How To Rape A Straight Guy

by Sullivan, Kyle Michel

  “Yes,” said Lenny. “Then I want him to show me how he did it. Prove he did it.”

  “Did what?” I asked.

  “Made ‘em cum.”

  Now I’m not gonna tell ya I really thought about what Lenny was sayin’. I didn’t. Didn’t even really think about what it meant. Didn’t wonder why he wanted to know. Didn’t consider it’d be messin’ with a guy in the community who’d never done a thing to me instead of with a con who was kicked into my path by those self-righteous assholes that run the country. I didn’t tell myself I wasn’t queer or that I oughta be doin’ a girl instead of a guy, even tho’ I’d never even thought about doin’ anything like that to any chick since I had Connie to fuck with. Or that what Lenny was askin’ me to do was worth prison, an’ that if I was caught it’d be my second strike. I didn’t even get pissed at his real meanin’ -- that he thought I was full of shit an’ couldn’t back up what I’d said. All I thought was, “You’ll give me a car?”

  “An eighty-seven Malibu,” said Lenny. “My father’s car. Low mileage. Runs good. He died a year ago an’ I just haven’t gotten around to selling it. I’ll sign it over to you if you’ll show me how you did it. And let me videotape it all.”

  Tape me?! Now that made me stop an’ think. It got Wayne goin’, too.

  “Lenny, are you out of your fucking mind?” he sniped. “Do you have any idea how fucking illegal that is?”

  “Only if you get caught,” Lenny said, right back him. “But if we play our cards right, we won’t.”

  That brought a big “huh?” from me. “What d’ya mean? It’s one thing to do a guy in prison; the uniforms don’t give a fuck what happens to any of us. Or in some back-assed state like Texas, where it’s open season on fags. But grab a guy off the street in the community? In L-A? He’s gonna call th’ cops.”

  “Curt’s right, Lenny. It’s better to leave that idea in fantasy land.”

  “But what if he’s someone who wouldn’t go to the police?” Lenny asked. “What if, once it’s done, we give him a lot of money and he chalks the experience up to being part of his business?”

  Wayne sat on the sofa’s arm an’ talked to Lenny like he was a kid that just got caught smokin’. “If you mean doing that to one of the boys down on Santa Monica, some night -- come on, they aren’t exactly what you’d call straight. And God only knows what sorts of diseases they carry -- AIDS, syphilis, herpes, you name it, they probably have it and have done it.”

  “I know, Wayne. Will you at least try to give me some credit, for once? I’m talking about hiring an escort.”

  “Which raises the same issue about whether or not they’re straight!”

  “Doesn’t matter. Most of those guys swear they’re hetero. But even if he isn’t, if we hire him from one of those ads and we...well, hold him down and let Curt do his thing, it’d be a pretty damn good facsimile. And that’s all I really care about -- watching him do it to someone who doesn’t want to do it. And making him like it. All on tape.”

  Wayne stood up, lookin’ kind of weird. “I can’t believe you’re suggesting such a thing.”

  “I can’t fuckin’ believe you wanna tape it,” I chimed in, an’ not too happily, I’d say. But Lenny didn’t notice.

  “It’s just for me, Curt,” he said. “A one time experiment to prove your point. Videotaped so I can look at it as many times as I want and -- .” He gave the international motion for jackin’ off.

  “You’re fuckin’ sick,” I snarled.

  Lenny looked at me, point blank, an’ got this expression on his face that...I dunno...seemed simple an’ natural an’ scary all at the same time. “No, Curt,” he said in a plain voice, “I’m fucking old. And I’m fucking tired. And the only way I can fuck, anymore, is to pay for it. As we saw, tonight, an’ that isn’t even what I’d really call fucking. And I’m so fucking weary of that. And I’m so fucking close to being broke because of it.”

  “Lenny,” Wayne started, but he got cut off with a look.

  “If you don’t want to be part of it, Wayne, don’t be. Tell you what, you go home to Kansas for a week, and we’ll do it then. You go back to a state where it’s okay to send queers to jail for making love, no matter what the Supreme Court says, and that happily tolerates a motherfucker who tells people to kill us. Go back to a place where the only way you can make contact with something male is to pick up a guy in the park who’ll only let you suck his dick, and then who’ll beat you up and take your money, knowing you won’t be able to go to the cops about it. Go back and try to remember why the hell you ran like crazy to get away from that kind of world. And why I did.”

