The night Don loaned his tenant his copy of The Monk was the night Jeremy had intended to confess his love to his landlord. These nights didn’t happen all too often, but Don would soften a little and allow his tenant to sit in his study and glance over his collection of outdated pulp novels and volumes of mix-matched literature. Don was very proud of his collection of restored classics. His Gaston Leroux was dated 1912, the cover restored, each page immaculately crisp, weathered from age but strong and readable. Don also knew that Jeremy never read any of the books he loaned him. The boy simply appeased him by holding onto the book, familiarizing himself with the first few chapters and then returning the book after ample time to research the plot on the internet. At first, Don found this amusing and would schedule his visits to the boy’s room around this exchange of literature, but now it was insulting.

The most recent book exchange involved a small paperback, which appeared in mint condition. The dehumidifier that rested next to the bookshelves had done wonders for its preservation. Don boasted that this particular edition had been printed in the 50’s. “Matthew Lewis wrote this when he was twenty, younger than you even. And it only took him 10 weeks,” the man said while looking over the thick manuscript. “I would love to find an edition from the 1800’s, but that’s got to be damn near impossible now.” Jeremy feigned interest as Don talked about the author’s history, seemed obsessed with the book’s violence and the rape scenes. “You can read this one, but it’s the only copy I have. I don’t want any scratches on it.” Jeremy cradled the book in the folds of his arms, as if clutching a squirming child. He truly had no interest in a book by a dead writer. The text was small and dense and it could take weeks to read it.

The first time Don found one of his books discarded on Jeremy’s bedroom floor, he snatched it up and shook it in the boy’s face. Jeremy sat at his desk, a scribbled notebook under his hands, startled by the intrusion. Don had made Jeremy remove his own belt before he tossed the boy against his futon bed and whipped him. The beating stung his backside but his jeans had cushioned so much. “Remove your pants,” Don said mechanically. When Jeremy hesitated, the belt arched down again, too close to the tenderness of the boy’s lower back. He undid the button and let the jeans sag and waited patiently for the belt again. It was Don’s hand that spanked him next, almost cupped his cheeks at first, but then rapidly slapped against the unguarded skin. Don kept spanking him and cursing him as an illiterate brat. The boy’s backside glowed red and his eyes watered, but Jeremy kept himself hunched over, anticipating every slap. His erection was enormous. Then, as if a bell had struck deep inside of him, Don stopped abruptly and backed away unsteadily. He closed the door behind him and vanished upstairs. When Jeremy was certain his landlord would not return, he scurried into the bathroom and masturbated hard, almost breaking the skin with his dry strokes.

The times afterwards were never as exciting as the first, which to Jeremy seemed so unrehearsed and rushed, the exhilaration winding him. Now it was routine and Jeremy ached for something more, something bigger and greater than a hand or a belt. As for Don, he was getting agitated. Originally the boy had behaved with the same rustic manner as his previous tenants. He had sobbed during the punishments and treaded carefully around him with both fear and longing of this attention. Now the boy appeared too eager for punishment and would stare at him with juvenile fascination.

Don was a stern man in his early forties, his body weathered but still strong and refined. His hair still the same jet-black color of his boyhood and his chest and arms still sculpted from his time in the army. He had owned the townhouse for several years, when he had first started at the university as an adjunct professor. Now he commuted into Washington and occasionally taught a political science course at Georgetown. His tenants were usually young men and women attending the university. Jeremy had been renting the basement bedroom for the past four months, was failing half of his classes and risked suspension from the graduate program. His steady downfall was carefully observed and under constant speculation. Don kept probing him for mental resilience, eagerly anticipating the boy’s breaking point; knew that if he looked closely, he would witness the boy’s identity crash into total submission. But Jeremy kept resisting, was bothersome and attention seeking. The fact that Jeremy had not humbled infuriated him. Once Don had toyed with the idea of penetrating the boy, twisting him over the study desk and anger fucking him. Now Jeremy seemed only moments away from requesting it.

