The Screwed-Up Life of Charlie the Second

by Drew Ferguson

  Rob peeked past me, trying to see what had kept me for so long.

  “Got enough cologne on, pup?” Rob laughed, leading me to the bed. I sat at the edge. Sweat streaked my ribcage. Rob climbed behind me, sitting Indian-style, and massaged my shoulders. The television was on VH1, some “I Hate the ’90s” show, and Vanilla Ice and the Pips—his whole “VIP posse” in white shirts and black vests and pants—jumped around to some over-choreographed MC Hammer-lite dance.

  “Would you do him?” Rob asked.

  “Vanilla Ice?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Nah,” I lied. “The riff’s a total rip-off of ‘Under Pressure.’ It was a single off of Queen’s crappiest album, Hot Space. The guy’s a total fake.”

  Rob wasn’t asking ’cuz he cared if I wanted to force a washed-up white rapper to bite pillow. He just wanted me naked and biting a pillow.

  “I’d do him,” Rob said. “He looks tall.”

  “That’s all it takes with you? Being tall?” I asked, pushing my back against him.

  “Well, pup, it helps if they’ve got a big—”

  “What?”

  “A big nose and huge ears. And, I like them skinny.” Rob pulled me backward so my head was in his lap. I’d’ve told him to quit lying, but he leaned in and kissed me, sucking my tongue into his mouth.

  Somehow, without ever unlocking lips, we scooched from the foot of the bed to the head. I grabbed the remote and turned off the TV. There was no way I was gonna lose my virginity with Vanilla Ice in the background. I couldn’t’ve lived with myself.

  Rob’s fingers hooked the bottom of my T-shirt, turning it inside out as he tugged it over my chest. The collar caught my nose. Rob snickered and eased it loose. We struggled to get each other’s jeans and underwear off, fingers not quite finding zippers, knees bumping, feet kicking denim and cotton to the floor. I cradled his head in my right arm, and traced his tongue with mine.

  “I love you, Charlie,” Rob said. He daubed his lips with the back of his hand and kissed both my eyelids.

  “I love you, too.”

  Rob grabbed my face, pushed his lips against mine, and rolled on top of me. Licking me from my chin to my crotch, Rob slid down the bed. He cradled my dick and tongued it. I squirmed and bucked like crazy. Rob sucked one of my nuts almost to the back of his throat and then rolled it across his tongue. I arched on my toes and practically humped his face with my crotch. I felt hot, almost feverish. I scrambled down to Rob at the bed’s edge, shoved my tongue into his mouth, and then tried to lick my way down to his dick.

  “Don’t,” Rob whispered, bracing his hands on my shoulders and stopping me from kissing his inner thigh. “I’ll come.” He wrapped his arms around my neck and held my cheek to his chest.

  “I really love you, pup,” he said. He sounded sad, almost.

  We held each other. My dick was throbbing and bumping Rob’s. He pushed me back to the bed and reached into his bag for a rubber. The thing was red and when he got it on—No, I didn’t help; I’m not like those sluts who can slip a condom on their boyfriend’s cock using just her mouth—I almost laughed. Rob looked like he had an angry balloon animal taped to his crotch. He reached into the bag again, pulled out a bottle, and squeezed a stream of liquid into his hand.

  “KY Jelly,” he said. Rob slicked his dick with it, then mine—damn, it was cold—and then bent me over the bed. He reached around my waist, held my dick with one hand, and used the other to work one finger, then two, inside me.

  It felt good, incredible even, but when Rob tried getting his dick up there, it hurt like hell. He wasn’t even in a millimeter and I thought I was gonna die. My butt winced, pushing him out as I launched forward, yelping.

  “Sorry, sorry,” Rob repeated, planting little kisses along my knobby spine. “I’ll go slowly.”

  Glacier slow, I wanted to say, but couldn’t. In the mirror above the headboard, I saw why. I was biting my bottom lip so hard I was practically piercing it. My knuckles were bone white and grabbing the polar bear comforter so tightly it looked like I was trying to skin the thing with my bare hands. My head flopped to the side, melting into the bed, but I could still see myself sucking air through my teeth and Rob’s second siege attempt.

  “Should I stop?”

  His reflection had this sincere, I’ll-go-as-slow-as-you-need-me-to look, the kind a dad would hope the guy deflowering his only daughter would have. But I wasn’t getting deflowered. Rob wanted to give me the full-on, gas-powered, Rototiller-tearing-up-the-garden treatment.

  “Slowly,” I said.

