by J. T. LeRoy
‘That’s right, you call me sir,’ he responds. I hear him moving things, setting things up. ‘Any other special words?’
‘I dunno.’ I lean down to unlace my boots. He comes over to me and I feel his hands sliding along my naked back, down my open jeans and underwear.
‘You do take a lot, huh?’ he says.
‘Fuckin’ knot!’ I pull and slap at the tight knot at the top of my boot.
‘Dad? . . . Stepfather, right?’ He’s running his hands across the little gullies and streams lining my back and ass.
‘Can’t get this fuckin’ knot!’ I yell, and punch my boot top and stomp.
‘Hey!’ He grabs my face between his hands and leans over me from behind. I keep stomping. ‘Hey, hey, hey, not yet, stay calm . . . its OK . . .’ His voice is soothing. I hear a moan escape me. ‘It’s OK, it’s OK, it’s OK.’ Like a lullaby.
‘Please . . .’ I half whisper, and reach one of my hands up to his holding on to my face.
‘Tell me,’ he says into my ear. His breath smells like warm beer and saliva. I bring my other hand up around his other hand, cupping my face. I feel him leaning into me from behind, and I release into containment.
‘Tell me,’ he whispers. We breathe together, him leaning over me, in-out-in-out.
‘Fix me,’ I murmur. ‘Fix me.’
‘What’s it say?’ He points to the words cut on my stomach, ass, thighs.
‘Bad boy,’ I pant, ‘evil . . .’ I feel like I’ve hooked onto a train that’s speeding away from me, or with me.
‘You are a bad boy, aren’t you,’ he says above me, squeezing my head.
I feel it loosening.
‘Sinner, aren’t you.’
I close my eyes and my stomach cramps and a chill runs through me. He wraps his arms, crisscrossed, around me. I moan.
‘Tell me, now,’ he says quietly.
‘Punish me,’ I pant.
‘How hard?’ His chin digs into my shoulder.
‘Till I learn . . . please? I need you to, please?’ My body is shaking.
‘Safe word?’ he whispers.
‘No, no, not till you’re done, okay?’ I pant. ‘Just, OK, please not my face, OK?’
‘It’s a very pretty face.’ He pats my cheek, and I try to lean my head into his touch.
‘Yeah, yeah, tell me that,’ I gasp, and he rubs against me through his jeans. ‘Tell me I’m beautiful . . . please . . .’ I can’t stop.
‘You are, and that’s why I need to help you,’ he whispers, like a kiss.
‘Save me,’ I groan, and he squeezes his arms tightly around me, and I hope he’ll never let go.
‘I will, you beautiful, conceited, bad evil bitch.’
‘Yes . . . please . . . yeah . . .’
He reaches down between my legs and grabs my thing. ‘Call me sir!’ His voice becomes throaty and harsh. He twists me hard and fast. It’s all coming back, like being lost in waves of wheat, just rolling by, rushing me, soothing me, caressing me.
‘Make me cry, I need to . . . cry . . .’ He twists his hand, harder.
‘Sir!’ he shouts in my ear.
‘Sir,’ I whisper, and I feel the tears swelling in my gut. ‘Sir . . . hold me after, please, I’ll pay extra, please, after hold me.’ He says nothing. ‘I’ll pay extra . . .’ I sound pathetic, but I can’t shut up. ‘Please.’
‘Let’s go,’ is all he says, and reaches behind to bring out a long switchblade. He flicks it open. I suck in air.
‘You like this?’ He leans down, slices open my laces, then helps me kick off my boots and step out of my jeans. He presses the switchblade against my thing, and I’m spiraling away inside myself.
‘It’s a dirty, evil thing,’ I whisper. ‘And I hate it! I hate it!’ The blade presses harder, I feel my skin ready to slit gracefully, like a paper cut. ‘I hate it, I hate, I hate it!’ I’m hyperventilating.
‘Well, we’ll take care of it, don’t you worry . . . C’mere.’
I feel suddenly embarrassed, exposed, stupid.
‘Get over here now, now!’ He stands by the rack contraption. I walk as if in a dream and face the bricks. I hand him my arms and watch him Velcro the restraint cuffs around my wrists so they hang above me spread apart on the bar. I look down at my chest heaving up and down, too quickly from my heart or my breath, I don’t know. He stands beside me, the thick black leather belt unfurled, swinging back and forth like a pendulum. He steps close to me and raises the belt to my face. I panic.
‘Please not my face!’ I plead. ‘Please!’