  He clenched his teeth then looked back at me. “Curt, most of my sexual contact now comes from my right hand. If that’s how the rest of my life’s going to be, fine. But I want something to make it worthwhile. And if that means messing with somebody who’s been messing with guys like me, even better. Now I’m offering you a car that’s in good running order. One that’s worth thousands of dollars. An’ all I want you to do is give me a little something back. You don’t really have to rape a nice straight heterosexual male; one of the fake ones will do. But I want to watch you do it. I want to watch you make one of those obnoxious pretty-boy fucks who’ve taken my money over and over and over into your bitch and love it, so I can withdraw into my own little world and fantasize about doing it, myself.”

  “Fantasize?” I asked, believin’ his bullshit about as much as I believed in the tooth fairy.

  “Of course,” he said. “Do I look like someone who could do something like that, himself. Not really. All I could ever do is jack off.”

  He stood up an’ looked at me, face t’ face. An’ I knew he was right. He was weak. Nervous. Bitin’ the nail of his thumb, he was so freaked out at even the thought of what he’d just suggested. He’d be way too much of a pussy to ever really try it on his own. Too scared everything’d go wrong and he’d wind up in jail. He needed somebody to do it for him, an’ he was willin’ to pay for the pleasure of watchin’ it.

  An’ me? What was I thinkin’? Well...fact of the matter is, I wasn’t. But I still wasn’t so sure about sayin’ okay, just yet. I guess he thought I was about to say, No, so he sat on an arm of the couch, tryin’ to look all sweet an innocent.

  “Tell you what,” he said, “I’ll make you a bet. You do it and you get him off, the car’s yours. Along with a thousand dollars. You don’t, you give me a full-scale freebie. Anything I want for one night. I’ll use that as my substitute fantasy.”

  He was grinnin’ in this sort of bad-little-boy way, then. An’ fuck me if it didn’t make me grin right back at him.

  “On one condition,” I said before I even realized I said it. Then I saw from the corner of my eye that Wayne was lookin’ at me like I was sicker than Lenny, an’ that made me smirkier.

  “What’s that?” Lenny asked.

  “There was a guy, my last year of high school, he’s the one got me sent to jail. If your boy could look like him, it’d give me a fantasy, too.”

  “Revenge by proxy. I love it. What are the specifics?”

  “You mean, what’s he look like? Sort of Italian. Long face. Taller’n me. Not as built up but solid. He played baseball. Short dark hair. That’d be close enough. Oh, an’ one more thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He’s gotta be cut. His dick, I mean.”

  “Circumcised?” said Lenny. “No problem with that.”

  Wayne was all up an’ down about it. “Lenny! Curt! Will you stop a minute and think! You’re not just talking about you two! There’ll be another person involved! What’ll this do to him? Have you considered that?”

  “Considered what a bit more sex than they planned on is going to do to a whore?” Lenny shot back. “Who’ll be paid for the extra trouble? Who wouldn’t hesitate for a second to rip us off or use us to get more money? As you know has happened.” Which gave me more of a clue as to why Lenny really wanted to do it. Then he turned to me, shaki
n’ a little, an’ said, “Do you have any problem with that?”

  Still not thinkin’, I took a deep breath an’ shook my head an’ shook his hand an’ said, “Fuck, no. Set it up.”

  Then I gave him my phone number an’ headed home.

  Chapter Three

  It’s funny, but after agreein’ to that bet, somethin’ in me shifted. I didn’t really notice it, at first; it’s like it happened way down deep an’ took its time workin’ its way up to my brain. But lookin’ back, I can see how, when I walked home, I looked at everything different.

  An’ yeah, I walked all the way back to fuckin’ Hollywood. I will not in any way, form or fashion ride the fuckin’ bus. Fuckin’ ass-wipes who run the Metro system but ride to work in limos, they let the fuckin’ things get to where they’re disgustin’. Old skanky busses that break down more than they work. Spittin’ exhaust in through a two-bit a/c that ain’t good enough for a fuckin’ Honda. Seats covered with gum an’ spit an’ ink an’ God knows what else. Dozens of smelly little “third-worlders” sittin’ side by side or standin’ forty deep an’ chatterin’ in some bastard-style Mexican crap, or big black bucks handin’ out attitude to anybody they fuckin’ feel like ‘cause they got no other way to be anybody. Me in with all them people yellin’ an’ fightin’ an’ all that shit? In a sardine can on wheels? Fuck, I knew real quick I’d kill somebody if I had to ride one of them fuckin’ things every day. So I did shanks mare to my jobs an’ anywhere else I had to go. Helped me blow off steam an’ kept me from gettin’ too close to any assholes.

