Alter Boys

by Chuck Stepanek

  There was an awkward moment of silence, the young man’s smile radiating, Gus’ stomach rumbling.

  “Say, I’m wondering” Gus redirected. “Do you know if there’s someplace nearby to get a bite to eat?”

  The young man literally glowed. “You want something to eat? Well that’s a coincidence, because I’m looking for something to eat too.” And without waiting for a response from the elder, the younger said: “Follow me”

  They walked down the main business strip, neither man talking. Gus appreciative for the escorted directions, but less than keen on the concept of having a dinner partner. Along the way they passed two restaurants that, to Gus, looked promising, one Misty’s Prime rib and steakhouse, the second Fat Pat’s pizza and deli.

  “So what’s on the menu at this place?” Gus was regretting having the guy parade him around when he could have stumbled across either of the two they had passed on his own. With his luck the punk was likely headed to an A and W root beer stand.

  “Oh, now that’s a good one” the young man said strangely. “The menu? The menu is tender sausage deluxe!” He peered at Gus greedily. “And it’s all you can eat!”

  They turned off the main road and into an alley. The thought of gorging himself on sausage was to Gus as appetizing as a buffet of Styrofoam peanuts and lead-based paint chips. And just where in the hell was this place? The alley was leading nowhere that promised anything of fine dining value.

  “So where is this restaurant?” It came out with an edge of annoyance.

  “Restaurant, ha!” You’re so funny. You make me laugh.” He stepped toward Gus and for a moment Gus thought the guy was going to kiss him. He responded by recoiling two quick steps in retreat.

  “Awww, don’t be that way.” The younger pouted coquettishly. “We can get a room right up there.” He pointed to the upper level of a nondescript building at the end of the alley. “It’s only 20 dollars an hour. Don’t worry, I’ll pay my share.” The younger fluttered his eyes flirtatiously. “And if you really don’t want to eat, that’s fine, I’ll gladly do you, but then the room is on you.”

  Suddenly, everything clicked.

  “I don’t ride motorcycles, but I do my share of riding,”

  “I’m looking for something to eat too”

  “The menu is sausage; sausage deluxe! And it’s all you can eat!”

  “We can get a room right up there.”

  “I’ll gladly do you”

  His voice nearly quivering, Gus choked out his retreat. “No, no, no. You’ve got it all wrong. I’m not into that at all!”

  The younger folded his arms and pouted. Then he eased and asked darkly: “So just what are you into?” One eyebrow cocked suggestively.

  “Nothing!” Gus barked. “Where did you get the idea that I was into…any of…that kind of thing?”

  The younger held his ground and delivered his response sans the effeminate titter. “I’ll tell you where I got the idea from pops. From your back pocket. You were waving the light blue from the back left. Now just try and tell me that you don’t know that means that you’re looking for a blow job.”

  Gus didn’t have the foggiest idea what the punk was talking about. Obviously, the punk could see it too.

  “Look.” He turned his ass to the old guy. “See that?” the tail end of a blue handkerchief was draped over the right pocket. “Me. Blue. Right pocket. That means I want to give a blow job. You. Blue. Left pocket. That means you want to receive a blow job.”

  “Any questions?”

  Gus felt the back of his slacks. The first touch of the stray fabric made him cringe. As he brought the cloth into vision, he nearly collapsed.

  “No. I’m sorry. I didn’t. I wasn’t trying…”

  “Save it old timer. You already burned enough of my night.”

  “Listen, I really didn’t know. I’m sorry. If it’s about the $20 I’d be happy to pay you for…”

  “Pay? What’s this pay crap! You calling me a whore? I ain’t no whore! The money is for the room! Everything else is consensual!”

  Gus was defeated. He hung his head and stared at the swath of blue cloth.

  The younger uttered a ‘hmmpff’ and then began his assessment of what had just transpired. “So, you want me to believe that you really didn’t know.” His tone was now the steady confidence of a college graduate ready to take on the world.

  “No, I didn’t know.” Conciliatory and without eye-contact from Gus. “But.” He struggled internally with the next. “But, I want to learn. Some things. Some other things, if you know them – can show me.” He stopped “can you teach – I mean tell me.” He corrected.

  Christ he’s pathetic the college grad reflected. But he also seemed harmless. Just some old fart trying to learn the ropes in the ever broadening world of gay sex. Besides, wasn’t there a time not all that long ago when he himself needed guidance.

  “Fine, what do you want to know?”

  “Well” Gus ruminated. “a lot of things. But first, I really gotta eat something. No! I mean I’m really hungry…for, for food!”

  That got the kid to laughing. “Okay, fair ‘nuf. You wanna meet up someplace after?”

  Gus pondered and said honestly: “I’m only here for a few more hours. If you like we can go to that Mister’s Prime Rib place, my treat, unless that would um offend you.”

  “It’s ‘Misty’s” the younger corrected. “They have great food and no, it would not offend me.”

  “Thank you. And I’m sorry, I should introduce. My name is…”

  “Ahhh! Ahhh! Ahhh!” The younger stopped him cold. “First lesson—no names. If you need to call me something you can call me Ronald, last name McDonald. You? You can be Mr. King, first name Burger. Got it?”