‘Shut up.’ He brings the belt closer. ‘Kiss it.’
I look at him. He grabs a handful of my hair. ‘Kiss it!’ He shoves the belt up to my mouth. It smells faintly of bleach. I begin to kiss it. I feel relief and excitement surge through me.
He knows. He understands.
‘You’re a nasty cunt, aren’t you?’ He pulls my head back by my hair. The belt disappears.
‘Yes, sir.’ My eyes roll up. He drops my head with a shove, and I hear him pacing an arc behind me. My body hangs limp likes a swing wanting to be pushed.
‘You’re a very nasty, evil, bad, sinful boy, aren’t you?!’
‘Yes . . . Yes, sir,’ I correct myself and moan, my butt muscles flexing in anticipation.
‘Say it!’ he orders loudly from behind me.
‘I’m a bad, disgusting, evil boy.’ I hear him pace.
‘Again!’
‘I’m an evil faggot, sir!’ I can hardly swallow. ‘Please punish me . . . severely . . . sir.’ The heat spreads down my legs, into my toes. No sound, not even his breath. ‘Oh, God . . . please!’ I yell.
‘You need it, don’t you?’ His voice is heightened and tight.
‘Yes, please.’ I’m starving, ravenous.
‘You’re a pig.’ The word someone once carved on my stomach. I freeze and taste sour spitup. I nod my head. ‘Say it!’ he screams in my ear.
‘I’m a greedy pig, sir!’ I shout breathlessly. He laughs.
‘So beautiful,’ he whispers, and caresses my face. ‘Beautiful.’
I gasp, it’s perfect. He moves back behind me, and I watch the shadows. The strap is hurled back, like he’s throwing a football, whole arm into it, and I hear the familiar sound of air being thrashed through and the cymbal-like crash across my ass. My body rocks.
‘Thank you, sir.’ My mouth hardly moves.
‘I have to punish you, don’t I?’ I nod. It crashes down again. My body sways in disagreement, and my butt skin puckers. How can you crave something your whole body rejects, and even increase the cravings the greater the protest from the body?
‘I bet you’re a fucking cocktease, aren’t you?’ The strap slices into my ass.
‘Yeah.’ My head rocks backs.
‘Sir!’ he corrects. The strap lands on my upper thighs. I lift my head.
‘Punish me, sir . . . teach me.’
‘Beg.’ He walks behind me.
‘Please, sir . . .’ He laughs, I hear the belt drop.
‘You’re not worth my fuckin’ time.’ I hear him walking away.
‘No! Please! God, please! Don’t leave me, I can’t take that, please, God!’ I hear him open drawers. ‘Sir, punish me!’ I howl, and shake my arms rattling the jungle gym thing.
‘You don’t order me, spoiled cocktease brat!’ He’s next to me.
‘Yes, yes, yes.’
‘What?!’
‘Sir!’
He’s jingling something in his hand. My stomach hardens.
‘Close your eyes, cunt.’ I stare down at his closed hand. ‘Now, you bitch!’ His open hand slaps hard at my thing. Air spits out of me, and I can’t fold over. My eyes clamp shut. He laughs. ‘You’re not too fuckin’ bright, are you?’ I sort of swing, letting my arms hold me. I feel something cold against my left nipple. I hold my breath.
‘You want me to fix you? Discipline you?’ I hear it snap down around my right nipple, and it feels like a needle being driven in. �
��You have to learn obedience.’
‘Yes.’ The heat rushes through me. ‘Please, sir, I want to be, yours . . .’ My left nipple erects next to the open clamp. ‘Please. I’ll do anything!’ He snaps it shut on my tit. I grunt.
‘I know you will, you fucking nasty, spoiled brat, cocktease, bad, bad boy.’ Cold heavy chains hang from the clamps, and he gives them sharp swift tugs as if in a bell tower. I feel his hand caressing my cheek, and I push my face into it like a dog searching for scraps. I kiss his palm, lick it.
‘Say it, beautiful.’ I feel the cold metal by my thing. My mind swirls away, and I feel his hand slap hard across my cheek. My eyes jerk open at him, surprised. He’s inches in front of me.
‘I won’t scar your pretty face,’ he says flatly. ‘. . . If you’re lucky.’ My face stings. He caresses the other cheek. ‘Close your eyes,’ he whispers. I hear the metal chink-chink, and his other hand snaps a clamp on my thing. I jump and whimper.
‘Tell me what you are.’ He snaps another one on but continues to caress my cheek.
