Earlier that summer, another hot night, very much like this one, when the moisture in the air wed the heat and the two became an unstoppable force, omniscient in delivering energy-sapping misery to the minions, those who could not afford air-conditioning.
Howard Street, a dangerous place, filled with shouts and come-ons from prostitutes. How did Emory’s walk along the lakeshore bring him here?
A siren’s call: the adult bookstore across the street beckoned. Its tawdry blinking lights and fluorescent signs in the windows promised X-rated delights for a mere quarter.
Emory had promised himself he would never return there. Ever. He had made his resolve strong. Steeled himself to never go inside that sick place, where the worst diseases, ones dealing death, were freely exchanged in the dark shadows of filthy peep-show booths, the floors littered with dirt, cigarette ash, and discarded condoms. He had told himself that he would be a healthier person if he never went inside such a place again. Such places were beneath him.
Yet, he waited for a break in the traffic and dashed across the street. A hot wind blew his ash-blond hair off his forehead. Everyone was staring at him, and they all knew what was on his mind.
The door’s metal handle was cool, and Emory, heart pounding, sweat oozing out of his pores, and his resolve shaken but not gone—I’ll go in, but just to see what it’s like—yanked the door open.
After giving the man behind the counter two dollars in exchange for a handful of tokens, Emory went to the back part of the store, where the video booths were. A line of flashing lights lined the ceiling, doing little to combat the darkness, settled upon the room like fog. A few men, hands thrust in pockets or smoking cigarettes, milled about, pretending to read descriptions of the pornographic movies they might select in the booths, but Emory could see their quick glances at him out of the corners of their eyes.
Emory’s stomach rolled, and he tried to keep his eyes cast downward. All I’ll do is look at a movie and then I’ll leave. Emory ducked into the first booth he came to. Hands shaking and palms slick with sweat, he pumped several tokens into the box that would bring the video screen before him to life.
Feeling sick, but transfixed, Emory stared at the screen, where a young boy, sprawled across a table, was being fucked ruthlessly by an older man. His legs were thrown up, partially hiding the older man’s hairy chest. The older man’s cock was huge, sliding in and out of the boy’s ass, and Emory wondered if the pain on the boy’s face and in his whimpers was real.
Emory ignored the tightening in his pants, biting his lower lip hard enough to bring stinging tears to his eyes.
The door behind him squeaked, and Emory’s spine stiffened at the warmth of someone else entering the booth. The shadow of the man behind him fell across the wall. Emory didn’t turn but stood mute as strong hands slid around his waist, encircling it. Emory said nothing, as moist lips, like slugs, crept across the back of his neck. Said nothing as the man’s big fingers fumbled with the button and zipper of his jeans. Said nothing as the man yanked the jeans to Emory’s knees. Said nothing as clothes rustled behind him. Said nothing as the heat of a penis pressed against the crack of his ass.
The man growled in his ear, and Emory braced his hands on the wall before him as the man slicked his cock with spit and pushed into Emory’s ass, not stopping until he broke through the ring of muscle.
Emory gasped, the pain sudden and intense—throbbing. White hot needles.
Emory began to cry as the man thrust into him. He felt dizzy, nauseous, but gripped his knees anyway, bending over so that the man could enter him more deeply.
His own cock softened as the man’s thrusts grew more rapid, harder, as if suddenly what this man wanted to be was a messenger of pain rather than pleasure.
“Never again,” Emory whispered to himself over and over. “Never again.”
Emory’s head jerked up: the images of memory scattered at last, leaving him breathless and clawing his faded quilt. A pool of semen, viscous and warm, had pooled beneath him.
And in front of him, on the screen, was Jeffrey Dahmer, being led, handcuffed, into a courtroom. Dahmer wore the same blue-and-white striped shirt he wore in the newspaper’s photograph.
The face on the screen was terrified. Emory was sure of it. He was also sure that the terror was born of feeling out of control.
And at once, Emory felt he had a unique understanding of the killer. Empathy was probably a more apt word.
