Ziggy, belted by Roger’s arms, weaves on tiptoe through the living room’s beige and/or brown furniture, almost destroying a couple of items en route, heading in the direction of Cricket’s ass, which, as the boy/girl sashays away, restyles the back of his/her dress into an almost great artwork, by Ziggy’s temporarily questionable standards. He/she keeps twisting around, smiling sexily over his/her shoulder. Or . . . maybe he/she’s smirking at Ziggy’s inebriated condition. Either way, he doesn’t fucking care anymore. They’ve wound up in a small, blurry room whose walls are, like, collaged floor to ceiling with pictures of some cute young guy, shot at numerous ages, in various attire, hair at all different lengths, always sporting the same smarmy look on his face, like he’s been trying to get you in bed all his life or whatever, even though he’s, like, fourteen at the oldest. Ziggy’s flung on a mattress, bounce, bounce. Roger half-tickles, half-strips him, growling comedically. To Ziggy’s general right, a kind of Cricket hologram floats around, giggling at them. Occasionally he/she/it removes a wispy article of clothing. Watching the dress descend his/her/its pale, saggy chest gets Ziggy . . . if not quite hard, then tingly where sex hibernates. “Cricket,” he whispers, about the time the expensive shorts scratch past his ankles.
“Ziggy,” the boy/girl/hologram echoes back, maybe sort of ironically.
Roger shakes hands or whatever with Ziggy’s cock, balls. Loving that, eyeing Cricket’s much-bigger-than-normal-boys’ nipples, Ziggy forces himself to sit up, or almost. “That’s all, Dad.” He slaps Roger’s wrist, and collapses back onto the top sheet. “It’s great, but don’t do anything weirder yet, okay?”
Cricket, completely nude, yeah, walks around the room’s perimeter, studying smarmy guy pictures. He/she has a babyish, almost-girl bod that’s nearly blown by his/her huge, jelly-colored genitalia. Luckily drunkenness, transvestism . . . something, has smudged their details into this kind of interesting scar.
“Over here,” Ziggy says, pounding once near his hip. “Oh, gre-ea-ea-at.” Roger’s just licked his cock. “Ha ha ha . . . thanks, Dad.” Again. The sensation’s indescribable, like however the opposite of being tortured to death might feel. So he zones into fantasy—Dad, Cricket, him mashed simplistically together. Tick, tick . . .
When Ziggy refocuses ten, maybe twelve seconds later, Cricket’s right there—we’re talking inches away—doubled over his hips, more specifically the crotch, studying Roger’s blow job like he/she’s a . . . whatchacallit . . . paramedic, but less scary obviously, his/her mascaraed eyes back in their flame-watching, hypnotized mode. “So, uh . . . what’re you thinking about, Cricket?”
“I don’t know,” he/she says quietly. “It’s kind of new to me.”
“A real . . . mixed . . . blessing . . . no?” Roger says, slurping away. “But . . . hold on.” He leans back and T-shirts his mouth dry, then sneaks a fingertip underneath Ziggy’s balls, flipping them back, and, with his other hand, hoisting up one of the boy’s useless legs, to improve Cricket’s view of . . . the asshole presumably. “Feast your eyes.”
“Yeah, feast,” Ziggy says, trying to add some tour-guide-esque firmness to his sprawled, uncooperative voice. “. . . on the . . . the . . . uh, most famous . . . uh . . .” He squints at his dad. “. . . uh . . .”
“The Hope diamond of assholes,” Roger says evenly.
“Ha ha ha, yeah.” Ziggy pans his squint over to Cricket, who looks . . . uh . . . hard to tell.
“The little asshole that could,” Roger says.
“Totally!” Ziggy guffaws. The world blurs for a second.
“The asshole that cured cancer.”
“Yeah, but . . .” Ziggy’s suddenly confused. He raises his head. “Cancer’s not cured, or . . . is it?”
Roger and Cricket are grinning at him with identical weirdness.
“I have this splendid idea.” Roger leans over and whispers a word or two to his accomplice.
“Wait!” Cricket shuts his/her eyes. The scribbled-on lids quake a few times. “Okay, what’s rimming like?”
Ziggy can’t fucking believe this. “For me or for Dad?” he slurs.
“For Dad, I guess.” Cricket jabs a thumb at Roger.
“Depends,” Roger says. “On how you feel about Ziggy. Since he’s my son, and, concurrently, my type, there’s no small significance in the activity. Boys’ asses are just about the most imperious objects on earth, trust me. But they do smell like asses. That’s an acquired taste, certainly. And Ziggy’s only human, dear, much as you and I may find that difficult to accept. So, if you’re asking me for a recommendation, I say, Yes, proceed. Only don’t expect miracles.”
