"Do you want to do your big brother a favor?" Kevin's smile got less weird. Nod. "Well, first of all, do you ever think about sex?" Kevin brightened. "Think about it, yeah." His left leg started to tremble very slightly. "Okay, could you put yourself in a mental state where you could tell me if I was sexy or not? Like if you were a girl or a fag or whatever?" "Shit, Julian." Kevin clutched his stomach with both hands, tongue out, panting. His eyes looked hypnotized, transplanted ... something.
Julian: "What?" Kevin drew in his tongue. "I don't know ... ouch!" Julian watched him contort and groan, perplexed. Maybe the question was too complicated. It wasn't like sex was off limits. There were pairs of little jockey shorts caked with dried come stashed in crannies all over the kid's bedroom. Julian had accidentally found them when he was scouring the house for drugs once. He'd even stolen a few pairs and given them out to friends as Christmas presents.
"I'm not saying you're gay, Kev. I'm not imposing that on you. Or if I am, which maybe I am, forget I asked. Really." That didn't help. The kid was bouncing all over the place, squawking, swallowing, grabbing at things. Jesus Christ, Julian thought. He folded his arms and walked up to the bed. "Lie down, Kev. Relax." "Oh, okay." Kevin fell backward, bounced a couple of times, then rolled over cautiously onto his stomach. He started crawling toward Julian's pillow.
Julian stood over Kevin and waited for something about him to change for the better. Kevin's back inflated, deflated more normally. He shut up. The insignia on his T-shirt quit resembling a saddle. Phew, Julian thought. He started fetching his clothes from the floor around the bed. Then he tiptoed back to the mirror and slipped them on, piece by piece. "Kev, you okay?" he asked between socks. The head in the pillow stirred. "We can talk about this later?" More motion.
A half hour later Julian perched on the edge of a chair in my parents' library. They'd gone out to dinner. The shelves were crammed with Reader's Digest Condensed shit. I turned the dial of a clock radio, making a rock opera from severed parts of announcements and ads and hit songs. That sounded eerie for a while, but ... "Enough!" Julian yelled. I stopped at a violent guitar riff. "Dennis, I have to tell you about this thing with Kevin!" I turned down the volume a token amount. "Oh, gee, thanks a lot!
"Anyway, what happened was, he freaked out like he always does," Julian yelled. "But maybe this time it was worse. Hard to tell. It happened in my room, so, obviously, it would have seemed worse. Anyway, he was lying on my bed afterward trying to calm down, and I was standing there looking at him, not knowing what to do and everything, and I felt mesmerized by his ass. You could see it through his pants, because of the way he was lying, I guess. So-"
"Perv!" I switched off the radio. Julian smirked. "Maybe, but not for the obvious reason. Anyway, thanks. It was just ... the thing was so perfect. It was like a . . . textbook ass. You know, a little boxy with rounded off corners and dents in the sides. Only Kevin's was so small that I couldn't have any kind of normal reaction to it at all. It was more like a toy than an ass, although that's not right exactly. I mean, it was my brother's ass, sure, but formally it was the ultimate ass, you know?"
I nodded and shrugged simultaneously. "I think," Julian continued, "it was the thing's scale. I don't know what it made me understand ... that the body isn't inherently sexy? Partly, for sure. Or how Kevin's totally fucked up inside, but his body's so perfect outside, and what does that combination mean? I mean it's just ... oh, fuck, I don't know." He shut his eyes, baffled. "Well, I think he's a doll," said my voice. "Who, Kev?" Julian started massaging his eyelids. That helped.
"It could be the mescaline, though," I added. Julian was studying the backs of his eyelids. When he turned away from the lamp, he saw reddish dark. Facing the lamp, teensy bits of graffiti appeared, flew about, shifting directions abruptly like UFOs. "Me too, I guess." He opened his eyes. I was rocking my chair, knuckles purplish-white barnacles on the armrests. Creak, creak, creak, creak. "Hey, I think I'm going to call this number on the back of my hand," he said, "... if I can still read it."
Creak, creak, creak. Julian held his hand under the lampshade and squinted. The last digit was either a 1 or a 7. He made a lunge at the phone and started punching in numbers. Creak, creak, creak, creak. "Are you sure this guy's cute?" I said nervously, almost hissing. "Because if he's not ..." "Yeah, yeah, ssh." It was ringing. Creak, creak ... Julian waved his hand at me frantically. "Ssh!" Click. "Hi." "Is Henry there?" "Speaking."