Tomorrow, he would find out the name of the prison where Dahmer was confined and Emory would write him…let him know there was at least one person who understood what he was going through. Understood, really, that none of this was Dahmer’s fault.
Sluggo Snares a Vampire
They call it catfishing—presenting yourself online as someone other than who you you really are. Why do people do it? I suppose to the same reason a dog licks its balls—because they can.
My mind tends to wander to dangerous places, and from the trending hot topic of catfishing, it went to vampires. Who knows why?
But one thing that’s always fascinated me about vampire lore is the fact that, according to most stories, you have to invite them in.
So catfishing, vampires, and taking the dangerous step of inviting your own trouble into your own house, “Sluggo Snares a Vampire” was born.
* * * *
Sluggo had promised himself he would limit his time on the computer to less than an hour a day. Like many promises, this one was made with the best of intentions and an underlying need to makes himself a better person.
So why was it that now, at a quarter past midnight, he was lying abed wide awake? This was in spite of re-reading the latest Sookie Stackhouse story, drinking several glasses of red wine that Sluggo whimsically thought of as “true blood,” and neatly cataloging, in alphabetical order, all of the books on his living room shelves. He had his bedroom TV turned to a comforting and—he thought—sleep-inducing low hum, tuned to Lifetime and an old episode of Will and Grace. His aluminum mini blinds were firmly shut against the night, and the room was warm and dark, save for the dim glow of his sock monkey night-light that he’d simply never been able to part with.
Sluggo’s den, off the dining room, beckoned. Like a siren’s call, it seemed the Macintosh within urged him to forget his resolve and conveniently not remind him that he had earlier decided the hours and hours of time spent online were becoming an addiction, just like crystal meth, alcohol, and huffing computer keyboard cleaners was for the poor folks he watched every week on Intervention. The lure of the computer and the connections it promised forced Sluggo to put on a back burner the worry that his time online in chat rooms and male-to-male hookups sites was perhaps circumventing his ability to get out there and make real, flesh-and-blood human connections. Never mind his dawning horrific realization that he was beginning to think, instead of just type on a keyboard, terms like vgl, brb, lmao, bb, nsa, and a whole litany of others. And why bother mentioning the mounting amounts of money his Visa statement detailed each month, for his high-speed Internet connection and the monthly membership charges to various gay male hookup sites?
Sure, he could afford all that—no problem—especially if he subsisted on beans and rice. He knew he shouldn’t do it, though, knew he should head instead into the bathroom where he would brush and floss and then go to bed, where he could lie awake, fantasizing about firm, muscular bodies (unlike his), surly hairy alpha men with mountainous pecs, ripped abs, grapefruit-sized biceps, dangerous facial hair (unlike his), and huge, pendulous cocks that became erect at the slightest whisper of sexual titillation (completely unlike his).
Perhaps, he thought, rationalizing now and not really caring, such a man awaited his electronic embrace on “System Up” one of the services to which he subscribed. If he didn’t log on now, who knows what opportunity he might pass up? When Sluggo “chatted” in one of the rooms, he became Sir Raven, the dark-haired, wild-eyed Cuban stud whose depravity knew no bounds and whose witty repar
tee would enchant and seduce, inspiring the most fervent love and devotion.
Oh stop it now! You’re just playing mind games with yourself, trying to convince yourself to do what you know damn well you shouldn’t.
Sluggo did manage to will himself into the small bathroom, with its claw-foot tub and its makeshift shower, cracked tile floors, and paint-chipped walls. He took one look at his reflection and despaired. He had heard all about self-esteem and knew he shouldn’t denigrate himself so, but the man who peered back at him was not one who could snare a beefy, virile, and hot man. Not unless Sluggo had a huge… bank account. He never could have snared such a creature, even when he was twenty years younger, when, at best, he bore an uneasy resemblance to Sluggo of comic strip fame. Now the man who looked back at him was of “football player build” proportions (okay, fat), intelligent looking (mud brown eyes enlarged by pop-bottle thick lenses, framed in tortoiseshell), and his hair, in spite of trying to tempt it back with Rogaine, comb-overs, and Propecia, was beating a hasty retreat from his scalp, only to appear in luxurious amounts in places less desirable, like his back.