‘Uhh . . . a dirty whore . . .’ I want to bury my face in his palm as his other hand begins to twist the clamps and snap more on. How can I explain pain that burns like torture but soothes and excites more than a caress or kiss? His finger traces my lips and dips in and out of my mouth. The rest of his fingers tap on the outside. I suck his finger as it slides in and out of my mouth.
‘You fucking cocktease!’ His hand pulls away and slaps my other cheek loudly, and it feels like a punch. I blink away the tears rimming my eyes. He pulls at the chains. ‘Tell me! You faggot whore!’
‘I’m a fucking dirty whore cocksucker . . .’ My chest tries to curl up against the pain like warped plywood. He walks behind me.
‘It’s time for you to learn.’
‘Yes.’ I ball my fists in the air and open my eyes wide to the brick wall in front of me. ‘I need to repent.’ My blood throbs.
‘Yes, you do, ’cause you’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you?’
‘Make me pay, sir,’ I whisper. I hear him pick up the belt.
‘It’s time for you to cry.’
‘Oh, he’ll cry!’ My mother squeezes and twists my wrist.
‘Never done seen a thief, young or old so bold-face remorseless,’ the white-haired security guard says, and wags his finger at me. The steak and beer six-pack from my knapsack sit on the table in front of me. ‘See all the trouble you put your poor mother to?!’
The young frizzy blond checker that busted me shakes her head at me.
‘Steals it for his no-good gang friends.’
‘Oh, we don’t let gang members in this store, ma’am.’ The manager quickly shines his shoes on the back of his pants legs.
I feel my mother smiling at him. She fans herself with her hand. ‘Well, that’s a good thing, sir . . .’ She crosses her legs.
‘We have special services for them at our church, the Virgin of Perpetual Love and Mercy, but all in vain, I reckon.’
She sniffles, and I can’t help but laugh. Her hand reaches out fast and slaps my cheek. I keep my grin despite myself; I know I’ll pay later.
‘Yes, ma’am, the police won’t do a thing to help you, ma’am, ’cause his age . . . he is amazin’.’ The manager leans down over my face. He smells of tuna and pickles. ‘Have you no shame, boy?’
My mother clears her throat. ‘He’s been a bad boy since his father passed, few years back, that big blaze? Was a firefighter, over Tallahassee.’ Murmurs of sympathy. ‘Thank you, Lord rest his soul. Boy hasn’t had the father he badly needs to give guidance and discipline.’
I spurt out a laugh at the thought of her being married to a firefighter. Her hand smashes across my face again.
The manager clears his throat. ‘Well, I think this is the best way to handle this, ma’am.’
‘Mary.’ My mother nods.
‘Mary, Howard.’ He reaches out and shakes my mother’s hand a little too long.
‘Howard, sorry we meet in such a way, but I’m sure it will help save my boy more than police or I can.’
I roll my eyes and groan. My mother’s nails dig into my wrist. ‘You’re an evil boy, you thank Mr Marsh.’
‘Thanks,’ I say flatly, and grind my teeth.
The checker girl flashes her braces and flips her hair. ‘We should whoop all the shoplifters like him.’
‘Way it used to be, and hardly anybody thieved,’ the guard grumbles. I look up and see two bag boys, a little older than me, peering in wide-eyed through a broken, small, one-way mirror. ‘Well, no time like the present.’
My mom stands and pulls me over to the table. My heart pounds louder. ‘Please,’ I whisper.
‘Oh, now we see the remorse,’ Howard gloats. He opens his belt. ‘Soon you’ll see the tears.’
My mother jerks me forward. ‘Take down your pants.’ I look up at her, and her eyes flash a private message of rage. She didn’t tell me to get caught.
‘Excuse me,’ Howard says to my mother as he pulls the belt from the loops.
I stare at the checkout girl biting her lip. ‘Oh, I’ll leave . . .’ She starts to get up.
‘Oh no, darling!’ My mother waves her back. ‘He stole in front of you, so he’ll pay in front of you.’
I look over to the boys in the mirror and point. My mother shakes her head and smiles slightly at me. I feel everyone’s stares, and it’s like heat, my body shivers, and like Batman sliding down his tunnel, I am suddenly transformed to endure the impossible. I am able to lean over the table and pull my pants below my underwear. But I pull as much as possible of my jeans in front of me, and I pray and pray. At some point I feel Howard’s belt beating me, as he will almost every other day as my new loving father, till we move out of his trailer three and a half months later, stealing all his cash, gold cuff links, and school ring.
