|
Adept Writer
Join Date: Aug 2007
Location: America.
Gender: Male
Posts: 913
|
Bro
The cops came last night. I’d thought they were for me, so of course I’d panicked and ran into my bathroom, but no, they’d been there for Wallace. He’s a faggot, by the way. Literally. Not to say that’s bad or anything. I’ve got nothing against homos or nothing, so long as they let me say it how it is. Wallace was cool like that.
We’d met about a week after I’d moved in to the complex, at the office where they collect the rent and give tours to new residents, who we in the know like to call fresh meat, dependant on age and gender. The office has a gym, and we met there. He’d been on a treadmill, working up his calves, or as he calls them, his carnivorous cock catchers (he never speaks with a lisp, but I always imagine one when he uses this manner of diction). He’d waved to me through the windows separating the gym from the main office, and I didn’t want to be rude at the time so I’d waved back. I’d only been there because I heard the office had a chef that baked cookies for the workers every Friday and laid them out on a plate in the main lobby. At the time of writing, I’ve yet to find one of these cookies.
We’d talked and I found him to be a neat guy, as I hadn’t picked up on his fag vibe until I noticed him eyeing my loins every time I scratched my thighs. By that point I’d figured it out and made my stance on the whole his dick in my ass thing clear, using my on occasion gift for gab to kindly put a yellow tape around my backside that in black inked bubble gum font said, do not enter. He was cool about it. “But you’re still a cutie, sorry to say it.”
I’d waved my hand. “Don’t mind.”
Hanging out with a gay guy—one that fits some of the stereotypical traits, of which only he had one—has its perks. The great thing about the complex is that it’s only a fifteen minute drive from campus, meaning all the students who don’t want to add more shit to their tab come here rather than stay on grounds. Now, I suppose with this logic you’d expect the jocks and cock war veterans to arrive in throngs, shattering the tranquility of the grounds with their parties and what not, and with that assumption I’d say you’re right. However, due to some of the ground rules that keep this area unique, we are only ever introduced to the particulars of a group.
Basically, in the lease agreement, it says that any rowdiness reported by neighbors will result in a warning, and any further calls pertaining to your actions will lead you to a wave, nod, and goodbye. It is, all in all, a place selected not only for its pool, gym, green field, and calm air, but for its reluctance to allow foolish youth to grate the older patrons. So, that leaves the mentioned: intelligent ugly girls, intelligent cute girls, and young men who most likely won’t get any pussy even though they’d been told college was to virgins what heaven is to the faithful. They could some times be heard commiserating in whispers with the ugly girls. Anime, sci-fi films, Facebook, and the agreed upon genius of Tolkien were but shards to the full diamond of their eaves dropped talks. Wallace always got a kick out of listening in. Sometimes we stood by the door, pretending to smoke. Other times we’d be at the pool, feigning tans, listening in.
But that’s not what his perk was. As mentioned, most gay men, if any of the traits to their stereotype are found, usually hold one. Wallace had the inevitable gift that all straight men wish to acquire by birth, not practice: women loved him. Day by day they came over, called, entered his apartment, and day by day I watched with envy and cryptic jealousy as I came to see Wallace as not an amicable homosexual but rather a cunt-drawing magnet of coquettes and cuties.
“Hey,” he told me one day after Janice and Tatiana left, two girls who through him I would later fuck, “it’s not that hard. Just listen.”
“Girls don’t want you to listen,” I said. “They want to be ignored. They like mysteries.”
“They like mysteries who listen, kid.”
He patted my shoulders. Since we were sitting down, he then patted my thighs. “Uh uh, man.”
“God, you’re sexy. I love your cheek bones.” He brushed my face with his knuckles. Had I been lively I would have moved away but we’d all been snorting cocaine and I was too wasted from the intake of powder and alcohol to care. “Do you have Russian in you?”
“I don’t know. I’m a mutt. Mexican, Irish, French, you name it I got it.”
“Whatever you got I want more guys to have.”