Henry's clothes looked too baggy, at least in the mirror. Still, they were close to the stuff he'd been wearing the night Julian liked him supposedly. He took three steps backward, switched the phone to his left ear, squinted.
"Okay, great," he mumbled. "It'll be nice to-" Click. "... to ..." He hung up the phone. ". . . to see you again," he sighed, spacing out on his reflection.
Blur.
"Anyway ..." He walked up to the mirror and unsnapped his jeans, which were so loose they plummeted to his shoes. He lifted the front of his T-shirt and fluffed out his black pubic hair, untangling a few little knots with his nails. "Fine." He held up his cock by the head, let it drop. Thwap. Again. Thwap. "Hmm." He turned his pimply back on himself and bent way over, putting his ass in the best possible light. "Slurp," he joked aloud. Actually it might look okay, he thought, if the crack wasn't hairy. He spread the cheeks, eyed his "smelly mohawk," as one "ex" had described it.
Henry leaned there, daydreaming about that particular "ex." First the memory was general, him lounging around stoned in what's-his-name's mansion for weeks, getting tan, watching porn, ordering out. It was heaven. He tingled to think. Then one evening what's-his-name brought home a hustler. That totally pissed Henry off for some reason. What's-his-name and the hustler raped, then tried to strangle him. He flipped out, slashed an Impressionist painting worth millions of dollars. The hustler grabbed the knife, tried to stab Henry. He broke away, ran outside, waved down a car. The next day he woke up on his parents' front lawn with a couple of shallow stab wounds in his chest and a bruise necklace.
"Shi-i-i-it." Henry raised up too quickly or something. He had to grab onto the frame of the mirror and burp, burp, burp ... Sweat dribbled out of his haircut and wound down his face in veiny patterns.
When the basement stopped whirling around, he realized how much he loved living there. Too bad there wasn't a way to leave and enter without going up through his parents' house. He'd often imagined a craggy, human-sized slot in the cinder block wall between the clock and TV, or, wait ... Now that he thought of it, how about right here? The mirror could be the door. He'd glue a silver doorknob about an inch from the edge of the glass or Mylar or whatever this shiny stuff was.
He stood there a few seconds, skin bristling at the thought. He raised one arm and sort of studied a few of the zillions of tiny white peaks that had sprouted all over him. The sight made him feel weirdly tense and unliked for some reason.
"Fuck this." Henry pulled up his jeans, jammed his hand into their front left pocket, came back with a wadded-up plastic bag. He swallowed whatever the fuck was inside it. Seven yellow pills, courtesy of Craig.
He loped up the stairs, down a hall, froze, backed up three steps, and looked to his right. "Weird." He leaned in the doorway, appreciating the first little signs of whatever the pills were about to compose. So far there was only a slight glowing. But it helped him realize that the room where his parents were sitting was pretty much the same shape as his basement, if obviously scarier and less interesting to think about.
Ring.
"I'll get it!" Henry tore down the hall, grabbed the telephone. "Hi. Henry speaking."
"Hey, H., did you take those pills yet?" Craig asked in his crumbly, stoned voice. It made him sound more cute and friendly than he was.
"A few seconds ago."
"Oh, yeah? Wait an hour. That's how long ago I took my stuff and I can't even pick up the phone. I'm on the floor ... and ... and ... and I'm like lying on the receiver. My head's on top of it. I had to, like ... this is unbelievable. I
had to pull the phone off the table by the cord and drag the thing to me, like in those commercials of old people dying of heart attacks? When they could have been saved by wearing little microphones around their necks?"
"Oh, shit."
"What?"
"Nothing. It's just that I'm going out. That guy Julian called. I agreed to go fuck with his boyfriend and him."
"You planning to drive?"
"I was going to, but-"
"Listen, I'm, you won't, you wouldn't believe this ... I'm so fucked up. The phone is soft. It feels soft. .."
Henry scrunched up his face, calculating the time it would take to get the car, not to mention himself, across town. "Craig, look, shut up for a second. When did you start not being able to move or whatever?"
"Just now before I called. It's getting scary. God, the room feels bad ... uh, thick. It's kind of hard to breathe. You ... you remember my poster of Joni Mitchell at Woodstock? It's, I mean it looks like she's under-. . _. I think it's ... asphalt."
"Craig, I need to find Julian before this thing happens to me." He hung up the phone. Keys, he thought, and patted the ." lump in his front right pants pocket. "Okay, okay, okay. . He ran out the front door.
