MEN, MUSCLE, and MAYHEM

by Milton Stern

  Morty then eased Mordecai over so that his butt was totally exposed, and he grabbed the showerhead from Bernie, so he could rinse the soap from the big muscular tuchus.

  “Sweet,” Morty said as he looked at the luscious mounds. He just couldn’t help himself as he pressed his raging hard cock against the opening that had been through so much abuse only hours earlier. “I want to plow that so badly.”

  “Don’t do it badly, do it right,” Mordecai said, finally uttering a complete sentence for the first time since being doused with New England clam chowder. Mordecai, who was a bit of a neat freak – and anal retentive, usually wouldn’t dream of being topped, but the hunky sidekick with the big Hebrew National and his freshly cleaned colon made for a perfect opportunity. And, Mordecai was not one to pass up a good opportunity.

  “And, you,” Mordecai said to Bernie, “feed me that cock of yours,” for this was the rarest of good opportunities.

  It didn’t take long for Mordecai to be getting it from both ends like a nice brisket on a rotisserie. With the hot water cascading down on them, they fucked and sucked until the walls shook.

  Morty rarely topped and this was a treat worth more than anything he would get during the eight nights of Hanukah. For Mordecai, who rarely got laid, this was heaven on earth.

  He also struggled to remember the Hebrew prayer thanking God for good sex.

  His own cock was hard and throbbing although he had not touched it as his hands were all over Bernie’s tuchus while he swallowed every inch of his kosher meat. The copious precum made it all the more pleasurable, and Mordecai didn’t fear any remnants or treyf coming from this treat.

  There were moans and groans, cries of “Oh God,” and lots of heavy breathing.

  Bernie came first, filling Mordecai’s mouth with a kosher protein shake, which he swallowed like a superhero. Bernie immediately dove between Mordecai’s legs and stretched his mouth over the foot-long bull cock that was leaking buckets of precum just in time to taste and swallow Mordecai’s load, which shot without so much as any handy work, for Morty was fucking him in the most glorious manner, both strong and gentle at the same time, massaging his prostate perfectly. The spasms from his anus drained a load from Morty, who filled Mordecai’s guts with his own kosher protein shake as he yelled, “Hallelujah!”

  After cleaning each other off, Bernie and Morty stayed the night with Mordecai, sleeping on either side of him – an additional treat for our lonely superhero, who always slept alone.

  The next morning, after bagels and lox, they returned to their own metropolis, Mogen David City. But before they left, they promised to come and visit Mordecai at least once a month, and he promised he would do the same and smiled as he waved goodbye, and they drove off in their brown 1976 Eldorado convertible.

  “All we need is a female superhero, and we can form the Jewish Justice League of America,” Mordecai said to himself as he walked back upstairs to his apartment.

  When he entered, his phone rang.

  “Hello?”

  “So, nu?” his mother asked.

  SELFISH PRICK

  Start from the beginning; tell me what happened.

  How far back do you want me to go?

  How far back do you need to go?

  Considering yesterday was the first time I saw Paul Tucker since 1989, maybe 21 years?

  You had not seen him since 1989?

  That’s right.

  And, you were expecting to see him here, yesterday?

  In Missoula, Montana? I had no idea he was here. Last I heard he was in San Diego.

  Paul Tucker has not lived in San Diego in over a decade.

  How the hell was I supposed to know that? As I said the last time I saw him was 1989.

  But, you had spoken to him?

  No.

  You had not spoken to him or seen him since 1989, and yesterday, he just shows up at your hotel room – out of the blue?

  I had heard from him … twice.

  Twice?

  Twice.

  Start from the beginning.

  Picture it, Norfolk, Virginia, 1989 …

  Don’t be cute, Mr. Sagman.

  Whatever you say, Detective Anthony.

  Go on.

  There was a bar in Norfolk, which may still be there. I don’t know as I have not lived there since 1992. It was called the Late Show. It was a member’s only, after hours bar. At least it was advertised as member’s only, but just about anyone could get in.