Jeremy sat on the floor of Don’s study, skimming through the first few pages of The Monk. The boy had been staring up at him for some time, as if he had something important to say, thought better of it and remained silent. Don was not in the mood to hear the boy’s voice that night. “You know I’ll be having guests over this Saturday.”

Jeremy glanced at him, doe-eyed, and nodded.

“You’ll need to be well dressed for a change and I want you to clean the kitchen for me.”

“I can take care of that,” Jeremy said. Don did not throw parties at the townhouse often. They were usually small intimate groups of people and the tenants were never officially invited. “What do you want me to wear?”

“A nice sweater will do, or something with a collar,” Don replied, lighting a Parliament. He had opened the window and the cold November air was washing in past the sill.

“Do I have to shave?”

Don coughed a little from the smoke; his lungs felt a little heavy that evening. “It would look better. And you can get a haircut. Some of my friends can be…judgmental and its getting shaggy.”

“Or I could wear a hat,” the boy replied. He was no longer meeting Don’s eyes, but glancing over the fine print of the book. Jeremy seemed younger that night, smirking to himself in puerile fashion. “What do you want me to say to them—these judgmental friends of yours?”

Don extinguished the cigarette and rose to close the window. “Say what you like. Speak when you are spoken to and don’t embarrass yourself or it will make us both look bad.” Don placed his hand over the room’s light switch and waited impatiently for the boy to exit before turning off the light.

The morning before the party, Don got up late to find Jeremy had already made the coffee. Usually Don woke earlier than the boy but had spent the previous night walking along the bar strips that littered some of Northern Virginia’s seedy neighborhoods. He had ended at a small brothel tucked away in Arlington. The madam who ran the place was a fat woman who dubbed herself Anais and spoke with a mock French accent. Don requested a girl who could take it rough, a girl with some edge to her. The madam had nodded disapprovingly and said he would have to settle for Sophie. Then the thick skull-crusher goon, Angelo, showed him to his room where a lovely young Hispanic girl was waiting for him. “You have an hour. The ringer goes off when you got five minutes till I come in,” the goon said.

Sophie played timid with him, trying to read her new client. Don grabbed her, fucked her hard and squeezed her bare breast, which made her yelp. He was handling her too roughly, slapped her and spanked her until the girl started screaming. When Angelo barged in, he pulled Don off and dragged him out of the hall, pants hanging around his ankles. The other girls had scattered, whispering and sneaking cheap laughs.

“You rough up my girls and I handle it,” Angelo bellowed.

The young whore rushed out, was talking too fast for Don to understand until Madam Anais slumped her way over. “Sir, let me apologize for Sophie. She is still…finding her feet. You can tuck yourself back in now.”

Angelo had let him go and Don scurried to his feet and yanked up his pants, glaring at the girl. Sophie stepped behind Angelo defensively, swirled a strand of her hair in her fingers.

“No hard feelings I hope. But it would be a sign of good faith if you still tipped her,” Madam Anais said. Don’s face remained clenched as he fished out his wallet and tossed the wad of left over dollars, some of them five’s and ten’s. It was Angelo who cuffed his hand on Don’s shoulder and genteelly escorted him out.

Don was still sore the next morning. He felt the biting rage of being humiliated in front of the whores and had not even come. He had imagined Jeremy lying awake, waiting for him throughout the night, had probably been sitting up, undressed, eyes wide and playing tricks in the dark. The coffee burned the roof of his mouth as he swallowed it down. Jeremy’s dishes from the night before were still stacked in the sink and all the milk was gone.

Jeremy was masturbating when Don banged his fists against the door. It was eleven and the boy was starting to regret skipping breakfast. He had barely enough time pull the black sweat pants up and guard his erection as the bedroom door swung open.

“Come close to me,” Don said, straight faced. The boy was trying to tuck himself into his pants, face glowing red, and rose slightly off his futon. “Closer,” Don beckoned. Jeremy slumped forward and let a smile escape across his face. Don reached out and clasped the boy’s arm, squeezing hard enough to bruise, his breath still pungent with morning odors. There was no sense of fear across the boy’s face—that had disappeared weeks prior. Still, Don searched for it, one glimpse of sweat on the brow, a quiver in the arms that laid flaccid on either side. Not one hint of fear on the boy, only anticipation. Don growled silently.