Cricket nods stiffly. “And it feels good, Ziggy?”
“Oh, wow,” he says—gushes might be more accurate. Roger’s started tickling his asshole, which, in and of itself, is just forgettably nice, but the sensation’s kind of filtering into his . . . cavern, where it completely transcends the term genius. “That feels . . . amazing, Dad. Uh . . . but, uh . . . it’s up to you, Cricket. If you don’t want to I . . . understand.”
Cricket hugs his/herself. “I could try.”
Roger’s finger, ouch, plunges. “Unh . . . fuck,” Ziggy squawks. “I mean . . . thanks, Cricket. I . . . love you.” He sort of does maybe.
“And now . . . ,” Roger says. “. . . prepare yourself . . .” The finger’s yanked. Ouch. “. . . for a shock.” Resting Ziggy’s aloft, numbed-out leg against his My Bloody Valentine T-shirt, Roger reaches for you-know-where, hands crumpled and trembling like stranglers’ in bad TV movies. They wad Ziggy’s cheeks, then jolt in opposite directions. “Riveting, isn’t it?”
“It’s . . . impressive.” Cricket cocks an eyebrow at Ziggy. “It is.”
“Kneel here in front of me,” Roger says. He releases the asshole, pfoot, letting go of the leg, flop, squeak, squeak. “Roll over, Ziggy,” he adds, then straightens his posture and holds out both arms. Giggling, Cricket sits in this “chair.” He/she settles back into the flabby upholstery. Ziggy rolls over, which isn’t that easy to do, but . . . “Put your head here, dear.” The man paws through Cricket’s hair, pinching his/her earlobes. “. . . right . . . in line . . . with the . . . object.” He’s tugging his/her embarrassed face down, down . . . “There.”
Ziggy’s been watching them over his shoulder, especially Cricket, whose lips and nose are contorting an inch from his ass, maybe like someone deciding to drink or not to drink from a rusty water fountain. Shit. So Ziggy flattens, and closes his eyes to, like, protect what he has of a hard-on.
“Golly,” says Cricket’s voice. “It doesn’t smell so bad.”
Ziggy’s too drunk, relieved, horny, etc., to thank him/her properly. “God,” he blurts, figuring no other word has more clout, meaning-wise.
“Dive in,” urges Roger’s voice.
Ziggy closes his eyes. Breaths are rustling his ass hairs. Whoosh . . . whoosh . . . His cock’s grown as hard as superhumanly possible. Tick, tick, tick . . . Hm . . . tick, tick . . . When he raises up, checks to see what’s the delay, Roger’s breathing in Cricket’s old spot, and he/she’s seated cross-legged to Ziggy’s left, slumped way over, head in hands, face all smushed around the fingers. “What . . . uh . . . happened?”
“Our friend couldn’t handle the . . . aroma, let’s say.” Roger grins at Ziggy’s ass conspiratorially.
Cricket clears his/her throat.
“That’s okay.” Ziggy squints, trying to find Cricket’s eyes in that crosshatch of skin, knuckles, fingernails, makeup. “Rimming’s my dad’s thing. I don’t care about it. But, uh—”
“Quick, dears,” says Roger’s voice. Ziggy’s right asscheek is bitten, tugged up in the air, shaken roughly, and freed. Ouch. “Before we lose our momentum.”
Cricket nods and falls backwards. He/she raises, folds, shifts his/her shaved legs around until they’re just stubbly white piles on his/her chest, with two feet sticking out of them. “Like this?” he/she asks, licking a couple of fingers. “The only other
. . . time I did it . . . it happened . . . like this.” The wet fingers smear all inside his/her asscrack.
