“Sex is God’s joke on human beings.”
-- Bette Davis

My life is like amateur porn: an unknown cast, bad lighting and too much dialogue. I’m caught beneath this unforgiving spotlight as Hank says, “You’re such a nice guy,” which is shorthand for, Look, we both know I’m not going to fuck you so don’t get pissy when I walk out the door with some loser I’ve only spent five minutes with. I persuade him to stay for one more drink, hoping the alcohol in combination with the delay will change his mind. It doesn’t work.

“Thanks. You’re really sweet.”

“So, how about it?”

“How about what?”

“You want to go back to my place? I have beer.”

He squirrels up his face and says, “You can’t fuck a nice guy. It’s too tame, too lame, and they want to see you again. Who wants that?”

“Indeed, whom? I certainly never want to see you again, so let’s fuck and call it a night.” I arch an eyebrow at him, doing my best Mommie Dearest.

Hank is not a fan of the cinema. He takes his drink with him and leaves ten minutes later with the goateed bald guy, as if to prove a point.

I polish off my bay breeze and decide to step up the alcohol intake. If I was going to cut into myself I might as well be anesthetized. I order a Jack and Coke loudly, proclaiming my butch aspirations to the two men who could hear me, the bartender being one of them. I take the drink and swig it back, cough on the sharp syrupy flavor of whisky. It’s terrifically strong, but then again I don’t drink JD.

I leave the bar and melt into the wall, observe the mating habits of the urban homosexual. Men come into the bar in singles, but occasionally in couples or quartets. They walk through the bar and size up the crowd. Twenty percent of them leave in the first ten minutes, alone. About a third of them get a drink and stand against the wall like me, and none of us wall-people look at each other; though denimed-hip to hip, we are completely invisible, especially to one another. The last group are the ones who get lucky and they only have eyes for each other.

I’ve got this theory about the lucky ones; if you want hot sex and nothing else you have to pretend like you don’t give a shit if you get it or not. If you take a passing interest in a guy beyond a fuck, he thinks you’ve already picked out a china pattern. I’ve never been able to put this theory to the test because I find myself asking, “What do you do?” or “Do you have any pets?” and they respond, “I’m not looking for anything serious,” or worse, “What are you, a fucking dyke?” My boys get to run off and get laid, and I’m left behind, the opening act, like jerking off before a date. Only I don’t even get to jerk them off.

Not tonight. I make a vow that I will not leave this bar alone. I jump back into the fray and order another Jack and Coke, waiting eagerly for Mr. Right Now to waltz in. I plow through three drinks and watch the door open and close forty-two times before he comes in.

This guy is no more than twenty, but he’s ugly as hell. He’s not even ugly in an interesting way, his face completely without character, which makes him as invisible as me. A perfect target. He catches me staring at him and makes a beeline for the bar.

My future fuck-buddy squeezes through the crowd to stand next to me and orders a beer. The bartender says, “Back again, Frank? That must’a been a record.” He places a sweaty mug in front of him. The kid runs through his pockets dramatically, then looks at me with a hapless smile; I notice that he’s no kid, he’s probably got ten years on me. “I forgot my wallet. Would you mind?”

For a moment I almost turn him down, but sympathy weighs in. This poor schmuck is so ugly I wouldn’t even sleep with him. I push a ten to the bartender who rolls his eyes at my comrade in arms. “Every time, Frank. We’re going to start taking bets.”

“Thanks, man.” He holds out his hand. “I’m Frank. I live upstairs. In here a lot. Nice to meetcha’.” His accent shines through, something mid-western with flattened vowels. I think, cowboy, and check out the ripe package in his jeans.

We shake hands and I introduce myself and then we’re talking about cars. I don’t know shit about cars, but he’s carrying the conversation so I figure it doesn’t matter. He seems sincere and genuine, like I was the first person to listen to him in years. He gives me a broad smile which almost makes him look attractive. “Why don’t you come upstairs and we can do a little business?” He grabs my elbow and I can only nod and follow.

He leads me out of the bar and to a door just outside. “Just up on the third floor. It’s small, but it works.” I watch his ass as he climbs the stairs and wonder what it tastes like.

He leads me up to his tiny studio apartment. I can tell it’s dirty without the lights on; it stinks like moldy sheets. He closes the door and has my pants and shorts down around my knees before I can stumble to his futon couch. He sits next to me and buries his head in my lap and begins the best blowjob I have ever had. I’m thanking God and Jesus as I pump into his warm throat, praying I could hold out long enough.

Frank works me right up to the edge and I’m ready for the money shot, but backs off. He looks up at me like a naughty child caught doing something he shouldn’t, stroking my aching dick with his hand. “You wanna come?” He rubs his fingers together with a smile. “How much you got on you?” I stare at him incredulously as he drops my dick and stands up.

“What?”

“I thought we understood each other, here. You’re not stupid, are ya? You knew why you were coming up here, dincha?”

“For sex?”

He stares at me until I feel like an idiot. I shamefully pull out my wallet and hand him the twenty I keep for emergencies. He takes it with a sneer and shoves it in his pocket. “For twenty, you can jerk yourself off. Just don’t get anything on the couch, I gotta sleep on that.” Frank lights a cigarette and paces the apartment. “Twenty fucking dollars, what do I look like, some street whore?”

I stand up and pull up my pants. “I didn’t know you were a…I never would have…”

“How else you gonna get it, fattie, ‘less you pay for it?” He laughs in the key of Bette Davis, and I shrink as I stumble out of his door and down the stairs. I stand on the sidewalk with a thousand plans for revenge before I realize a crowd milling outside the bar. “Another satisfied customer, huh?” A mustached man laughs. “I thought Frank ran out of newbies years ago.”