He leaned towards me and I fell out of my chair in retreat and he laughed and fell out of his chair holding his stomach. Eventually we passed out and when I woke up I could hear sounds of him excreting bile in the bathroom.
“So,” I said. “Should I listen?”
He gave me the finger before throwing up another spew of shit and saliva.
The thing about college girls is they think gay guys are cool. The stupider the college girls – of which there are plenty despite feminist’s popular belief – the easier it is to be their friend. Some have collections, I’ve learned. They don’t care who they hang with outside their close ring, so long as there’s a black man, an Asian man, a fat guy, a skinny guy, an artist, a rebel, and a gay.
The gay is often the one they draw close to – only opening further to the man whom in their young naivety they believe with to be in love – and for this Wallace had many girls over, young and not-as-young alike. When he introduced me to Alexis, I knew she was the one.
“Alexis, Raphael. Raphael, Alexis.”
We shook hands.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey,” she muttered before snorting a line of coke. She ignored me and asked for more.
“Pay first, babe.” She handed Wallace a crinkled twenty and he laid out for her two neat rows. She was beautiful the way she ran down the line. That or the ecstasy I’d taken had simply made everything in that moment my little princess.
When she was finished, she looked around and said Wallace had a nice place. Smiling, I crooned if she’d like to see his bed.
“Yeah, sure. What size?”
“Big.” I wobbled and giggled.
“Queen,” Wallace said, rowing out more lines for a college girl who’d learned of him and a Tolkien guy who lived on the first floor. “You’ll enjoy it. Have fun. Ralph, use a fucking towel though.”
The Tolkien guy had been trying to get with the fit blonde but had gotten no such luck. In my amicable love for the world I’d said to give her some ecstasy so that she’d hang like a waterfall, but in my tactless cheer I’d forgotten she was sitting right next to him, so when he offered her some that I selflessly gave he said no. I frowned and took them back.
“For my princess,” I said and wobbled off. I grabbed four towels from Wallace’s bathroom, laid them down over his bed, and asked Alexis if she liked rainbows. She took one of the pills from my open palm and said yes, popped it, kissed me, went down and sent me to the stars. Erect, I slammed on top of her and can’t remember if I fucked her in the same way I’d suffer a seizure or if I actually paced myself, but either way, I fell asleep and woke up. Someone was on top of me.
Wallace grunted as he rammed himself into my ass, and something cold said he’d rubbed me up with lube. I froze. For a brief moment I considered struggling, but rationale – what little I had with my backside being ravished – said not to move. He was twice as strong, and with his bulk compared to mine I knew that to fight would mean to have my dignity further shattered as I, the straight heterosexual, got my ass kicked then raped by the carnivorous cock catching fag. So I closed my eyes and pretended to be blacked out. He grunted as he went slowly, and his wet thighs smacked my cold, scared buttocks. I felt him finish, and in that moment I vowed never to butt fuck a girl again unless asked.
He grabbed a wet towel and cleaned my cheeks. He brushed my face with his knuckles. He kissed my forehead and shook my shoulder to see just how far gone I was. I feigned sleep and fought tears. When what felt an eternity passed, I decided to wake, compose myself, and saunter into the kitchen with my hand over my eyes and forehead, waddling like a penguin to further strengthen my hung over farce.
“Morning,” he said over a pan of scrambling eggs. “You were crazy last night.”
“Yeah, man,” I said. “Where’s that one chick? Alexis?”
“She left,” he said without looking at me.
“Oh.” In a moment of dubious confidence I scratched my butt. “Man, my ass hurts. Someone shove a pole up there?”
He laughed. I laughed. I looked for a sharp object near hand but instead found my eyes lingering towards the limp penis in his sweatpants. “Alexis must have done something to you. You two spent the whole night raving.”
“Sorry. Where were you?”
“Slept on the couch. Asked Charles if he liked men. He ran out of here, poor bugger.”
“Charles?”
“Four-eyes.”