“Yeah, that’s cool,” Ziggy says. He’s trying to adjust to the fact that his/her ass is an ass, period, and not anything intimidating like a vagina. “You look, uh . . . hot.” That sounded wrong. “Sorry.” He rises unsteadily to his hands and knees, crawls to the edge of Cricket’s bed, scanning the floor for his clothes. Roger’s folded, stacked them in a For Sale–type pile. Ziggy topples it, scrounging around in the ruins until he locates the pint-sized accordion of condom packs. Ripping one free, he peels off the wrapper, unrolls a milky balloon down his hard-on, turns, and, averting his eyes, guides it into Cricket’s ass. Luckily, he/she’s preoccupied elsewhere, eyes locked on . . . the cute young guy wallpaper? Poke, poke . . . Something gives. “Whoa, hey.” He gasps. “You’re so . . . tight. Sorry.” He/she nods stiffly. Cold hands, Roger’s obviously, scrunch and spread Ziggy’s asscheeks. Ouch. “Hey, don’t . . .” Oh, who cares? A face like a packaged-up boulder starts rolling around back there. It’s . . . mildly entertaining. Cool. Ziggy jabs, jabs, jabs, jabs, etc., into Cricket’s hole, stoned on its heat, eyes shut, rerunning that scene with Nicole from the other night, albeit slightly improved on in parts. Tick, tick . . . Jab, jab— “Fuck.” Ziggy’s accidentally come. Sperm’s lobbing into the condom’s bunched nipple. “Shi-i-it.” Almost the second he runs out, Ziggy starts feeling . . . well, depressed about covers it. That snowballs. “No, please,” he whispers. “N-n-not . . .” Roger’s face is so far up his ass, it’s like the guy wants to leave some sort of permanent impression, maybe so he can slip in more easily next time. Fair enough, but, for whatever reason, it makes Ziggy burst into tears. Shit.
“Fash-shin-nat-ting,” says a muffled Roger.
“Are you . . . okay, Ziggy?” Cricket asks. He/she’s raised up on his/her elbows. Deep in those too made-up eyes, there’s this glimmer of kindness or something he can’t quite make out.
“I . . . I . . . d-don’t know . . . why . . . this happens,” Ziggy says, slugging his chest.
“If there’s anything I can—”
“Hey, quit!” Ziggy twists around, slugs Roger’s head. “Fuck, you’re pissing me off!” Again, again. The guy doesn’t budge. Maybe he’s stuck there or something. “If you loved me . . .”—Ziggy slugs—“. . . you wouldn’t rim me while I’m crying.” This time he hits Roger’s head so violently it’s knocked loose. “That’s the truth, you . . . scum!” Through Ziggy’s tears, something, a glittering outline, presumably Roger’s, squeak, squeak, squeak, leaves the bed. “Fucking scum!” The figure wobbles off. “Die you fuck!”
Calhoun’s having a dream that he’ll never remember. Josie’s in there somewhere, linking the otherwise fractured and kind of misshapen tale. It jerks, wanders, teeters from scene to scene like a film someone’s edited with an ax. As in all Calhoun’s dreams, people turn on him inexplicably. Sometimes they’re caricatures of his family or friends. Mostly they’re eerily familiar, not in physical ways, more like they know and despise him from some previous life, not that he buys reincarnation, etc. Typically, Calhoun’s stumbling from a . . . say, drunken teen party to . . . some childhood memory to . . . wherever else, barely evading what feels like his imminent death. What’s original here is the company. Josie’s there by his side, if only half-paying attention to everything. Maybe Calhoun’s trying to find them a safe place to kiss, fuck, etc., since she’s nude about ninety percent of the time. Him too. In fact, hiding his bouncing hard-on from pursuers’ and bystanders’ eyes is a major concern every elongated and/or foreshortened second. God, things used to seem so potentially amazing re: Josie and love and all that before heroin moved in. Not that he wasn’t a little distracted their whole time together, less focused on her than intent on some glorious future addiction. According to books he’d admired, heroin was supposed to make certain outdated necessities like love, friendship, sex obsolete, and it works in a way. Josie abandoned him, thanks to it. But in dreams they’re “in touch” for some reason he won’t understand. Because, unluckily or luckily, this brief, avant-garde, terrifyingly real seminarrative is being played out to one oblivious amnesiac, period. So it’ll never be hobbled by hearsay then dashed by the embarrassing, knee-jerk, Freudianesque interpretations of listeners. It’s just his—a little fogged-in, imaginary dart board for two minutes or something, then . . . Hey, it never even happened in the first place.
Ziggy’s dry around the eyes, though, by the feel, his idiotic face isn’t itself yet. Roger’s probably gone, fingers crossed. Cricket could be . . . oh, anything from redoing his/her ugly makeup to, uh, throwing an antihim tantrum somewhere. Shit. His/her bedroom’s not all that bizarre the more and longer he looks. It’s just a sexier and less, uh, restrained relative of his Hüsker Dü shrine. Maybe this cute guy’s a genius. It happens. Suppose what seems smarmy to Ziggy is actually pride in some incredible achievement? I should ask him/her, Ziggy thinks. Remember. Still, as reverential and studious as Cricket’s wall-to-wall, uh, whoever shit is, Ziggy’s too wrecked to buy a new, untested god at the moment. He needs something . . . familiar but really . . . spectacular. Ideally Calhoun, though two phone calls in under three hours is pushing it. And he’s too . . . rattled to deal with Nicole. Shit. Drugs would help, that’s for absolutely fucking sure, ha ha ha, which . . . reminds him. “Hm.” Blink, blink. Picturing the miniature, powder-filled bag in his swirly, discarded jeans, Ziggy tenses a second, then, squeak, squeak, squeak, dive-bombs the boy/girl’s, uh, Princess phone.