  Gus, aka, Mr. Burger King acknowledged that he got it. He had intended on giving the kid a phony name to begin with, but Ronald McDonald had saved him the trouble.

  4

  The food at Misty’s was as good as promised. Gus’ appetite, fueled by the walk, was tempered only by the nature of the discussion he was having with Mr. McDonald and the potential for eavesdroppers. Most of the time they talked in code. If a word or phrase needed verification, it was jotted on a tiny scrap of napkin and then incinerated in the ashtray by the business end of Ronald McDonald’s cigarette. At one point a well worn sheet of paper was discretely displayed. It had been folded and re-folded many times judging by the fuzzy edges of the crease marks. It was the key to ‘flagging.’ Red handkerchief in back right – you want a hand job. Green handkerchief in back left – you’ll take it in the ass with a condom. Light green – no condom.

  Until now, Mr. King was just along for the ride. They didn’t arrive at his area of interest until Mr. McDonald addressed the topic of preferences in partners.

  White, black, Asian? Didn’t matter.

  Older? No.

  Younger? Yes.

  Thirties? Younger.

  Twenties? Younger.

  Here Mr. McDonald paused and then breathed: “Eighteen?” “Younger.”

  “Much younger?” “Much younger.”

  Ronald McDonald took a drag on his smoke and turned to the open end of the booth. He watched the waitress approach and considerately waited for her to pass before exhaling.

  Ronald leaned back and sized up his tablemate. “Why don’t you…give me…a number.”

  Mr. King sopped up au jus with a chunk of bread and said: “Seven, maybe eight.”

  “No.” Direct and succinct. “Now that, is something I can’t help you with; won’t hope help you with.” He glared across the table. This was no longer a conversation about sex, it was abuse.

  Mr. King back peddled maddeningly. “No, not real…” he swallowed his chunk of Misty’s homemade pumpernickel, worked his mind frantically and found a plausible out. “Just…just pictures! Yes, I only want pictures… I mean I would never…” He left the phrase unfinished, looking at his tablemate for validation.

  Ronald McDonald was ready t
o bolt. Just up and vacate the table and leave this sorry sack-o-shit pedophile in his dust. But during their meal the man across the way had developed an aura of authority, maybe in the real world he was an insurance executive or even worse, a lawyer. The kind of man who, if he didn’t get his way would retaliate just out of spite; pressing charges of solicitation of prostitution or some trumped-up horseshit. Ronald thought of his future and how such a charge (even if he were exonerated) could affect him in the job market.

  “Alright” he conceded. He would tell the sick-o what he knew and then get the hell out of there. “All you’re looking for is kiddy porn.” He mouthed the words silently and then resorted to the napkin when Mr. King was unable to decipher via lip reading.

  “Yes!” he exalted. Laying the nasty two word phrase on the open table.

  Ronald snatched up the scrap quickly and created more ashes.

  “There’s only one place that I’ve heard of. It’s on the south side of the metro. I’m going to write down the name and address plus a few other things you’ll need to know. And understand that this stuff ain’t cheep, you’ll be paying a premium because it is highly illegal.” He dropped the volume on the words ‘highly illegal’ to barely audible. The thought that he felt compelled to take this route, to relay information about a practice that abhorred him, made him ill.

  Mr. King was thrumming with excitement.

  Ronald McDonald’s hands shook as he scribbled out the message. He loathed the man across the table almost as much as he loathed himself for abetting his fetish. This time he thrust the napkin across the table recklessly, almost hoping that some mysterious eye, an eye that looks out for little children, would see the message and strike the pedophile dead of a brain aneurism. He also hoped that what he had heard about the sex shop was bogus, that there was no kiddy porn in the metro. Unfortunately his heart told him otherwise.

  “We’re done.” He took one last hard look at the sick tub-o-guts across from him and bailed out of the booth. As he exited the restaurant Ronald McDonald vowed that he would do everything he could to erase from his mind the experience with the pedophile. Coming to terms with contributing to the bastards fetish; now that would take longer, much, much longer.

  Later that night, a bellyful of prime rib and baked potato, walking from the allure of Firethorn back to the bleakness of his room at the PM, Gus felt like a new man. He had entered his sabbatical without the slightest sense of what he would do with himself for the next eight weeks (other than worry about the threat of discovery). Now, through the guidance of Ronald McDonald, he had plenty to look forward to. For the seventh or eighth time during the walk home he retrieved the cherished paper from his breast pocket, held it in the glow of a street light, and re-read the words.

  Extreme

  Exotica

  Exchange

  223 Pershing Drive. Ask for the boys room(behind the counter)

  A handwritten ticket to pedophile paradise; he re-tucked the note and resumed his stroll. And as the zoning laws relaxed and the destitution increased, Gus lightened his step and began to whistle.

  5

  Ultimately, Gus was able to endure his sabbatical thanks in large part to the inspirational reading material he purchased at the triple X.

  Upon his return to St. Mark’s he found his room untouched, his mailbox absent of anything legal, and his answering machine nothing more than well wishes from the women’s guild that he took pleasure in deleting without a full listen.