“You never clean up after yourself. You seem to think this place is your private pig-pen,” Don said. Jeremy lowered his eyes. “You look like shit, you know. I ask you to be presentable and instead you look like shit. It looks like you never wash your hair and you’re always biting your fingernails and spitting them out on the floor and its disgusting. What do you have to say for yourself?” Jeremy didn’t respond, just kept his eyes low, focusing on Don’s waistline. Without realizing it, Don slapped the boy across the cheek and Jeremy’s stared up at him confused, rubbing his hand along his face.

“I’m sorry?” Jeremy stuttered, not sure why Don had struck him so maliciously.

“I have a lot to do before tonight. So, I want you to follow me and be quiet.” He let the boy go and Jeremy’s face was instantly relaxed.

Down the hall, towards the back was a small storage area, a small work room that was always sealed with a padlock. “I bet you wonder what’s in here?” Don said gruffly while the boy watched him fumble with his key chain. In Jeremy’s mind the room held wonderful secrets, something archaic, an iron maiden, a shrine or a treasure. To him, the door could only lead to bigger ones, to expose something deep and sacred. He crowded up against his landlord, pulled off the lock and cradled it in his palm. “All too eager,” Don thought to himself.

To Jeremy’s disappointment the room was no more than a make-shift work room or storage shed. Piles of cardboard boxes sat in low rows along the far wall, to the right a narrow work bench with neatly assorted tools. A faint smell of mold clung from deep within the darkness, but Jeremy followed his landlord’s beckoning finger, closing the door behind him.

The room was deeper than it had appeared. Don reached out an pulled the dangling cord and a single naked bulb lit the interior. Along the back wall small photographs were lined in rows, young men and women awkwardly posed, those with faces stared away as if ashamed of themselves. Just a foot or two in front of the collage, a long metal rod ran from wall to wall, a large hook suspended from the center. It looked like a torture chamber, if one’s mind was attuned.

“Go ahead. Take a closer look.” Don allowed himself a cigarette while he watched the boy, exhaled smoke that hovered over him in long streams. At first Jeremy stood still, his eyes trailing from his landlord to the door. There was something there, Don noticed. A small dullness in the boy’s eyes, a lump in his throat that couldn’t be swallowed. Subtlety is sweet and if you swallow it whole it goes down smooth. “Go on. I wanted to show you this.” Don pointed at the far wall.

Jeremy kept his body half-turned, did not completely turn away from his landlord. He edged closer, looked into the photographs. All of the models were partially nude, a young plump woman clutching her breasts, her body angled as to see her shoulder blade. There were thin oval lines there, pink with irritation, looked like a rising wave. Another picture, a muscular young man stared blankly into space, his bare chest solid and hairless, a small checker board of thin red lines carved above his right nipple. More models, a woman’s back with two sloppy Celtic symbols, a man clutching the skin around his ankle, his calf marked with arrows. There were perhaps a dozen models altogether, some of them appearing in two or three photos, some of the designs had scabbed over, others with blood still budding from them.

“You like them? This is what I like to do when I have someone who’s willing,” Don’s voice soft, almost gentle. “If you don’t want to, you can go back to your room. Or you’ll get undressed and do as I say.”

When Jeremy looked back at him, Don was pulling out a toolbox, started humming to himself as if he was alone in the dark. The boy’s lips were pursed, his stomach suddenly queasy. “And what if I don’t want to do this?”

Don slammed some tool against the workbench but did not turn around. “Then get the hell out and leave me alone. It’s very simple, do you understand?” he yelled. Jeremy nodded his reply, though he knew Don could not see him. He raised his shirt, slipped off his sweat pants, held his hands over his briefs. “You might want to take those off, too, unless you don’t mind them getting messy.”

As instructed, Jeremy turned around, raised his arms and grasped the hook. Don had retrieved a small set of knives from a toolbox and sterilized them in a small pan of fluid. “If you can’t take it, just let go of the bar.” The sound of surgical gloves snapping over Don’s hands cracked in Jeremy’s eardrum. “Remember, this is art. So, don’t move a muscle or it will come out wrong,” Don reminded the boy as he started cleansing the boy’s back with a wipe.