“Ah.”
I had to leave. I believe then I would have made my departure if not for the molten lashing of my anus. I’d once read an internet posting on a forum a woman say that after being fucked by one of the greatest men ever she hadn’t been able to walk straight for two days. I wondered in my incoherency if Wallace had once been straight, and then willed my legs to perform their innate task despite the steaming crevice of my ass.
“Hey man, I think I’m going to head home. My head’s fucking killing me.”
“Alright.” The scent of eggs lulled me, but the thought of eggs led to the thought of balls and the thought of balls led to thought of his penis, it erect and in me and suddenly my legs shuffled like a crippled road runner out the door. “Get some rest,” he called.
“Yeah, man, I will,” I muttered back before completely out of the doorway. I threw my right hip out then in, followed by left, then back to my right, an awkward pattern that though foolish eased the burn. I felt something wet and for a moment believed to have shit myself in the confusion then realized the lube that had been pushed in through him was still up there. My lower lip trembled and in my boxer shorts and waddling I prayed no one to bare witness to my shame.
I panicked momentarily at my door but thanked God for the first time in three years as it opened without a key. I waddled to the bathroom and pulled down my boxers. I stretched my cheeks and looked at the pink flesh between the pallid skin and wondered if what I saw between there was lube or sperm, as I had never taken the time to study either.
I sat in tub of the bathroom and turned the handle. Warm water gushed to the bottom. I grabbed my thighs and held my legs backwards and scooted forward until, in a position which had anyone seen would have thought me prepping for a porn video or yoga class, the water hit the pink of my ass and washed away whatever it was that lay there. When finished, I stood, and I hobbled to my room, my ass on fire and my back now bent out of shape.
I dressed, I bathed, I cried, I read Oliver Twist and listened to Coldplay. And then I was blessed with an epiphany that sent me to my car. For reasons now I can not explain I expected Wallace to be outside my doorway, bulked arms crossed and carnivorous legs folded. He wasn’t, and I descended the stairs to my car and sped from the complex until, in my aimless drive, I landed in a city I’d heard of but had never been to. I parked along a curb and avoided the eyes of anyone who passed.
A woman on her phone brushed my shoulders, a hippie with an iPod nodded and said “sup,” and other people looked in my direction and resisted a smile as they noted my odd manner of walking. But I could see it. The payphone. The anonymity granted by public service. From a distance I stopped. I looked at the buildings on street corners, scanned for cameras, but found none. It didn’t matter.
I stepped inside the booth and paid the fee until a voice prompted to proceed as I pleased. I dialed the police. The call was anonymous. The location of the drug dealer was given. I hung up, waddled to my car, and drove home. Weeks passed. Then they came.
And so yeah, that’s how it happened. I talked to Wallace, pretended to be chill with him, and watched the windows with ease. The police came last night, and when I heard their sirens I jumped into my bathroom and shivered until I heard their footsteps approach up the stairs then fade down the doors towards his. Now I sit here in my room and wait.
Wallace calls – he is allowed one – and asks if I’ll come down to visit him. I say yes.
“Fucking rats,” he says. “I can’t believe this shit, Ralph, I really can’t.”
“Me either, man,” I say. “I’m real sorry, bro.”
“God. How much you want to bet it was that fucking Lord of the Rings kid?”
“I don’t know, man.”
“God.” I can hear his voice shake on the other line. “I need a friend, man. Can you come down Friday at three? Those are the only visiting hours I get.”
“Sure, man. Sure.”
“God. Stupid, so stupid, so…” he breaks into mumbles wetted by tears. A sound of snot rubbed onto a forearm. “Sorry. I’m sorry. See you, Ralph. Thanks for listening.”
“Yeah, man. It’s cool. I’ll be there, kay?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah. Thanks, Ralph. Bye.”
“Good bye.”
I hang up. A week later the strut is gone but the memory is there. I sit on my sofa, turn on the television, and scratch my balls with one hand while I eat popcorn with the other.
|