  I used to go there every Friday night because I worked as a waiter in Williamsburg, lived in Newport News, and I had to be at work at 5:00 am on Sunday mornings, so Friday was my day to go out. And, every Friday, I was at the Late Show.

  What kind of bar was this?

  As I said, an afterhours member’s only bar.

  You know what I mean.

  A gay bar … any way, one night, and I don’t remember when, I met two guys, one was in the Air Force and one was in the Navy …

  You said this was a gay bar.

  Yeah, and Norfolk as well as all of Hampton Roads is full of military guys, and guess what? They go to gay bars – every closeted one of them. When the first Gulf War broke out, the bars emptied out like a restaurant when the immigration officer shows up.

  Was one of these men Paul Tucker?

  Yes, he was in the Navy then. I don’t remember the name of the Air Force guy. Funny thing is, the Air Force guy wanted to go home with me, but I wanted to go home with Paul.

  Are you aware that Paul Tucker was married?

  I found out later, but you’ll have to wait for that part. Also, he wasn’t married then. He was single and living the gay life … so to speak.

  So to speak?

  Are you going to let me finish?

  Go on.

  I told the Air Force guy … I wish I could remember his name … that I was tired. I gave my number to both of them and said we should get together for a movie or something sometime. A couple of days, or the next day, again I can’t remember, Paul calls me, and we go out hiking. I remember it was a Sunday afternoon, and we were out for quite some time.

  I noticed from the beginning that he wasn’t quite happy, and he hid his unhappiness by pointing out how unhappy I was. Funny thing is I always considered myself happy, so I didn’t know how to take this guy telling me I couldn’t possibly be happy.

  Anyway, we came back to my apartment. I was living in Newport News then, and we ended up in bed together. He had a cute body, but the truth is he was quite boring in bed. He liked showering together, and he was shaved from head to toe. I asked him how he did that in the barracks without raising suspicion, and he said his bunkmate or roommate or whatever they call them thought it was cool and did it himself.

  So, we dated for a couple of weeks, and he would spend the night some times. He also wore a fake wedding ring when he was out in public with me. One morning, a co-worker stopped by to borrow some money for an alternator or battery, and he was sitting at my dining table shirtless, so he flashed the wedding ring, so she wouldn’t think he was my gay boyfriend who just spent the night.

  I just looked at him as if he were retarded and asked what else she would think of a shirtless guy sitting at my table at 8:00 am.

  After a couple of weeks of this relationship, if you want to call it that, he sends me a letter telling me he doesn’t want to see me again. He says I, meaning me, could never be happy, and he could never be happy with me because sleeping with me was the equivalent of jerking off. I remember that. I never responded and chalked it up to one bad experience. I also vowed never to date another Navy guy.

  Did you hear from him again?

  Not exactly. I ran into our mutual Air Force acquaintance a few weeks later and he gave me the scoop. Apparently, Mr. Tucker was a conflicted sort. He was once an exchange student to Bolivia, and he was sent home for having sex with another boy. I know from being an AFS sponsor …

  AFS?

  American Field Service.

  Oh
.

  That having sex with anyone, gay or straight, was a no-no. He also told me Paul had a difficult relationship with his father. Who doesn’t? Again, I really didn’t care. Boo hoo, cry me a river, move on. That is how I felt.

  And that was it? You weren’t angry? You didn’t feel the need to exact revenge?

  Why would I exact revenge? I should use that in my next book.

  You won’t have a next book if we find you did this.

  Please, Detective Anthony. If I exacted revenge on every guy who rejected me, there would be trail of bodies up and down the Eastern Seaboard.

  Oh, I doubt you even understand rejection, Mr. Sagman. You have those movie star looks, the body of an Adonis, and the fake charm to go with it.

  Are you hitting on me?

  Hardly.