  I looked to the mirror on the wall like I expected somebody to jump out and rescue me. Rob made a bit more headway, but I felt like I was being ripped apart. My face showed it. My teeth were grinding, I was making loud sucking noises. Out of instinct, I arched on my toes to get the leverage to push away, but Rob held my shoulders and kept easing himself inside.

  “Does it hurt?”

  Duh. Yeah. You couldn’t tell by the way I was trying to slither out from under you?

  “Yeah,” I said, burying my face in a pillow and locking my fingers over the base of my neck in a grade school tornado-drill mode. Breathing heavily, Rob grabbed my hips and s-l-o-w-l-y slid the rest of his dick in. His pubes brushed my butt. He didn’t start pumping right away, I guess letting me get used to the feeling.

  We looked ridiculous. I could tell it was killing Rob not to just start screwing me. Even when he played a really hard piano piece, he didn’t look like he was struggling as much as he did then. My face looked like a bad soap opera actor begging his director for some direction. The rest of me didn’t look so hot, either—scarecrow torso pinned to the bed, toothpick arms with tiny biceps fanned out across the bearskin, my almost ass getting the pile driver treatment. I didn’t remember losing my stiffy, and to be honest, I kinda prayed Rob would lose his, too.

  “Maybe we should try a new position.” New position? Like what? The two of us finding girls and bringing them back to our hotel room to bang? Rob pulled out and I expected to hear the sound of a champagne cork popping.

  “Roll over.”

  I did and accidentally found my double in the ceiling. My mirror twin looked like an oversized baby getting his diaper changed—knees in the air, bony feet flapping around, toes splayed, an afterthought of dick across his stomach. I felt embarrassed for him and closed my eyes. Rob grabbed my ankles, wishboning my legs, and then hitched them onto his shoulders. He swabbed my butt with more KY Jelly, held the heels of my feet with his hand, and sawed into me.

  I didn’t shriek—too much—it actually felt good in a weird kinda way. I didn’t exactly show any “star quality” in the bedroom mirrors. Part of the time, I looked retarded—hairless legs over Rob’s shoulders, eyes rolling to the back of my head, and wide-open mouth making these dumb sex grunts. Ah…ah…ouch!…unggh…ungggh…ouch!…ah…ah…The rest of the time, I just grinned like an idiot, ’cuz we didn’t look hot or romantic. We looked like two guys in a naked crab race. I laughed nervous, goofy laughter that threw off Rob’s concentration. The motel room should’ve had some kinda sign above the bed.

  WARNING: SEX IN FRONT OF THESE MIRRORS SHOULD ONLY BE ATTEMPTED BY PROFESSIONALS. OBJECTS IN MIRRORS APPEAR EXACTLY AS THEY DO IN REAL LIFE—YOU REALLY DO LOOK THAT STUPID; YOUR ASS REALLY IS THAT FAT; THAT IS GOING TO LEAVE A MARK; YEP, HE REALLY DID JUST CALL OUT SOMEONE ELSE’S NAME; YES, SHE’S ONLY DOING THIS SO YOU’LL STOP PESTERING HER ABOUT IT; AND YES, BIG BOY, THAT REALLY IS THE FACE YOU MAKE WHEN YOU COME.

  ASHAMED OF YOURSELF YET? YOU SHOULD BE. ROLL OVER AND LET THE EMPTINESS, THE GUILT, AND THE SHAME SINK IN. ONLY, DON’T SIT AROUND FEELING SORRY FOR YOURSELF FOR TOO LONG. YOU RENTED THIS ROOM BY THE HOUR, BIG SPENDER.

  —THE MANAGEMENT—

  “Stop looking in the mirror,” Rob said. We changed positions again. This time I was on top of him. We were still face-to-face, but I was straddling him, kneeling. The bottoms of my thighs were on the top of his. My dick was trapped betw
een both our stomachs and each time Rob thrust, it felt like I was getting jacked off.

  Now, for most guys in my position—well, guys who’d actually like being in my position—it probably would’ve been abso-fricking-lutely amazing. Rob’d found some secret, gay boy G-spot. But I had to bite my tongue to stop from laughing. It sounded like the fake farts kids make by cupping a hand under their armpits and squeezing the air out.

  Rob’s shoulders tensed and he wrapped an arm around my neck. I matched his rhythm. His hand slipped between our stomachs. I came as soon as he touched my dick, coating both our chests. Rob groaned and hugged me tighter, our chests practically cemented together. Somehow, he was getting deeper and faster than before. I shivered. Rob closed his eyes, hands locking my hips as he plunged. His Adam’s apple seemed to bounce, flex. He shuddered, grunted. Still trembling, Rob rolled us over and collapsed on top of me.