  His parishioners remarked at his appearance and disposition. Truly they said, whatever he had done for the last two months (multiple whack off sessions daily) had done him wonders. He resumed his interests with passion.

  He also resumed his duties as a priest.

  And now he was back on the Expressway, trusting the sedans cruise control to keep him in compliance with any radar-enhanced speed traps; a safe 73 miles per hour.

  When he first laid eyes on the kiddy porn, some five years ago, he really believed it would be enough to satisfy his longing for bare-butted boys. The full color pictures lay still, they didn’t protest or cry. He could imagine and enact any and all fantasies without the drudgery of conditioning and reinforcement. He sincerely believed that he would no longer lust for trysts with the altar boys.

  But the magazines didn’t replace his urges for the living; they had fueled them. Whether just starting a new prospect with friendly whisker rubs, or advancing to simulated sex with a ripe one, his needs became insatiable. The magazines gave him new ideas, ideas which he ached to carry out in the flesh.

  He saw a green reflective sign, Rest Area – Right Lane – 1 Mile, tapped the brake to disengage the cruise control, and signaled his way into the deceleration lane.

  The turnout was a winner. Expansive, ample parking for cars and big rigs alike. The few vehicles that now populated it were clustered near the restrooms. Gus rolled by the dump-and-drain station and nearly reached the onramp before pulling off to the side.

  He ignored the yellow lines intended for diagonal parking and pulled up parallel to the curb. A deliberate act to broaden his vision of the world around him. That, plus a straight shot onto the onramp should he happen to be caught in any compromising position.

  He checked his mirrors, killed the engine, and reached across the seat.

  Chapter 2

  1

  “Dirty! Dirty like a dog! Such ungodliness! And in this house! Saint Peter buried in the yard! It won’t fix! It won’t fix! It won’t fix!”

  Demon awoke, but not fully. Five hours of comatose bliss had been suddenly jolted by his mother, shrieking in the bathroom. There was confusion. What was his mother doing up so early? He was always up first watching the test pattern. And there was another thing, he felt different. Something had happened last night, but for the moment, he wasn’t sure.

  “You dirty Georgie Porgie girl! Aaaaiiiieee!” A screaming banshee was flying toward him.

  “You!” His mother now filled his bedroom door frame. “You dirty mutt! Not flushing the toilet! Leaving your sin in the bowl! But deliver us from evil! And not lifting the ring! The communion of saints, the forgiveness of sins! And these!” she held out the washrag and comb accusingly. “In the sink!” Certainly not the worst of oversights but she was on a roll. Then she saw his pants on floor.

  “Aaaaiiieee! What have you done! It’s going to take me forever to pluck out those weeds. Eoli Eoli lema sabantani! She uttered the Latin crucifixion phrase of ‘my god, my god, why have you forsaken me.’

  Demon prepared his explanation: He had been out the night before with the Bird. They smoked cigarettes and pot. He got covered in weeds while trying to take a piss on hill 14. He had wasted perfectly good money on munchies. He got home and was still too stoned to piss standing up, so he sat like a girl. He felt conspicuous and didn’t flush, he then spaced out for the next 20 minutes combing his hair and wiping little dots of toothpaste off the mirror. He dropped the comb and rag in the sink and left the toilet unflushed.

  But that didn’t sound right. So instead he said: “I forgot.”

  He would have been better off with his initial explanation. ‘Forgetting’ is the worst excuse you could ever give to a carrier of manic OCD.

  “Forgot!” His mother screamed. “Do you see me forgetting! “The day of reckoning draws nigh!” She darted from the room and a moment later came the sound of a flush along with a victorious cry. Over the next two weeks, Demon’s mom would make hundreds of circuits to the bathroom, checking the sink, peering into the bowl, and touching the talismanic flush handle.

  The outburst didn’t have as much effect on him as it would have under ordinary circumstances. No, Demon wasn’t in the practice of forgetting, and the times he had displeased his mother in the past he had been able to (brush it off? Deal with it? Hide it away in an internal black cage of pain?). It didn’t matter. And now, that he had discovered pot, it mattered less.

  He crawled from bed warily. His brain fuzzy, his tongue coated with a f
ilm of ‘extract ala ash.’ Stepping over yesterdays clothes he went to the bureau and tugged out one of this three pairs of new jeans. JC Penney Plain Pockets, $10 a pair. He didn’t like the stiff feel of the jeans compared to his old pants, but it was a fashion sacrifice that needed to be made. He added a pullover and finished with holey socks and his battered tennis shoes.

  As he headed to the bathroom, he puzzled over having slept so late, something he had never done before, and lamented the loss of the test pattern, weathervane and morning “N” “E” “W” “S”. It was only as he turned into the bathroom that he felt the first waves of unease.

  It was true, he had forgot. Yes, the pot had muted his mothers sting, but wasn’t it the pot that caused him to forget in the first place? He ducked his head in the sink and began washing his hair.

  “You flush you dirty dog! You lift the ring you Georgie Porgie girl!” His mother’s voice from beyond the door. “I’ll be in to check! And all the firstborn shall perish!”