“There’s always fresh meat when the B&T crowd rolls in,” another quips.

I turn and walk away from their laughter with what little dignity I had and mentally check that bar off the list. I stop at the ATM and buy two six-packs at the deli with the promise to drown my sorrows, damn the bloat. I wander home in the forgiving arms of Jack Daniels and plan to call in sick in the morning.

A block from home and there’s this kid sitting on the stoop. His blond head droops between his knees as if he’d been puking or crying. I ask if he’s all right. The kid’s head pop’s up and he runs his eyes over me from shoes to head, then back down, before saying anything.

“See,” he says with a pronounced lisp, “I was suppose to meet my friend here, my boyfriend. I was gonna crash at his place, but he’s probably out with somebody else. He’s always ditching me like this.” He cries a little and wipes his button nose on the sleeve of his Abercrombie sweatshirt. He’s a cute kid, all-American-surfer-boy-shaggy-hair-golden-boy in need of help.

“Do you drink beer?” I yank a six-pack out of the bag feeling like a letch and a hero.

“Yeah, sure. ‘course I do.”

He rises off the stoop and stands next to me, re-explaining his story about how he was supposed to meet his friends to play some pool, but he couldn’t find them and they weren’t answering their cells. I don’t call him on the inconsistencies figuring he was probably embarrassed about getting stood up and then crying in front of a stranger.

I let him into the apartment and he says, “You’re such a nice guy to help me out like this. You won’t even know I’m here. I’m real quiet. Like a mouse.”

He marvels over my place and asks if I have any roommates. He takes a piss with the bathroom door wide open and I don’t even make a pretense of not looking. He comes back out, without zipping up, and asks for a beer. “I’m Sam,” he says, and thanks me again for letting him crash on the couch. He sprawls out, slugs back a beer, dips his hand into his shorts and scratches. I see pubes and potential.

We have another round and he looses his shirt, his tiny nipples so flat that that they almost look concave. He yawns and stretches, causing his pants to slide down. I inch closer to him as he makes some stupid joke that makes no sense; I laugh anyway and hand him another beer.

He inches himself down on the sofa and then pulls up swiftly; his hard cock pops free and he looks away from as if it had no idea how it got to be there. I’m down between his thin legs without a second thought, absorbing his awkward teenage thrusts into my eager mouth. He comes in less than five minutes and I swallow every meaty drop, guilty at being so careless. I vainly pray it wouldn’t end there.

Sam falls over on his side, squiggles back into his jeans, and closes his eyes. I watch him for a few minutes, awed at his golden beauty, and then cover him with a blanket. I drop into my own bed, jerk off in record time, and slip into a blissful almost sated sleep. I wake up two hours later with cotton-mouth and worry that I may have just committed statutory rape. Perhaps, maybe, it would be best if he left. I toss and turn in bed with visions of the cops questioning me for corrupting minors. I fall into fitful sleep with chaotic dreams of giant penises chasing me through narrow hallways.

The sun is fully up when I wake, blind with hangover. I know immediately that something isn’t right. I roll out of bed and peer into the living room. The blanket is there, but the kid is gone. So is my wallet. And my TV. And my DVD player. Even the fucking Tivo.

I grab my phone and dial 911, crying, “I’ve just been robbed,” to the kind woman on the other end of the line. A beat too late and I realize that I may have had sex with a minor, even if he was a minor thief, and that might land me in a lot more trouble than the errant golden boy. The woman on the line asks for my name and address and I give it to her dutifully, knowing that they’d already traced my line and could bust me for a fake call.

I mess up my apartment to make it look more like a professional burglary, and hope the cops don’t ask too many questions, or for a description of the thief. I am in a cold sweat when the two uniformed officers arrive at the front door. “No forced entry,” one says before even introducing himself.

I lead them in and stand in the center of the room, apologizing for the mess. “We understand how you must feel,” the second cop says. He removes his hat and smiles and I am bewitched by the most trustworthy brown eyes I had ever seen. “Officer Tortelli.” He offers his meaty hand and I take it in my own. He smiles and holds my hand longer than necessary.

He’s a big guy, a little on the heavy side, maybe a couple of years older than me. He has that slight graying at the temples that makes him look distinguished instead of old. His eyes crinkle easily when he smiles, and he makes me feel completely at safe. In five minutes with him, I’m thinking, cop in uniform.

“I’d luv to kiss ya,” Tony smirks. “But I just washed my hair.”

“Tony,” the other cop interrupts. “Back to business. So, when did the break-in occur?”

“Oh. It wasn’t a break in,” I say lightly, staring into the deep brown eyes of my officer...then my stomach sinks. “I mean…there was this kid…I mean guy…I mean…I was just trying to help him out.”

“So you let him in,” Officer Tortelli says. “And he took your stuff while you were asleep.”

“Yeah. I guess that’s what happened. I was back there, in bed, in my bedroom, I didn’t hear a thing, you know?”

Officer Tortelli pats me on the back. “Bad Trick?” He gives me a knowing nod. I smile and shrug. “Happens to us all at least once, except Harrison here. Happily married man. Breeders have it so good.”

“Can the personal shit, Tortelli. You can ask him out after we file the report.”

The officer and I laugh and look at each other. “At least I know where you live,” he smirks.

I don’t mention the kid in the report, but tell him it was a guy name Frank who lived above the Hanger bar. Tony seems to know who this is and calls in the APB on his radio. He gives me a lopsided grin.

“So…what do you do?” I ask, unable to stop myself. He laughs. We both do.

 

© 2007 Adam Greenway - Contributor's Bio