Click.
“Annie speakin’.” The words are buried in music.
“Hey,” Ziggy whispers. “Cool. I’m so glad you’re there.”
“Ziggy?”
“Yeah. Uh, you had . . . something for sale? Sorry, I’m insane. It’s been weird.”
Annie turns down whatever she’s watching or listening to. Probably a cassette, maybe the radio, since it’s too spooky and wild to be the sound track to anything, much less MTV. “Is it your dad?”
“Yeah. We’re at Cricket’s. You know, that transvestite from school? We were having a three-way until I freaked out.”
“Ah understand,” Annie says. “Well, lahk ah said on mah message, ah’ve got this new thang, Superchunk, named after the band. It’ll flatten you out emotionally lahk you tend to enjoy. Plus it’s an aphrodisiac, ahm told.”
Ziggy thinks about that. “Okay, cool,” he decides. “But first, about the heroin? See, like I told you, my best friend’s a junkie. And I’ve started to think I shouldn’t do it, ’cos—”
“Yeah, Calhoun,” Annie says. “Nahce gah.”
“Totally! But he’s gotten kind of . . . too addicted now? And he’s going to quit, like, tonight. So I probably shouldn’t do it, out of respect.”
Annie’s quiet for a moment. “You wanna exchange it for somethin’ else?”
“Uh, maybe.” Wondering, Ziggy absentmindedly scans Cricket’s room, but its furniture’s dwarfed by his/her homemade wallpaper, and, now that he’s sobered a little, those hundreds of flirtatious looks sort of draw him in.
“Ah’d recommend Superchunk.”
“Okay.” Ziggy scoots across the bed and rips a cute young guy picture away from the wall.
“Bring it to school Monday, ’kay?”
“Cool. Thanks.” Up close, the guy’s smarmy grin rings . . . whatchacallit . . . a bell. “But . . . Annie, uh . . . do you think I’m insane?”
“Nah.”
“Me neither,” Ziggy says. “Oh.” He’s just realized the kid in the pictures is what’s-his-name . . . Shit. Arnold Schwarzenegger’s little protectee in . . . what’s that movie . . . Terminator 2? “’Cos, uh . . . I love Calhoun,” he adds, distracted.
“You should,” Annie says.
“I do.” Ziggy crumples the picture. “Probably too much. I mean, ’cos what if he O.D.ed? I’d be so . . . fucked. Shit.” Noticing what he’s just done to the picture, he lays it out flat, smoothing with his palms.
“Well,” Annie says. “’Kay, you wanna know mah take on Calhoun?”
“Sure.” Ziggy gives the crinkled picture a last stroke, stroke, stroke.
“Lemme read you the lyrics of this song ah wrote. It’s about Calhoun, raht? And, well . . . it sorta says it all. Here, let me fahnd the thang.”
“You wrote a song about Calhoun?” Ziggy slugs his knee. “Wow.”
“Sure did.”
“Weird. Are you in a band or something?”
“Jus’ startin’ one.”
“What’s it called?” Slug, slug, slug.
“We’re called Junior High.”
“Cool. What instrument do you play?”
“Drums. Ahl raht, here ’tis. Ah cain’t sing, so ah’ll talk it. The song’s jus’ tahtled ’Calhoun’s Song’ raht now. And it’s s’posed to be kahnda hidden under lotsa guitar, so it’s gonna sound nekkid, but . . . ’Kay, here goes. Um . . .
Hey boy, wake up, the police are outside
Bushes rustle with their billy clubs
Officers are bangin’ on the door, boy
An’ we have to git rid of the heroin
But you’re not noddin’ out, you O.D.ed
Cold to mah touch, no prittiness in your ahs
Ah dragged mahself out of mah nod, boy
But your hah musta killed you
Spacy angel, so smart an’ unhappy
You wanted a world all your own
Ah helped, though mah heart tol’ me not to
Now ahm gonna have to pay for mah kahndness
Hey boy, the police are around us
Stupid dead junkie, they’re sayin’
An’ ahm goin’ to prison forever, boy
For the crahm of supportin’ your habit
But this story ain’t true, it’s a message
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