  “Hi,” Rob said after he slipped out of me. He drew me into him.

  “Hi.”

  “We need to do that again,” he laughed, kissing my nose.

  “I’m not in any rush,” I said.

  “Dork. I didn’t mean right now.”

  More Things I Learned From Having Sex with Rob Hunt Friday Night in a Downstate Motel Room:

  So, besides telling us that sex really isn’t beautiful to look at, the people who’ve actually done it should tell us virgins what to expect afterward, too.

  Sure, a total moron could figure out that after you take it up the ass, things are bound to be a little sore. Telling me that wouldn’t’ve been helpful. A heads up about what to expect after getting my butt used like a butter churn would’ve been nice.

  How was I supposed to know that Rob would find the only dry spot on the whole mattress, roll over, fall asleep, and leave me naked, wet, and shivering? And really, would it’ve been too hard to casually mention that the air and lube in me would be itching to get out?

  We ended up winning two of the three games we had today, which meant the division title was ours, and we’ll be playing for the state championship. Mom was waiting for me at school when we got back and she took me out to celebrate.

  We pigged out on Cantonese—beef and broccoli, kung pao chicken, egg rolls, egg foo yung, lobster kow, and fortune and almond cookies. She kept pestering me about how I looked different, more mature. I didn’t tell her about Rob and me. That’d have been too weird. She was already acting like she expected some Bar Mitzvah Today-I-Am-A-Man speech. An old man with hemorrhoids, maybe.

  Sunday, October 14

  Rob wasn’t at church today and I was gonna call and see what was up, but when we got home, the phone was ringing. Mom answered.

  “Ruth, settle down; what is it?” Ruth is Mrs. Binkmeyer. “Ruth, you’re not making any sense. Just slow down.”

  Apparently, Aaron told the family he’d joined the Marines and was shipping out to boot camp on Monday. Way to break it to ’em gently, Aaron. Still, I think he was right for not telling Mrs. B sooner. If he had, he’d have spent weeks opening his bedroom door to find half-melted Cabbage Patch Kids at his feet. This is what napalm does to children, Aaron. Is this what you want to do? Burn babies? Kill women and children? Mom kept telling Mrs. B she shouldn’t worry.

  Nothing Mom said settled Mrs. B down, so we ended up spending the afternoon at their place. When we got there, Aaron and Mr. B were gone. Bink said Aaron had stormed out, yelling that it was his life, he’d do what he wanted, and no give-peace-a-chance guilt trip from a bunch of washed-up Jewish hippies was gonna stop him.

  I made the mistake of saying I didn’t see what all the fuss was about. Bink rolled his eyes, smacked me upside the head, and called me a dumb-ass, saying now everyone was gonna have to listen to one of Mrs. B’s lectures—again. He was sooo right it was scary.

  From the way Mrs. B reacted, practically spritzing Bink and me with patchouli oil and flashing the peace sign like it was the sign of the cross and she was a Catholic performing an exorcism, you’d have thought I’d said I’d pay Aaron a nickel for every Sudanese baby he bayoneted. The next thing I knew, Mrs. B’d pulled out this giant cardboard box full of crap: tie-dyes and bell-bottoms; her yellowed and tear-stained front pages of the Chicago Tribune announcing the assassinations of Jack, Malcolm, Martin, and Bobby; her original Woodstock LP (signed by Sha Na Na and Arlo Guthrie—Leave it to her, Bink said, to get it signed by the lamest people there.); a snapshot of a naked, unwashed, and unshaved Mrs. B trying to give a flower to some frumpy lard-ass in glasses (Bink nearly got grounded for saying the guy looked like great-uncle Irving. That’s Kissinger. What a piece of work he was…told me to get my tits out of his way, go home to my bubbie, and stop embarrassing our people.); a bunch of news-magazine clippings of murdered Vietnamese and Cambodian women and children; and her “Hey, Hey, LBJ, How Many Kids Did You Kill Today?” protest sign.

  I couldn’t’ve been more bored.

  Tuesday, October 16

  Apparently, Bink’s not a big supporter of Aaron’s whole Semper-Fi-defend-truth-justice-and-gay-porn-in-Abu-Ghraib thing, either. When we got to school yesterday morning, the Rot-See Nazis were all over him, shoving Dana to the side and telling Bink how frickin’ awesome it was that his brother was in the Corps.

  HOOAH!

  Tripp, you’re a dumb-ass. Hooah’s the Army. The Marines are OOH-RAH!

  Screw you, Paulson. Army, Marines—it doesn’t matter. Binkmeyer’s brother’ll be picking off towel heads from fifteen hundred yards.