  Well, what you ordinary people don’t understand is people like me … and I know what I look like … get rejected all the time. You see, we may turn heads when we walk into a room, and we may be the object of someone’s obsessive pursuits, but once they get us in bed and find out we’re really nice guys, they do everything in their power to make us feel bad about ourselves before they move on.

  You just gave us motive.

  As I said, I have better things to do than murder someone. I am a best-selling author; two of my books are being made into movies – simultaneously. Do you really think I would risk going to jail by murdering some selfish prick who rejected me twenty-one years ago?

  That is what I am trying to find out. So when was the next time you saw Mr. Tucker.

  Yesterday.

  OK. Talked to him?

  Yesterday.

  Did you know he was living in Missoula?

  I knew he was from Montana, but I never knew what city. I figured Helena or Butte.

  Did you know he just moved here less than a year ago?

  Not until yesterday.

  So, you didn’t know that he lived near Baltimore … an hour away from you in Rockville for almost five years?

  Actually it was Tolson, and not until yesterday when he told me. He also told me he lived in Oklahoma as well. And, Baltimore is only forty-five minutes away.

  You never heard from him in twenty-one years?

  I didn’t say that. I said, I never spoke to him or saw him in twenty-one years. You’re trying to trip me up.

  I’m just trying to get to the truth, Mr. Sagman.

  So, Detective Anthony. Are you good cop or bad cop?

  You watch too much television.

  I have written a few episodes of crime dramas, and this experience should help me.

  You may be writing them in a cell.

  I doubt that. I didn’t murder Paul Tucker.

  Some people think you did.

  And, those people are wrong.

  So, when did you hear from him again?

  I’m not exactly sure, but I think it was 1994 or 1995 … or was it 1996. My father called me to tell me that someone sent me a letter to their address because he couldn’t find me. So, he forwarded the letter to me. I was living in West Palm Beach.

  Florida?

  Yeah. The letter was from Paul. There was a photograph of him with a woman. And, the letter pretty much told me that he had found God while taking a walk or stroll and found true happiness and married this woman named Lori. And, in typical Paul Tucker fashion, he proceeded to tell me that he hoped I could one day be happy and blah blah blah ...

  How did that make you feel?

  What, you’re now a therapist?

  Mr. Sagman, I don’t think you understand the seriousness of this. A man was shot twice and killed in your hotel room, and you were the last one to see him alive.

  Believe me, I understand the seriousness, and I understand the ridiculousness of this.

  Go on.

  How did the letter make me feel? At first I was disturbed, and then I felt sorry for his wife. I predicted then and there that after ten years, she would catch him with a man or he would eventually come out after not having sex with her for a long time. And, I was angry at him. Not for what he did to me. I had long forgotten about that, and as I said earlier, never cared. I was angry because here was another gay man, using a woman to find happiness and fucking with her emotions, not to mention her life. I wondered how much he told her. Was this part of some ex-gay ministry and she was a former lesbian? If so, then more power to them. But, if he married her without being open and honest, what a selfish prick.

  You were angry?

  At the situation.

  That is the second time you’ve called him a selfish prick.

  He was one.

  You were angry at him.

  OK, I was angry. You want to know why? This guy dumps me, sends me a letter telling me I could never be happy, tells me that sex with me is like jerking off, then marries a woman, sends me this smiling bullshit picture, and again tells me I am not happy. I haven’t seen this selfish prick in five or so years, and he assumes I am not happy. Who the fuck is he? Seriously, who the fuck is he?

  So, you killed him.

  Please. He would not be worth the energy. I was angry for a minute, then I forgot about it.

  Did you respond to the letter?

  Fuck no. I didn’t want anything to do with him.

  So, that’s it? Then yesterday you see him again.

  There was another letter?

  Really?

  Yes.

  When?

  I moved to DC in 1997. And, I think a few months after that another letter came via my parents. There’s your proof I never responded. He would have known where I lived.

  Unless you told him you moved to DC?

  No … I didn’t.

  What was in the letter?

  It was a picture of him running a marathon – shirtless. In it, he said something like, I hope you are happy. My life is wonderful.

  And, did you respond?

  No. I was dumbfounded. Why would he send me this picture? Shirtless no less? Wasn’t he married to a woman? I threw it out. End of story. The guy had no effect on me.

  And the next time he contacted you?

  Never again.

  Until yesterday.

  At the book signing. He was about halfway through the line. I recognized him immediately.

  Was he alone.

  No … he was standing there right in front of me with his lover … male lover … and his son … his twelve-year-old son.

  Were you in shock?

  I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t.

  Who else did you expect to find in Missoula?

  I had no idea he lived here. However, my predictions came true. He introduced me to his partner, Mark, and his son, Harry. Mark was all smiles, but Harry. I looked into that boy’s eyes, and I saw nothing. No soul. Nothing. It was also clear that Mark had no idea who I was. Paul told him I was an old friend from his days in Virginia. Old friend. We were never friends. But in those fifteen seconds, I figured it all out. His life was one big lie. He never told his wife about his past, and as far as smiling Mark was concerned, Paul’s first sexual experience was with him. But, the boy? I will never forget the look on the boy’s face.

  So, what happened next?

  I signed his book, told him it was nice to see him and meet his family and that I couldn’t chat because we had to keep the line moving.

  Did you tell him where you were staying?

  No.

  Then how did he find your hotel room?

  Come on Detective Anthony. How hard can it be to find out where a minor celebrity is staying in Missoula? Besides, I didn’t want to see him. The man means, I mean, meant nothing to me.

  What happened next?

  The signing was over around five o’clock. I went back to the hotel to shower and change, and my publicist and I had dinner in the hotel restaurant around six. After that, I went back to my room to watch some television and relax.

  Where was the gun?

  What gun? I have never owned a gun in my life. This is my first t
ime in Missoula. I came off a plane, went straight to the hotel, checked in, then to the book store, then back to the hotel, dinner and back to my room. I carried on my luggage, so I wouldn’t take a chance on it being lost. Do you really think I carried a gun on the plane with the intention of killing someone I had no idea was living here? Be real.

  You had time to buy one.

  Where? I didn’t even rent a car. I have never bought, nor handled, nor shot, nor touched a gun in my life.

  You expect me to believe that?

  Believe what you want.

  Why haven’t you asked for a lawyer?

  I didn’t do anything wrong. Besides, my lawyer is in New York, and he is on his way.

  Did he tell you not to talk?

  Yes, but I have nothing to hide.

  Fair enough. When did you invite Paul to your room?

  I didn’t invite him. He showed up. Around ten, there was a knock on my door. I peeped through the hole, and who is standing there? Paul Tucker.

  How did he find your room?

  Seriously? You are asking me that again?

  OK. What happened next?

  I opened the door and asked him what he wanted. He said he wanted to talk. I said I had nothing to say, and he should go home to his happy family and leave me alone because I could never be happy.

  So, you were angry.

  No, I was being a smart ass. He insisted, so I let him in, but I told him he had ten minutes to talk and that would be it. So, he talked.

  What did you talk about?

  Not what I thought we would. I honestly thought he would apologize for trying to make me feel less than human all those years ago, but then I realized an apology wouldn’t matter anyway. None of us are the same person we were twenty years ago. Instead, he proceeded to tell me what a wonderful life he had and how happy he was, and how happy he wished I could be. Oh my God, it was the same bullshit. This selfish prick, who destroyed so many lives with his need to be so-called normal, was still the same asshole. At that moment, I felt sorry for his partner, his ex-wife, and especially, the kid. Now, I know why that kid looked so … I don’t know … soul-less. I mean gay or straight, he was so convinced that nobody else was happy and only by creating a pseudo-happy existence and rubbing everyone else’s nose in it could he be happy.