Unlocking the car was no problem. Starting was ... different. The key looked like a jewel. Its design was incredibly intricate. He couldn't stop studying it, even when it was plugged in. It seemed a million times more relevant to his car than the lines on the freeway.
Blur.
He slumped in the driver's seat by a mansion, hopefully Julian's, wondering if the lock on the passenger door was down or up. He tried to compare his lock, which was definitely up, with the passenger one, but since his lock was closer, it would seem taller in any case. "Shit." He swung himself out the door, kicked it shut.
He teetered around. One hand clutched a chilly bouquet of the ivy that poured off the mansion's roof. His other hand jabbed at a dot on some antique molding that helpfully framed the out-of-focus front door. Once, twice ...
(muffled) Ding, long.
"Listen, Henry," he slurred. "Don't ... fucking ... talk." He tried to read his watch. "Jesus!" He held it right up to his eye. "Why the fuck ... did I buy one of these pieces of shit with no numbers on it?"
Cre-e-e-eak.
The interior looked immense, dim, though yellowed by lamps in a few ornate spots. Far inside, or maybe not so far, stood a noisy silhouette. It was criticizing the way he looked, Henry felt almost sure. Another silhouette, more to Henry's left, added comments but they weren't as harsh. Besides, that one was whispering, whereas the farther one shouted. People didn't whisper cruel things, to Henry's knowledge.
"Hi, I ... oops." He'd tripped on the doormat or something, but one of the silhouettes grabbed his shirt sleeve midfall. "Thanks, uh . . . " Rustle. A chilly hand slid past the band of his underwear. It started digging around in his ass. "I'm sorry, I know my crack is kind of hairy," he whispered, "but. . ." He remembered the party. It seemed to revolve in his mind around Julian hugging him. The guy seemed so sensitive then. He glanced over his shoulder, saw a pale, blurry face. Then he squinted and blinked at the other guy, me. I was still too far away, badly lit. The effort to see me made Henry's eyes water and sting so much he practically punched himself out trying to dry them off.
"Look, either don't talk at all," Julian said, rolling Henry over, "or try to say something hot about us, okay?" Henry murmured a word, but the drugs had eroded it. "Because you're exactly our type. You don't have to prove yourself." I splayed my hands on Henry's ass and pressed down, like he was lying in front of Grauman's Chinese Theater. The crack opened up. Julian cleared his throat, hocked some milky spit. Using his nails, he combed spit evenly through the hairs down there, reorganizing them into a spiral around the knotty, purple hole. "Yow," he said, curled his lip, "this guy's wild."
Julian positioned his thumbs to either side of the hole, yanked. It flew wide open. One of my ears squashed against one of his. He and I peered into the glittering well. "It's kind of unbelievably beautiful," I said. "Yeah, in a weird sense," Julian whispered. "It also reminds me of something, but I can't think what." My head lowered an inch, two, three. "Poor guy," I muttered. Julian thought I looked psycho. "How so?" I just shrugged. "Oh, because it makes me want to fuck him over even more for some reason."
"Mmm." Julian slid two fingers into the ass. Henry's arms, which had laid very limp and nondescript to this point, started snaking around on the rug. A hand found Julian's knees and squeezed one of them twice. "Spooky," I said. The asshole had puffed up around Julian's knuckles. It made him think of that famous fur tea cup. "When I met this guy," he whispered, "I'd never, ever have guessed he was so out to lunch." He worked the fingers loose, wiping them on his calves. "But let's hurry before he gets sober and opinionated or whatever."
I crawled toward Henry's head. Julian reopened the asshole, spit, pushed in his cock, let the ass close around it. "Mmm." He looked up. I was eyeing the part in Henry's hair, or that general vicinity. "What?" Julian asked. "Oh, no big deal." I grinned. "It's just the way his hair's fallen into his face, and how straight the hair is, makes his head look like a lamp shade." Julian couldn't quite picture that. "I'm assuming this dent here's his mouth," I added, arching my hips. "Unh." A wrinkle appeared in my forehead. "Oh, yeah." My head toppled back.
Julian: "Let's trade." My head raised. "What? Sure, yeah, fine." Julian crawled up the body's right side, and I crawled down the left. Once he'd molded his lower half to Henry's shoulders and neck, with the head on his lap, Julian could see what I'd meant about the lamp shade. He pointed his cock at the wettest spot. It slid through the black folds. "Mmm." Then he noticed me lying facedown in the ass, eyes unfocused, my cheeks inflating, deflating ... "Dennis?" Julian cocked his head. Nothing. "Dennis?!" He snapped his fingers fi n g e r s . - .
