Hard Evidence- The Collected Bawdy Writings

by Kevin Keck

  The other couple introduced themselves as Greg and Brittany. Greg was in advertising; Brittany was a catalog model. (Yes, indeed, sweet God in heaven, TWO models!) They both had perfect teeth, but when Brittany smoked it sounded as though she had just inhaled a balloon full of cigarette smoke and helium.

  After the introductions, everyone went back to what they were doing: conversing and pretending as though my brother and I weren't there. Harry was surveying the drink he had just made, and Brandon and I clung close to him at the bar. He said, "You two want a beer?" We did, and as he handed me mine, he said in a low voice, "You know, I think we have a lot in common."

  "Yeah?" I said.

  "Yeah, Lorraine's told me and Karen about you. But, you know, when we start getting naked, your brother has to hang upstairs. Nothing personal."

  "It's cool. He'll be all right."

  "Cool. Let's do some blow." And with that he slapped me on my back and made his way across the room to the coffee table.

  Perhaps I am a bit of a prude where cocaine is concerned, but I have little tolerance for its use. This could be viewed as a hypocritical stance from a person who believes, as the late Bill Hicks did, that smoking marijuana should not only be legal but mandatory. It is not because I buy into any of the propaganda about cocaine’s negative effects-- the government rarely tells the children of cocaine’s wonderful use as a topical anesthetic, and that long ago the FDA approved a process of refining cocaine in a lab so that it could safely be sold to optometrists for use in ocular surgeries. But the recreational user’s cocaine doesn’t come from a lab; it comes (usually) from Columbia where it is a commodity that funds a terrible war and murderous gangsters. People most certainly die in the process of shipping that stuff to our shores, and that seems like some serious negative karma to be shoving up your nose.

  Conversely, my weed comes from Morganton, North Carolina, and that money keeps the small family farms of many of my fellow North Carolinians in business, as the corporate agra-structures continue to annihilate a profession that is the very foundation of human culture. My purchase of illegal homegrown marijuana also keeps, however indirectly, valuable federal dollars flowing into our severely under funded local police so they can fight the even greater problems of methamphetamine labs, domestic violence, and theft.

  Of course, how any of this is more or less ethical than buying prescription drugs from corporations who withhold live-saving medicines from impoverished African nations is a matter worthy of debate. One must draw a personal line somewhere in the shifting sands of morality, and my line comes after group sex, weed, and Valium, but before cocaine, murder, and the recording career of Michael Bolton.

  Thus, the party happening downstairs was minus two participants: me and my brother; Lorraine liked her coke on holidays (another point of contention between us), and I'd quietly explained to Harry that I was taking Brandon upstairs to give him the lowdown what the deal was for the night, but it gave me a worthy excuse to escape a scene with which I was uncomfortable. True, all the hot women were down there, snorting lines, and it seemed as though the blow were an aphrodisiac to the group festivities, but Brandon and I had three quart-size mason jars full of name-brand weed in front of us. After a few tokes any disappointments with the direction the night was taking were easily forgotten, and besides, I would join them when they were ready.

  My brother and I remained upstairs alone for quite awhile, occasionally punctuating the silence between us with half-baked musings on the dilemma of freewill in a universe subject to physical laws, or the dilemma of “Freebird” versus “Stairway to Heaven.” My brother’s background in philosophy and physics isn’t as strong as mine, but he’s as well versed as I am in music, and when I spotted an acoustic guitar in the corner I immediately took it up and began to play the opening few verses of each song so that a detailed analysis might be made. As I was pointing out to Brandon that each tune could be said to adhere to Poe’s “Philosophy of Composition” in that the music and lyrics of both are subordinate to creating a unifying effect, Karen emerged at the top of the steps. She had changed into a long, flowing nightgown which had a neckline that plunged in a thin V-shape to her navel, the bottom half of gown slit on both sides up to her thighs.