  So that night, as I’m walkin’ home from Lenny’s -- feelin’ really good from the blow job an’ the two-fifty in my pocket an’ the buzz from the beers an’ even the bet -- I dunno why, but it was like I’d never walked down Santa Monica before. All the buildin’s were new. All the lights were bright an’ cheerful. All the traffic was steady an’ fun to watch. I saw this tiny little park at the corner of Crescent Heights an’ wondered when the hell they put that in. I passed under street lights with big bright globes on ‘em an’ thought, “Ain’t that neat?” I saw how many trees lined the sidewalks an’ occasional islands in the middle of the road, all for the first time.

  My whole attitude about Santa Monica changed. I always thought it was kind of a second-class street, the kind I’d always wind up goin’ down. Not like Wilshire. Wilshire, no matter where you are on it, it’s got class. It’s got attitude. Style, even. But Santa Monica always seemed to be -- I dunno, sayin’ it was sorry for bein’ so full of potholes an’ for havin’ such narrow sidewalks an’ for bein’ so old an’ out of touch. Even when it passed through west West Hollywood, where it was spilt in half by trees, an’ when it cut through B-Hills an’ had a park on one side, it still felt sorry. Still felt like it was back alley. But not no more. Now it wasn’t a crowded street in a too-big city full of five million languages; now it was a huntin’ ground, an’ I was a lion on the prowl.

  An’ the guys I’d pass? They were nothin’ but my dinner. I’d smile at ‘em, laughin’ inside as I thought, “He don’t know what I’m gonna do. What if I did it to him? Is he anybody I’d do it to? Or him?” Didn’t matter if they looked good or young or queer or anything, I had this new standard for smilin’ at my “fellow man” -- was he worth prison?

  So that’s why I put those restrictions on Lenny-boy. If I’m gonna risk a second strike, I want it to be somethin’ I’ll at least enjoy. An’ man, I have to admit, fuckin’ up some squeaky-clean asswipe of a guy, especially if he looked a little like fuckin’ Anthony, made me happy.

  Now I ain’t gonna tell you I was thinkin’ ‘bout gettin’ caught. I wasn’t. Thought never entered my head. I mean, come on -- what “heterosexual male whore” in his right mind’ll admit to bein’ butt-fucked by an ex-con an’ forced to cum? Think about it. Just the fact that he shot his load would make any cop or D-A really wonder if the guy was legit or if he just got into something over his head an’ was freaked ‘cause his family might find out an’ dump him. An’ if the guys at his day job found out? They’d make his life hell. He might even get fired. Not for bein’ queer; oh, no, that’s illegal in California. But suddenly his job ratings’d fall off an’ he’d get all these black marks an’ just have to be let go for “poor performance” or some bullshit like that.

  I mean, everybody knows it’s still okay to hate faggots in this country. Hell, in most of the world. Just listen to any so-called “man of God” go on ‘bout it on Sunday mornin’. An’ look at all those two-faced cocksuckers who’ll tell you queers can change an’ they got proof when any fuckin’ idiot can see they’re lyin’ through their teeth and’d drop an’ suck a cock the first second one was waved in their face. But hey, it’s all in the name of God, so that makes hate an’ stupidity an’ general pissiness okay, right?

  Fuckin’ asswipes. They preach love an’ understandin’, but you take one fuckin’ step that’s wrong an’ you’re marked for life in their eyes. You want any help from ‘em? You gotta be what they want you to be. You gotta change into what they think is right. You gotta live how they tell you to fuckin’ live. An’ if you don’t? Just try an’ get ‘em to turn one fuckin’ hand for you. “I may be a Christian, but I do not believe it when Jesus tells me to love my neighbor as myself.”