But on “System Up,” Sluggo could be whatever he wanted, hiding behind a barrage of wit and verbosity, master of the clever quip and the alluring line, perfect for quiet, private chats sheathed in the safety and security of instant messages, his own private room (Meet me in the “Master of the Night” room) or e-mail.
Sluggo did pick up his toothbrush and even decorated its bristles with a ribbon of bright blue gel.
Then set it back down on the little plastic counter beneath the medicine cabinet mirror.
Okay, then, if I get online tonight, I promise not to get online at all tomorrow. Tomorrow, I will go out after work and go to a happy hour somewhere. I will make myself smile and introduce myself to at least one guy. So getting online tonight won’t be so bad, right?
He knew his self-rationalization was flimsy and, like any addict, stuffed it deep down into his subconscious where it could emerge later as an ulcer or high blood pressure. The good angel on his shoulder tried to tell him that tonight he could not afford it and that a good night’s sleep might allow him a halfway productive day tomorrow at First National, where he worked as a loan officer. He brushed the angel off his shoulder with an annoyed roll of the eyes. Tomorrow, after all, was Friday, and he would have the entire weekend to rest. So what if he stayed up late getting to know someone new on System Up? This could very well be the night he turned his entire lonely life around.
So it was no surprise that within minutes Sluggo found himself in the tiny ten-by-ten cubbyhole he called his den. He sat in front of the Mac screen, watching as the little icons lined up as the system booted, aiming him toward his destination in cyberspace, where life was beautiful and unfettered by concerns about loneliness, unworthiness, and the clock ticking relentlessly downward toward a passing no one would mark.
Once he brought up Firefox, Sluggo clicked on the System Up name in his toolbar. Faster than he could think “cock and balls,” he was staring at the System Up icon (a tiny computer with a big, Superman-like “S” on its monitor screen). Mouth dry and heart racing, he drummed his fingertips on the glass surface of his desk as he waited for the prompt that would allow him to enter his screen name (Sir Raven) and then his password (Lestat1968). Sluggo listened hopefully for the electronic voice to tell him he had mail, and once again was disappointed to see the closed mailbox icon, with its taunting “no mail” message.
Quickly, Sluggo moved through the screens until he was scrolling through the Member Rooms, looking for the one called “Chicago M4M,” hoping he wouldn’t be denied access because the room was full. He was pleased to see there were fifteen members in the room (a good number, but not so many as to block him out), and within moments, he was in.
The screen was blank. Even though Sluggo knew that this only meant he was just joining the chat, he preferred instead to imagine the whole room waiting with bated breath for him to speak. Of course, the room was full to bursting with muscular, naked Adonises whose only variation was the color of their hair and eyes. They were all oiled up and stroking cocks with a minimum of eight inches.
Oh stop!
Sluggo readjusted his pajama bottoms and typed, “Good evening, gentlemen,” and waited. Within moments, another message popped up, from a familiar screen name: Flshsinner.
“How you doin’, Raven?”
“Looking for love in all the wrong places.”
“LOL.”
Hmm. This one was easy to amuse. “What brings you out on this cold winter night?”
Sluggo waited for a full minute and, when he got no response, typed: “I am Sir Raven, master of the night.”
There was virtual silence, and Sluggo had assumed his bold statement had scared Flshsinner away. Good riddance if he can’t handle a simple statement of fact.
A screen name Sluggo had never seen, TepesAllure, popped up. “I thought I was master of the night.”
Bitch! How dare someone try to horn in on his carefully developed persona! With trembling fingers, he typed, “I don’t know if there’s room for two masters.”
Tepes simply sent back one of those cartoon smiley faces in reply.
Sluggo typed: “Tepes, there’s not enough room. What do you care to do about it?”
Flshsinner joined in. “Uh-oh, a cat fight?”
A tiny electronic gong alerted him that he had a private instant mail message from Tepes. “Listen, sir, I have more reason to be master of the night than you could ever dream.”
Sluggo snorted and responded, “What do you know of my dreams, Tepes?”