  Marijuana-- particularly the kind that has a pedigree-- doesn’t exactly make one a quick wit. While it is easy to slip into lengthy and painfully detailed digressions about music, the cosmos, or ice cream, sudden changes in one’s setting tend to be addressed with a degree of slowness and stupidity. Sadly, it was my brother who spoke first and said, "Damn."

  I quickly snapped to attention (more than just mentally), lest Brandon's obviousness derail the night in some unforeseen fashion. "Are we having a slumber party?" I smiled, forgetting about my tooth.

  "I heard you playing the guitar." Karen crossed the room, her night gown trailing after her as thin veil of mist, and sat beside me. Her bare thigh brushed against me. "I really like the way you play."

  "Thanks." I could achieve no greater response than that, as the blood had suddenly drained from my brain and was in rapid transit to lower circulatory regions.

  "Why don't you come down and play with us now." She purred those words in such a tantalizing way that she could have been inviting me to my death and I would have gone along just as willingly. But it was not my death I was going to: I was being ushered into a basement where I would have sex with two models (well, one was a former model, but still...) and it was totally okay. I could not be punished for it, and better yet I didn't have to buy an engagement ring. I was also stoned senseless on the most premium weed I'd ever smoked. Life was grand. I followed Karen to the top of the steps where she turned and looked at my brother and said, "Why don't you come, too? We've never had brothers here."

  I was a little taken aback by this, but more so by my brother's reaction: given the chance to have sex with a model in the same room as me, I was sure he'd bail out just like I would. Thanks but no thanks. Instead he practically leaped over the plush sofa and began to follow us downstairs, grinning wildly and not saying a word.

  In the basement everyone was seated in a rough approximation of a circle, chattering loudly and laughing. A large sheet of plastic lay on the floor. The cocaine and the coffee table were gone, and as we entered the room Harry said, "Hey, I thought--" but Karen cut him short saying, "We've never had brothers." Harry just shrugged his shoulders and seemed to quickly forget about it, saying only:

  "Well, Greg, let's show them how it's done." Harry stood and took off his shirt and looked at my brother and me, "Gentleman first, boys. That's how we do it for the ladies here." If it got the girls hot I didn't mind stripping down for their pleasure; my brother was hesitant, and sat immobile while I stood and disrobed. I admit it was awkward having him there, and it didn't help my penis presentation one bit. His presence kept my dick limp and tiny, and when I looked at him he just shook his head and chuckled. Harry and Greg were greasing themselves with baby oil. With the exception of their heads, their bodies were hairless, and they had the toned look of men who spend time unreasonable amounts of time at a gym. Harry said, "Come on Brandon, no stragglers. Kevin, grease it up. You'll be next."

  I picked up the baby oil and stared at it, perplexed, then looked at the rug of hair on my chest-- it was going to be an ugly mess momentarily. And then I said, "Next for what?"

  "This!" Greg shouted, and flung his naked body into Harry's, whereupon they collapsed into a pile on the plastic, their cocks stiffening as they each tried to wrestle the other into submission. My brother stood up and left the basement quickly.

  The women watched attentively, completely disinterested in my thin, ungreased frame, but enthralled by the scene taking place before them: two hunky men slipping over each other, occasionally grabbing the other's cock and yanking on it in as they maneuvered through some bizarre, homo-erotic, hand job wrestling match. To say that I was mortified would be an extreme understatement. I felt as though I were going to have a panic attack, an
d it was not the first time that the collapse of my fantasies had left me with such a feeling.

  In the interest of full-disclosure, I must confess to another brush with group sex that happened so early in my erotic life that I was infinitely more unprepared for it than I was when I descended the stairs into Harry's basement and was caught up in that scene. The circumstances were actually not so different: a lot of alcohol, a fair amount of drugs, and horny people circulating in close proximity to one another. The big difference was that in the first instance, we were all in high school.