There was a small glint in Jeremy’s eyes, his anticipation of the pain and bleeding. The sight of the blades soaking in the pan made his stomach swirl. Then came the cool dampness of the wash rag against his back, Don wiping him down, the boy sweating. Yet there was a sullen comfort in the room, a strange sense of intimacy where Don was attentive and almost nurturing. And for that, Jeremy was most thankful.

“Keep your head straight,” Don ordered. Jeremy could feel his looming presence behind him, Don twiddling his knife, a polished scalpel with his thick fingers. His hands hung from the suspended hook, his bare feet afraid to firmly rest against the floor, like rough asphalt or burning embers.

The first pierce stung and slid down, parting flesh by the seams, felt like a hundred bee stings or tearing paper. Jeremy tensed his muscles and moaned as Don’s rough hand fell on his side, an awkward comfort. “The first one is the always the worst. Stay still,” Don said through clenched teeth.

The next incision didn’t sting. It felt like little strings of his skin snapping under the knife, the threads coming loose and unraveling slowly and instantly all at once. There was the warming sensation, the tingling from where the blade passed, the slight dull pain when Don stopped to cleanse his back or switch knives. Yet the nausea building in the boy’s stomach subsided, as if escaping through the fresh wounds. All the minor aches in his body vanished, his legs suddenly strong and sturdy, the previous cuts felt like they had already regenerated. The boy anticipated each new scrape of the blade, to be opened a little more and borrow strength from his landlord’s free hand that occasionally brushed his side.

At moments Don wondered if he would cut too deep, wanted to test the pressure he put against the blade. He thought about the tender muscles that hid just below his reach. He quickened his pace at moments, scraping the blades at small angles to widen the lines, felt the boy twitch at the change in pressure, certain the current scratch always stung more than the last. His design started to shape quickly, but Don still searched for something in the boy. He imagined that the boy had surrendered to him, that he was helpless to do anything against the cruel slashes. Yet, there was a hidden defiance in Jeremy, easily mistaken for something else. Don switched blades, cut another line hoping to sever the right nerve and make the boy cry out against him.

When Don abruptly removed his instruments from the boy’s back, he placed the damp towel back against the markings. Jeremy practically collapsed onto the stool Don retrieved for him. The boy’s entire back throbbed with some new pain. He was dizzy with a ringing in his ears and fought the urge to vomit. Something different had occurred and he hated it.

The man seemed so malicious, standing firm over him, inspecting the cutting that ran across the boy’s back. With any luck, the cutting would permanently scar and be forever etched on the canvas, but like his previous art, it would probably heal all too well, fade and then disappear into obscurity. Jeremy felt the flash of the Polaroid camera and almost instantly he was holding the print of his naked back, the fresh lines, pink and swollen with droplets of blood just below the shoulder blade. A beautiful Chinese character, crisp as Don described it. It meant, “boy” or “servant”, perhaps a variable in between.

Jeremy took a bath afterward. His stomach rumbled for food, it was mid-afternoon. The bleeding had stopped, the bandages and gauze tossed in the trash bin. The water was lukewarm and Jeremy scooped up soap suds in small doses to cleanse his back.

The images of the photographs, his predecessors, burned themselves into his mind. All of them were ugly, horrid creatures with sullen faces. “I can take it once more,” Jeremy said out loud, wanted to submerge in the bath, feel weightless in the water. He imagined his body covered with new markings, like the oval suns, each one more lovely.

Don walked in and glanced over at Jeremy with an annoyed look. The boy did not scurry to cover himself, just glanced up with a hopeful look. Don huffed, unzipped and started to piss. “What’s wrong? Feel all dirty?” his voice aggressive.

The boy shrugged, tried not to get caught watching his landlord urinate. It was the first time he had seen Don’s organ exposed. It was soft, but thick and meaty. Jeremy only had his own for comparison, which grew under the water. Don stopped abruptly and flushed, drops of urine still falling. His face looked inspired. “I just didn’t think you were coming back,” Jeremy said. “I didn’t want to get infected.”