  Yeah, I know the Bible. Some of it. That fuckin’ priest that’d come by County thought he was gonna make me into one of his boys. Not like that, but as “a soldier in God’s army,” was how he put it. We’d sit together in his office twice a week, chattin’ about life an’ the meanin’ of God an’ how I got so off track an’ all that shit. He’d quote verses an’ tell me where they were in the Bible. He even gave me a small one so I could look ‘em up. An’ I did start lookin’ through it, more an’ more, tryin’ to figure out what the hell’d gone wrong with my life. Wonderin’ if maybe there was an answer in those tremblin’ little pages.

  Now I gotta be honest -- I was goin’ there at first ‘cause it gave me a breather from dealin’ with all the shit you got in jail. Even a dinky assed county joint. Dumbshits tryin’ to prove who’s got th’ biggest cock on a twenty-four-seven basis. Takin’ letters an’ pictures an’ socks from guys that’re weaker than them. I mean, it’s pathetic, rippin’ off somebody’s fuckin’ toothpaste to prove you’re a man. Some guys had cigs stashed away, or bottles of whiskey or bits of chemicals, an’ they’d swap ‘em for protection. Or drugs. An’ sometimes a bunch of the “big dick” boys’d gang up on a new kid, wrap him in a blanket an’ fuck him, like hidin’ him made it more like they were fuckin’ a girl. Stupid. An’ me, I was sick of it. Sick of fightin’ the little fucks off all the time when they wanted my shit, even after Paco. Sick of gettin’ into noise-fights over if I gave one of ‘em a dirty look or not. Sick of always havin’ to watch my back in case some “big dick” who didn’t believe the shit spread about me decided he wanted to make me back into his new mouth. That’s why I never missed Father Tello’s little meetin’s.

  He was all about readin’ the Gospels an’ followin’ in the teachin’s of Christ an’ all that. So that’s what I read. An’ what’s really funny is, for about ten minutes I sort of believed in it. Matthew, verses five through seven. Sermon on the Mount, he called it. All the stuff about not judgin’ others an’ lovin’ thy neighbor an’ doin’ unto others like you want them to do to you. An’ I’m thinkin’, Shit, I wish I’d been told about this shit. It was somethin’ to live by, a guidebook for a kid who was tryin’ to figure life out on his own an’ doin’ a pretty fucked up job of it.

  Y’see, my mom...well, let’s face it -- she was a slut who’d do anything for a drink, though she’d never admit to that now. She’s all married an’ respectable an’ born-again into the middle class with two daughters that’re honest kids, not fatherless bastards like me an’ my brother. She really said that to me, once, leadin’ up to tellin’ me how I’m the bastard she didn’t want to have. But since she lived in this dinky-assed town in Wyoming an’ the guy who usually did her
abortions’d been slammed into jail an’ the nearest legal clinic was in fuckin’ Denver, I got born. Considerin’ how I “turned out,” she felt it was too bad she couldn’t make it to Denver.

  Y’know, we spent more’n six years in that stinkin’ hell-hole of a Wyoming town. With my mom turnin’ tricks at the truck stop for money for booze. An’ her mom makin’ sure I got fed an’ my diapers got changed an’ I got a hug, once in a while, an’ all that shit. At least, till she keeled over from a heart attack that nobody -- not the paramedics or the E-R doctors -- believed was a heart attack till it killed her. I was four. By the time I hit six, I’d figured out how to fix my own cereal an’ rip off milk from other doorsteps an’ keep myself goin’ while mom slept off her drunks.

  We didn’t move to LA till the state tried to take me away from her. Fuckin’ bureaucrats an’ “Christian” folk didn’t give a shit about me till my grandmother was dead from takin’ care of me an’ my mom got preggers, again. Then, by God, they wanted to make fuckin’ sure I was raised right. Same for the kid my mom was carryin’. Fuckin’ hypocrites. They didn’t give a fuck about my mom gettin’ abortions till her usual guy cut too deep into some rich bitch’s scared little girl an’ she bled to death; then they ended the “illegal” practice everybody in town knew about. Those “good Christian folk” who turned my mom in, they wouldn’t take me in or any kid like me. No fuckin’ way. That’d mean practicin’ what they preached, an’ that might be real inconvenient. No, I was gonna get farmed out to some foster family who were more interested in the state stipend than in me, an’ if that didn’t work then I’d get dumped onto the state. So me an’ mom, we split in th’ middle of the night with some trucker who just loved her mouth.