  Someone’s parents were out of town; it was mid-Spring, and those two factors combined with the impending close of the school year were enough to warrant a party. Actually, any of those things alone were enough to justify a Dionysian celebration, but such a triple-threat brought on even greater accomplishments in teenage debauchery. Kegs were obtained, liquor cabinets raided, parents’ drug stashes pilfered-- no expense was spared in orchestrating one of those parties which is destined to take its place in the annals of local legend and reminisced about well beyond one’s qualification for senior citizen discounts.

  As is the case at such parties, all the boys were looking to get laid, and all the girls were equally interested in such activities but due to social customs were bound to be irritatingly coy about the business. Throughout the night gender specific huddles formed and reformed as territories were claimed, plans hatched and revised, and the complicated formalities of adolescent mating rituals undertaken. (Or it seemed complicated then; now I know the formula was: act like you don’t want it and you’ll get it. It was that simple, but the perpetually dancing hormones made it impossible for me to reason clearly.)

  Invariably, there was always some girl (usually the least attractive of the bunch) who acted as the moral barometer of her immediate clique, weighing in on the various romantic treaties circulating, and usually stalling them in committee out of her own displeasure with being overlooked by the male faction. As the tactics of these girls were more often effective than not (the female brain being more developed in the area of higher reasoning than its male counterpart at this time in life), the politics of circumventing the gyno-guardian involved one of two approaches: someone putting the movies on the gatekeeper herself for the good of the team, or separating a potential partner from her pack. The latter of these two strategies was the preferred method, but neither of these plans were as well coordinated as I make out: only through the lens of memory does the picture take on a coherent shape, transforming the past riddles of courtship into a banal replay of nearly everyone’s shared adolescent experience. We acted from instinct, our brains being saturated with primordial hormones.

  I usually fell into the role of the one who would act as a decoy for the good of "the team." In truth there was no team. Any of my immediate friends would have gladly blinded every other guy there with a fire poker if he thought it would get him laid. I would have done the same, but I was always fairly sure that I wasn't getting laid; I wasn't the most popular fellow in high school, and at this stage in my life I'd only had one miserable, floundering experience with a woman. It had been so terrible that I didn't even fantasize about it when I jerked off. Plus I had a better vocabulary than most of the other guys my age, and such a skill meant I was a good conversationalist, and thus a better distraction.

  But things went differently at this party. I was more in a drinking mood, and reluctant to chat up the sober girl who was mothering the prospective females. The host of the party was into classic rock and not the hits of the day (quite a relief, considering this was the late 80s, when music in general just flat out sucked), and so I hovered near the keg, bobbing my head to AC/DC and Nazareth.

  By the talk that circulated as beers were being refilled, I could tell that something of significance was afoot. The girl every guy wanted, a new girl at school named Camille, was being extremely flirty with all the boys-- those with and without girlfriends. It was causing quite a stir, and whenever a herd of young men gathered around the keg, the conversation was drifted into a detailing of the various positions and techniques each potential suitor might employ if given the chance. The subject of the girls' talk was understandably different: they were ready to kill the bitch.

  My main reason in sticking to the keg and not circulating amongst the other guests was that I wanted my fair share of beer. Remember: we were all underage and so we couldn't just run out and get more when the keg dried up. Too many times I'd chipped in on the cost of a keg only to come away with fewer than three cups. I wasn't about to let that happen on this occasion, and while I held my ground firmly for a greater stretch of time than what was probably advisable, I eventually realized my bladder was about to rupture. I topped off my plastic cup of beer for the trip and began searching for a bathroom.

  The house was large, and every door seemed to be locked; if it wasn't locked it opened onto a scene of couples making out or engaged in private conversation-- I was greeted several times with hostile stares and a string of profanities. I finally stumbled into a dark bedroom where a beacon of light shone from an open door in a corner which led to a bathroom. I entered, shut the door, and took a substantial piss-- a release of the bladder so necessary and pleasant that I let out a little moan of relief. As I was shaking off the last few drops, I heard voices in the bedroom outside. I didn't feel like being trapped in a bathroom while a couple fondled each other for hours on the other side of the door, so I made for a quick exit. As I entered the bedroom a guy's voice said:

  "What the fuck? Keck! Dude! You are just in time."