The older man’s nose scrunched up at this comment. “Stand up,” Don said. The boy was hesitant, but did as he was told, his legs and arms swelling with goose bumps. “Turn around for me.”

The boy released a small whimper; the air was too cold above the bath. At first, he stared down at Don, his pants still opened and his crotch fully exposed. He felt like he should lean forward and take the soft cock in to his mouth, twirl his tongue around the head, make his landlord stiff. It would be a most generous act, to let the boy give pleasure back. But instead he obliged the command and turned around, slipping his hand down his own shaft.

“Kneel down. I want your knees in the water and your nose touching the wall.” Jeremy glanced back at Don, wanted to ask questions. Don eyes narrowed, his teeth clenched. The boy lowered himself back into the tub, awkwardly kneeling, his legs to pushing out into butterfly wings, his hands clasped in front of him to keep balance. His nose touched the cold dampness of the tiled wall around the tub.

At first nothing happened. But then a warm stream beat against him, coating his back. It stung as it approached the wounds and Jeremy shrieked, toppling over as he pulled at the shower curtain. “Stop it! What the fuck…” Don ceased immediately, awe struck and almost ready to laugh. Jeremy buried himself back into the bath, water spilling over the rim. The boy’s face was horrified.

They both glared at each other until Don’s face melted into something sinister.

“Why would you do that to me?”

“Relax, boy. Urine is acidic, it cleanses.” Don knelt down at the edge of the tub, new whiskers had begun to pierce through the roughness of his cheeks and chin. “Remember who makes the rules around here. Remember your place at all times.” Don stood up and turned to leave. “And make sure to really wash your back. I really don’t feel like explaining all this to a doctor.”

When Jeremy pulled himself together, he crawled back to his bedroom, closed and locked the door. His back stung from the soap and he had reapplied gauze over the design. Don’s book sat lifeless on the nightstand, the bookmark propped in to disguise the book’s neglect. He eased down onto his futon and cradled the body pillow close to him, smelled his own sweat that had seeped into the cotton. When he pulled the book close to him, it seemed fragile, like swift currents of air could cause it to corrode at any moment. The lines were illegible, but eyes scanned the text furiously, letters blending into each other to form new shapes. He tried to think of home, the chaotic order of the living room, his father’s magazines lying in big heaps, his mother’s ashtray always spilling over, how the family photos coasted the wall along the stair case, the pungent odor of cat urine from the laundry room. But he could only visualize the townhouse’s upstairs rooms and everything’s perfect position.

Jeremy awoke to the sounds of boisterous voices from upstairs, footsteps creaked the floorboards above him. He had fallen asleep, the book cover now bent under the weight of his arm. He reached over and pulled the digital clock towards him. It was half-past nine and the room was dark with the exception of the nightstand lamp. Jeremy cursed underneath his breath. He had not finished cleaning up the kitchenette nor cut his hair. When he pushed himself upward, his hand slid against the book, the cover bent backwards and the pages tore. “Dammit!” he screamed.

The book was no longer in pristine condition. He might as well have burned it for all Don would care. He tried to bend the cover back into place, now creased with a very visible horrifying scratch. He didn’t want to fathom at what the inner pages looked like. “Why bother getting up at all,” he thought. It would be easier to just go back to sleep and deal with the consequences the next morning. But instead, he reached for his hamper, pulled out clothes that smelled clean and dressed.

The boy walked up the stairs in a slow manner, prolonging his entrance. His sweater was torn slightly under the collar, his hair wild and unruly. Perhaps a dozen people lounged around the den, all well dressed, drinking wine and smoking cigarettes. Another five or six were in the kitchen. Jeremy looked irritated, silently cursing to himself that Don had not mentioned he was holding a full party.

He found Don in the kitchen, perfectly cleaned and organized. He was standing in the corner holding a highball glass, listening to the two women debate about the local homeowner’s association. The far counter was completely stocked with wine bottles and liquors. Two clean rows of glasses were, miraculously, undisturbed. The whole room had a perfect order, the clean crisp sharpness of the floor tiles to match the chiseled guests, all of them much older than the boy. The landlord was drunk, cheeks pink and was rocking back on his heels. Under the fluorescent light, Don’s age seemed untainted, the dark circles under his eyes, the crow’s feet and other wrinkles that were starting to wear away at his face. Still, Don was handsome and cocky, gazed back at his boy with some private and wonderful thought and beckoned. Jeremy hid the book behind his back, smiled sheepishly and slowly walked in. Then Don then snapped his fingers to attract the room’s attention.

“Turn around,” Don instructed, his voice mildly slurred. Jeremy frowned at this and looked back at the eager expressions from the other people in the room. Even Don had a gleam in his eyes that did not seem natural. Jeremy slowly turned his back and stared into the wood of the kitchen cabinets. The landlord gently untucked the boy’s sweater, letting his hand slide against the lower back. This sent shivers up Jeremy’s spine as the cotton was pulled upward. There was a gasp from one of the ladies and a foreign hand suddenly rubbed up against the markings.

He could not see the faces of the audience, whether they scowled in disgust or marveled at the artistry. Jeremy felt naked and weak under the inspection. He wanted to pull his shirt down or turn his back away from the strangers. Yet more fingers probed along the scab designs, traced along where Don cut him. The skin was starting to burn, as if the wounds had reopened and were now festering with disease. But Jeremy kept still as if it were the only thing he knew to do.

Don’s face filled with self-gratification. For the first time, he sensed the horror in Jeremy rise. It was lucid mixture of fear and frustration. He could almost feel the boy’s own nausea rumbling in his own stomach, his own body seemed to echo the little earthquakes that went through the boy’s limbs. Don leaned over and gave his boy a quick smile, please with the reaction of the guest, but mostly pleased with Jeremy’s discomfort.

“Did it hurt?” a woman asked.

“No more than a tattoo,” Don replied.

“Ha! This is coming from the artist who hasn’t had either done to himself, I’m sure,” challenged a gruff man’s voice.

Jeremy felt his body temperature rising. All intimacy that he had clung to was lost in this short moment. The embarrassment made him cringe and his legs kept shaking. His own hands struggled not to reach back and grab his sweater and pull it down. Someone tugged at the rim of his pants which made him squirm. “Settle down, you!” Don practically laughed. His voice grew louder with every sentence, spoke about the upkeep of his little ball and chain, mentioned his previous tenants and their limits. “But sometimes you get lucky and find one that is just so versatile,” Don said.

To Jeremy, simple minutes lasted a full day’s worth. He felt tears budding and wanted to say something, if anything just to hear his own voice. Don’s book was still clutched to his chest, his fingers rubbing the spine, wanted to rip out the pages.

One more finger reached over, one with a sharp fingernail, picked at one of the scabs as if digging for anything valuable underneath. With one long scratch, Jeremy screamed out, pulling away and swung the book at the woman, who defensively flung her arms to protect her face. “You fucking cunt!” the boy screamed. Don struck Jeremy and the boy fell to the floor. Jeremy glared back up at him, pursed his lips and spat at him.

“You little bastard!” Don screamed and suddenly started slapping the boy all over.

Some of the guests were laughing, which mixed with Don’s curses. The punches were getting heavier and Jeremy’s vision blurred with wild spots. He curled himself into a ball, crying out for Don to stop hitting him. But the blows kept crashing down on his back, cutting into him more than any knife.

Everyone stopped laughing. A horrified woman began pleading for someone to do something. Two men started to wrestle Don off the boy. New hands, gentle ones, rubbed on Jeremy’s frame. Someone was asking him if he was ok, if he knew where he was, if he could count the number of fingers held up. But Jeremy didn’t respond, still felt the beating and the pounding of his heart to match each punch and jab. The cuts on his back felt like they were on fire, the pain increasing with every comforting voice or hand that tried to soothe him. It all didn’t really matter. The moment all the pain had stopped, as Don drunkenly flailed his arms and screamed at him from a distance, was the moment Jeremy desired it the most.

 

© 2005 Jonathan Harper - Contributor's Bio