I pray during my punishment. I pray so hard, I drown out the horrible whipping sound. I pray that God, or Satan, or whoever, won’t let them see how sinful and repulsive and bad I truly am. I pray something won’t let them see what my mother knows and has tried to punish me for but which only worsens. And the tears that eventually come burn through me and only heighten it all.
For hidden in my bunched-up jeans is my erection, like a gleaming badge of guilt, waiting to be discovered and ripped from me.
The belt is slamming into me all over, my back, ass, and thighs, and the tears are streaming, and confessions of every sin and every evil thought or action I ever did or almost did pour out from my mouth. But I cry harder and harder as the truth washes over me. Even as he takes the belt to between my legs and the pain is unbearable, I’m like an opportunistic mosquito, sucking blood down from the punishing hand of God, reaching down from heaven. I am still excited even though my thing has long been cured of its ability to have erections. I beg for it harder and harder so perhaps I can outrun it, but like my shadow, it is always next to me. It follows me.
As I hang from the gray bars, swaying, wet, and throbbing, I recognize the scent from earlier as blood. His switchblade at my crotch slices like I begged him, to try and help save me. One hand caressing, one hand cutting.
I remember when I saw Peter Pan when I was little. After all the other kids wanted to reenact the battles of the lost boys, pirates, and Indians, all I could think about was the part where Peter Pan sits still while Wendy takes a sharp needle and, with concern and maybe love, sews his shadow onto his feet. And I wonder if the pain excited him as much as it excited me to watch.
I hang here, the voices still bleeding in my ears. I watch my shadow, solid like a murdered body’s outline, and I pray. Maybe one more slice, just one more, will sever it forever.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My sincerest gratitude to the following:
Dorothy Allison, Astor, Bruce Benderson, Jimmy Bolton, Roddy Bottom, Cara Bruce, Sophie Canade, Novella Carpenter, Caviar, Michael Chabon, Tom Cheeks #1 web designer & Bradley, Godfrey Cheshire, Dennis Cooper, Missy Cooper, Henry Du
now, Mark Ewert, Judy Farkas, Film Maker Magazine, Alice (sweet teletubby) Fisher, Lee Fisher, Alona Fryman and all the Bloomsbury crew, Mary Gaitskill, Steve Gallagher, Denys Gawronski, Panagiotis Gianopoulos, Jane Gilday, Jill Harris, Jordan Heller & Shout Magazine, Susan Hoffman, June Horton & Dell, Hyper PR & Jessica Hooper, Travis Jeppesen, Daniel Johns, Mat Johnson, Kai, Mary Karr, Maggie Kaso & Family, Martha Keith, Ken@Giraffe-X, Bridget & Rachel Kessler, Jeff Koyen, Lisa Keeting, Gretchen Koss, Bruce LeRoy, Mary Lee LeRoy, Courtney Love, Lydia Lunch, Colin Midson, Howie Miura, Jay Mohr, Chris Monlux, Rose Marie Morse & co, No Hands Productions, Lewis Nordan, Benjie Nycum, NY Press, Liz Ogilvie, Sharon Olds, Dr. Terrence Owens & Family, Maragaret P., Genevieve Paiement, Mike Pitt, Paige Powell, Dr. Christine Rahimi, Tresa Redburn and Dept. 56, Karen Rinaldi & Joel Rose & Co., Jeremy Rizzi, Matthew Rolston, Lorelei Sharkey, Ira Silverberg, Tim Sommer, Tom Spanbauer, Speedie, Jerry Stahl, Matthew Stadler, Lauren Stauber, Laurie Stone, John Strausbaugh, Patti Sullivan, Superdrag, Ann Sweeney, Michelle Tea, Thor, J. Tomon, Peter Trachtenberg, Silke Tudor, Univ. Dist. Youth Center, Gus Van Sant, Danielle Vauthy, Suzanne Vega, Traci Vogel, Ayelet Waldman, John Waters, Joel Westendorf, David Wiegand, Eric Wilinski, Tobias Wolff, XY Magazine, Anny Ystenes, and all the folks in the Terminator2 yahoogroup.
A NOTE ON THE AUTHOR
JT LeRoy lives in California. He writes for NY Press, Shout Magazine and The Face. He is the author of the novel Sarah. His homepage is www.jtleroy.com. His email is [email protected]. He still enjoys playing whiffle ball.
First published in Great Britain 2001
This electronic edition published 2010
Copyright © 2001 by JT LeRoy
The moral right of the author has been asserted
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