  Coming from the brightly lit bathroom into the dark bedroom, I had no idea what I was just in time for. The bathroom light illuminated four figures standing in a half circle, and after a few seconds I was able to make out that it was Jason, Brad, T.C., and John-- guys whom I hung out with from time to time, but none of them were what I would consider close friends.

  "I said you four was okay, but I didn't say nothing about him."

  I looked to my right, and half dressed on the bed lay Camille.

  "Oh, come on," Jason said. "Keck's cool. What's one more?"

  I started to say something, but my heart had begun racing, and the room seemed wobbly.

  "Well, whatever. But I told you it had to be one at a time."

  If Camille was angling for popularity amongst the boys at her new school, she was on a path destined for stardom. But something in her voice had a tone more of resignation than eagerness. Her presence on the bed seemed obligatory, as though she were a contract player in some adolescent studio of sexual imagination.

  "Good deal, but Keck--" Jason turned his head toward me in the faint light and spoke as he undid his pants "-- you gotta go last."

  "Okay," I said, and I leaned against the wall, completely disoriented by what was taking place. I, too, had dreamed of Camille since she first appeared in school, and I had often dreamed of group sex with Camille, but in my more typical fantasy which involved me as the lone male amongst a bevy of beauties. But opportunity arrived unannounced, and so I braced myself to take advantage of it anyway I could.

  There was very little sexiness about the whole ordeal, though in retrospect it has taken on elements of appeal in my imagination that I know for a fact weren't there at the time; Camille's open legs were not an invitation of willing acceptance that welcomed each boy a little closer to manhood-- her panting cries of "fuck me" were not urgings to do just that, but rather a mantra to speed each guy toward a rapid finish. I had the notion at the time, though I am more certain of it now, that Camille's decision to be the center of a gang-bang was a direct result of her own desire to belong and be accepted. And that's a pretty simplistic rendering of the whole matter, but the truth often is that simple: people want to belong and be important and be loved, and sometimes we go about getting what we want in weird ways.

  I wanted all those things, too, and Camille, but stressful situations are havoc on my digestive system, especially when I've been drinking. When the
last of the four guys had finished and it was my turn-- alas, less than 10 minutes had elapsed since I'd left the bathroom; I'd been watching the digital clock next to the bed to see how long it took each guy as a way to measure my own manhood-- I felt myself on the edge of puking, and I could not produce an erection. Camille looked relieved, but that did not deter her from joining in the group mockery of my inability to step up to the plate and have sex in front of a bunch of other guys, like a real man.

  "What are you, some kind of faggot?" she yelled as I lurched into the bathroom and unloaded the contents of my stomach into the toilet. I shut and locked the door and fell asleep on the cool linoleum floor, slipping out to my car before daylight, past the sleeping bodies strewn about the house. I worried the rest of the weekend that my limp performance would make the gossip rounds at school, but I overestimated my own importance in the wake of Camille's feat: thrilled by tales of an orgy, the grapevine was indifferent to my inept presence during the act.

  Perhaps my failure to stiffen up some fourteen years before was at the root of my desire to know the slippery blending and taking of willing bodies, but I wasn't especially excited about doing battle with my demons in this manner. I looked at Lorraine, who smiled demurely at me, and then I gazed at the tangle of Harry and Greg on the floor in front of me. Without looking at me Harry reached up and put his hand on my thigh; I felt my penis trying to shrink into my abdomen. Harry's hand was stroking Greg's cock as they wrestled, and they paused in their struggle simultaneously as Harry addressed me, his hand never ceasing it's up and down motion: