnias or something. I got such a good feeling from that painting. He said it was French, seventeenth century. There’s no way I could ever take that thing with me—it was too big.

Then there were the lithographs...I smoked a cigarette, took a beer out of the fridge.

Cool pad; I was going to miss it.

Trouble was that I’d had an offer I couldn’t refuse. One of those situations where the geezers are coming out of the woodwork. This friend was going away with one of them for the weekend—the island getaway. He needed a second, a go-go boy who could shake his ass. That would be me. I realized N. was strangling me with his gaga love shit. I’ll fly the coop, but I can always come back. Sitting stationary, it’s not a good thing. They start thinking you haven’t got wings. They start thinking you’re getting a little domestic. Buck naked with an apron tied around your waist, standing over the stove, acting like you love the whole thing. My friend and the old dude, it was promising something else. Like switching horses in mid-stride. A breath of fresh air and a change of scenery. That was my scene. Not this stultifying atmosphere of the morgue on its way to becoming a mausoleum. I went through his drawers—found some nice clothes for the weekend and a money clip as well. And—ah—guess what I took from the walls? That’s right. Old N. would have a shit fit. Fag had no choice.

 

N.

It surprised me, the way he disappeared. It was so sudden. I thought we were a team and that we made a handsome couple. You can’t question these things too closely. He came and went as he pleased. I gave him what he needed, that composed look on his face hadn’t remained indefinitely. Our highbrow lad was in fact a person of’ mixed proportions. Part street, part Rimbaud, one-quarter angel, the rest unmentionable. He’d worn no clothes the whole time except my brand new underwear, which he didn’t change unless I told him to. He stayed in my flat a total of three weeks before disappearing mysteriously on the third Thursday. I was out at the time. Running some fool’s errand. The only things missing were a Miro lithograph, whose value I’m sure he didn’t appreciate, and a money clip containing several hundred-dollar bills. Admittedly I’d left the money in a bedroom drawer to test him. It would stand him in good stead. Perhaps it would give him the opportunity to start over on the right foot. Perhaps he’d return to me, after his venture failed.

All I knew was that he’d run off with a pair of my best slacks, the shoes I’d given him, and a linen jacket as well. I couldn’t help but express a sob when I spotted a few golden hairs on my pillow, as I prepared for bed later that night. He didn’t leave a note or anything. But the unflushed urine in the toilet said “I’ll be back.”

You’d think I’d learn my lesson. On the bedroom dresser was a Polaroid of him. Taken in the late afternoon when he’d finally roused himself from bed. Leaning against the wall in the kitchen hallway, with a smile lost among all those curls. I swallowed hard when I looked at that photo. I knew what it all meant.

I thought about the first time I’d seen him. It was right in front of the Gap store on Aspen Place; I saw him lying stretched out in public view, practically in the way of the passersby, dirty but wearing designer jeans, his bare feet poking up in the air as he lay on his back. Just then a train went by underneath him, and hot air from the station came rushing through the grate on which lie was lying. His clothes fluttered in its breeze, and he smiled at me, and I realized that it was rather chilly and that the subway grating was probably the best place to be.

 

© 2005 Van Scott - Contributor's Bio