... Julian figured out a way to lift Henry's face fairly high in the air, then drop it onto his cock, which would end up somewhere in the neck. That felt unbelievable. Plus, each updown motion had a delayed, peculiar effect on Henry's ass. The cheeks would cave in, then reinflate like lungs, giving Julian goosebumps and, from the look of it, making the route to the anus more pretty and treacherous for me. Even the guy's back improved. The homely spine and rib cage got swallowed up by the crazy pattern of his musculature or whatever ...
"Can you rim me? Are you in any condition ... ?" Julian held one ear about an inch up from Henry's mouth. The guy was breathing, but it seemed a little too gentle and fragrant somehow, more like smoke. Julian sat back and squinted at me. "What if he OD's?" I was licking the guy's toes. "It's weird how ... when feet are a little dirty ... they're spicy," I said between licks. "But are they cold?" Julian asked. I quit licking. "Oh, I get it. Well, er, slap the guy." Julian aimed one palm, smacked Henry's cheek. "Hey," Henry groaned, "what the ... fucking. .
"Is he hard?" Julian asked. "Can you ... reach down?" Most of my face disappeared behind Henry's ass, and tilted ninety degrees like a sinking ship. "Uh, no, not even close. It feels, what ... squishy, rubbery?" I raised up. "Have you ever noticed," Julian said, his voice shaky from fucking the guy's mouth so hard, "how people don't get erections with us? Is it that the type we respond to is sort of asexual or something?" I pursed my lips. "Yeah, it's weird not to swallow their sperm." Julian shrugged. "I intend to, abstractly," he said, "but all I ever think about is dumping mine."...
... Henry stank, worse or better depending on where Julian licked. He'd had so much sex he could rank body odors. Asshole, profound. Crotch, overrated. Mouth, profound. Hair on head, underrated. Hands and feet, nice. Armpits, too blatant. Julian settled down on the ass. My face was wedged between Henry's thighs, pupils dilated, open mouth stuffed with wrinkly balls. "Mmm." Julian kissed me, imprisoning the balls, which he jabbed with the tip of his tongue. Occasionally I batted one back, as if it were the "ball" in a very crude sport ...
... "Take control, yeah?" Julian let Henry go. The body toppled against me, slid down. I caught it. Hair was
stuck to the sweat on Henry's face in ugly, hippieish patterns. Julian reached under the glass coffee table, grabbed the guy's discarded Adidas, unlaced one, threw it over his shoulder. He gathered and tied the locks into a tight ponytail. "Better," he said, sitting back on his heels. "Definitely. He's almost perfect now. Hmm. Eliminate one, two ... two scars, some body hair, an eighth-inch around each nipple ... maybe a little less nose ... uh..." Julian squinted.
TENSE
1969-1986
When I was thirteen ...
Saturday afternoons I'd ride my ten-speed downtown and see matinees, usually horror films. I can't remember their names anymore, since they were never the point of my trips. I'd tune in, then recount their plot twists to my parents at dinner to explain how I'd wasted my day. But as soon as the credits rolled I'd be outside, hunched over, unchaining my bike.
A couple of blocks off the main boulevard in a row of Salvation Army-styled junk shops was a nondescript storefront called Gypsy Pete's, full of sex magazines, run by an old, unshaven alcoholic. Pete kept a few comic books near the register for kids. But when the usual customers cleared out, he'd let me browse through the hard-core material. I'd be looking at two naked, tangled adults. Suddenly Pete would yell, "Hey, twerp," which was the prearranged signal for me to return to the comics.
Pete used to talk drunkenly about how many women he fucked and how easily. I didn't believe him because he was ugly. He swore he'd been cute as a teen. One day he showed me a picture of him in the army or something in which he looked better but not good enough to get laid very much.
I thought he'd throw me out if I got near the gay porn, confined to a sleek, revolving rack near the register. So I'd browse in that area, glancing occasionally at the things on the rack. If I hung around long enough, Pete would go into the store's little toilet to shit. Those were my minutes to flip through the magazines. Once I thought Pete was heading off for his usual shit, but he was just taking something new out of the stockroom. I got caught with my hand on a copy of Muscular Boy. He didn't blink. "Skin's skin" was his philosophy.
Frisk: A Novel (Cooper, Dennis) Page 2