  Earth to Tripp. He’ll have an M40A3. The range on that’s, like, a little over a thousand, max.

  Yeah, well, my cousin knows this guy who—

  “You guys really need to get laid,” Bink said, brushing past them.

  “And since that’s not going to happen,” I said, “you better go home, pop in Red Dawn, and jerk each other off.”

  “Wolverines,” Dana said, flashing a clenched fist at the Rot-See dorks before we walked away.

  Thursday, October 18

  Rob’s mom is dead. She died late Tuesday night. When I called Rob—these last few days are all blending together—Mr. Hunt answered. He told me she’d passed away. He said I could come over if I wanted to. Rob could use a friend. Mom called me out of school yesterday so we could go over and help.

  We were on the couch, Rob’s head resting in my lap, when he told me how it happened. He wasn’t crying, but his eyes were puffy and swollen, cheeks stained with dried tears. His mom had been having trouble breathing. It had been bad. Really bad. Rob’s dad wanted him to play the piano for Mrs. Hunt while he got something to relax her. They were hoping music would make it easier for her to breathe until the medicine kicked in. Rob played “Morning Has Broken” as Mr. Hunt got the medicine ready. Rob said he couldn’t concentrate and kept chipping notes—easy ones. He stopped and sat next to her, holding her hand, and kept apologizing, like, if he kept talking she’d get better. Whatever Mr. Hunt gave her, it helped for a while. She looked more peaceful than she had in months—almost like she could smile again.

  “It’s weird, Charlie.” Rob’s head was in my lap and I was stroking his hair, trying not to cry. I nodded, wiping my eyes on my shoulder. “I was holding her hand and just talking…not really saying anything…and that’s when she was dying. I didn’t notice it. Neither did Dad. You’d think if your mom was dying, you’d notice it. I didn’t.”

  “Shhh,” I said, pressing my fingers to his lips.

  For the rest of the afternoon, Mom and I helped any way we could. Most of the funeral arrangements had been made in advance, so Mom and I cleaned, straightening the house and making up the guest bedrooms. Out-of-state relatives would call and Mom would give them directions from O’Hare or Midway to their hotels, from the hotel to Flagg and Son’s Funeral Home.

  Tonight was the wake. Mom said we shouldn’t stay too long—that this was a time for Rob and his dad to be with family—but Rob didn’t want me to go. Mom said it was okay, but I had to call her when the visitation was over so the Hu
nts could have some time alone.

  Rob and his dad spent most of the night standing by the casket, hugging relatives, shaking hands with Mr. Hunt’s coworkers and clients, chatting quietly with Rob’s teachers and old friends of Mrs. Hunt who’d grown up with her in Crystal Lake. Coach Mueller and the guys from the soccer team came, looking out of place—like they’d all bought new dress shirts for the wake and had forgotten to take out the pins. The guys paid their respects with “Rob, dude, sorry, man,” and slunk to the back of the funeral home, whispering about how creepy funeral homes are and wondering where they kept the bodies. Dana and the rest of the Flannigan horde showed up. I was surprised they didn’t bring a camera—you know, another family portrait. The Flannigans in white robes, all harps and halos, gathered around Mrs. Hunt’s casket as they waited for her bodily ascension into heaven.

  I kept to myself and stayed out of the way mostly, but once, when there wasn’t a stream of people offering Mr. Hunt casseroles and condolences, I asked him and Rob if they needed a break, something to eat. Mr. Hunt told Rob he should get out, have a bite, and maybe walk around.

  “Where we going? I can’t go far,” Rob said when we stepped outside.

  “We can head over to The Cottage if you want. I don’t think anyone’d hassle you if you ordered a beer.”

  Rob kicked a plastic bottle cap from the sidewalk into the gutter.

  “There’s the Olympia down the street. Diner food. Good steak fries, though. We can stop by Pop’s Corn Crib after. Get popcorn balls. Ever have one?”

  Rob shook his head, his chin quivering. He was crying, only it wasn’t crying, not exactly. It was something scarier. A silent movie howl. His eyes looked raw, pinched, and almost disappeared into his face. He was shaking all over. His shoulders trembled. I didn’t know what to do. I was useless. It was like when Mrs. B got back from the hospital after having one of Bink’s sisters and she’d asked if I wanted to hold the baby. Amanda started wailing and I freaked, thinking I broke her and they wouldn’t be able to fix her. Mrs. B took Amanda from me, laughing. “Babies cry, Charlie. You didn’t do anything wrong. Sometimes, they just need a good cry. We all do.” But with Rob, I wasn’t sure what to do. It’s not like his pain and sadness were these things that someone older and wiser could take from him.