“I know they’re the only lively thing shedding light in a bland void.”
The message chilled him, as on target as it was, with its casual cruelty. Sluggo wasn’t sure he should go on. Something about this one sent an icy glissando of fear up and down his spine. He had the odd sensation he was dealing here with someone who knew him. But that couldn’t be. His whole persona was pretty much the exact opposite of who he really was. Of course, this TepesAllure was just grasping at straws and trying to get a rise out of him, but his words cut a bit too close to the bone.
“Who knows what are dreams and what is reality?” Sluggo’s fingers rapidly caressed the keyboard. “Perhaps my reality is the color and passion-filled world you could only envy.”
“I have no envy for the walking wounded, past his prime and desperate.”
Sluggo sucked in a breath, almost wincing. The words hurt almost as much as if someone had delivered a punch to his gut. His mouth suddenly felt dry. He leaned back and rubbed his eyes. Perhaps this was the cyber god’s way of telling him he should have circumvented his den tonight and headed for the warmth and comfort of his flannel sheets, no matter how many hours he lay awake, tracing hairline cracks in his bedroom ceiling.
“Hello? Sir Raven? I haven’t scared you away, have I?”
Sluggo caressed the keyboard, debating whether he wanted to continue this conversation. Shouldn’t he just exit Firefox and get his pathetic little ass to bed? There would be time enough for all of this come the weekend. Still, he couldn’t help himself.
“You’re a bit on the harsh side, aren’t you, dear?”
“Harsh side, dark side. I say what’s on my mind. And what’s on my mind right now, DEAR, is you.”
“Why would someone like me be on your mind, when you’ve obviously decided I have nothing worth your interest?”
“I never said that. Describe yourself.”
Sluggo typed in the description that had become so familiar it might as well have been some sort of computer macro. “Buzz-cut black hair, dark brown eyes, full lips. Ripped, muscular build. 6’2” 180. Work out six days a week. Eight-inch cock, cut. Moderately hairy.”
“And I am the Queen of Sheba.”
The guy was a first-class prick! Calling himself a “queen” probably wasn’t too far from the truth. Sluggo wondered why he was bothering; the guy was probably reveling in his abi
lity to get a rise out of Sluggo. And he was. Sluggo could leave this place by merely pressing the Command and Q key and be out of here, away from this nonsense, safe in his bed, while visions of Gerard Butler danced in his head. Yet, there was a strange allure to Tepes’s directness, to his refusal to accept any of the crap Sluggo churned out, that other men ate up like a kitten lapped up milk.
“Well, your majesty, what do YOU look like? And BE HONEST.”
“Honesty is my strong suit, my little lamb. I think you’d agree I look pretty good for my age, which happens to number in the centuries. Think Brad Pitt in Interview with the Vampire. Think elegance and grace. And don’t worry about gym-toned bodies and steroid-enhanced pecs, thank you very much.”
Sluggo’s hungry mind conjured up the image: this fabulous creature at his keyboard, alone in some city apartment (a high-rise, where the lights of Chicago’s skyscrapers were interrupted only by the dark void that was Lake Michigan). He realized suddenly how easy it had been to sucker in these online men who found themselves one hand between their legs while the other caressed the keyboard, as Sluggo played up to their fantasies, becoming God’s gift to homos and the devil’s Tantalus to straight women. He wanted to believe it was some strange and evilly alluring Brad Pitt at the other end of their electronic connection. But what was this strange business about being centuries old?
He typed: “Methinks you’re a little too enraptured with horror cinema.”
“Horror cinema has got nothing on me, my little bespectacled piglet. Horror cinema has managed to get so few of my traditions right as to be truly laughable. But there has been one tradition, rule if you will, they’ve always succeeded in getting correct.”
Sluggo rubbed his arms. There seemed to be a sudden, odd chill in the room. He glanced at the window and saw the black night pressing against it, almost as if it was something solid and alive. He shook his head, realizing he was being silly, and made a note to check the thermostat. He returned to the keyboard, wondering about the “horror movie tradition” Tepes had mentioned.
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