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By Sean Kilpatrick
(for Lacey Music)
His fat-cock 40oz'er missed my head and smashed
everywhere against the door of the motel. A tan blanket
of glass stung my neck and rained into the carpet. Billy
must have noticed I was barefoot.
"Shit-stand!" He fell over, screaming.
"AH! It's in my eye! Fuck, Billy! You got glass in
my eye!" I whined.
"Stop flapping your bitch-piss mouth!"
Most days Billy drank, only his words were that
pernicious. His hunched-level stance, a pale collection
of ribs, concerned fingers on my wrist, gave him away.
He saw my cranberry blood and was suddenly all guilt and
fear.
"Sorry." Billy whispered, shaking from remorse. Or
withdrawal. I was no longer sure. His eyes were tucked
into little hurt corners.
"Help me scoop it out!”
"Let's go in the bathroom, baby, ok? This is too
dim."
"Just come here."
He got close and I drilled my fist into the concave
of his chest. His leathery skin molded around my
knuckles. He gasped, falling backwards on the bed, red-
faced. I clamped his neck so hard I was almost shaking
hands with myself. His pecs were spray painted red. I
leaned down to ask him if it was his blood or mine and
he bit my lip.
I might have kept mumbling encouragement about how
hard this made me, but half my brain was coated with the
paint thinner we stole from the janitor's closet, so who
knows? Billy squinted up like some half-oriental man
child, hence he was twice as hot. I had to let go. I
stroked his hair back from his forehead. He was sobbing,
face diced by currents of misery.
I held Billy in a pretend love pose, petting his
face. He apologized first, like always.
"So now you're Burt Reynolds or something?"
"I was too fucked up to care, when it happened."
"I'd fuck that excuse if it had two holes."
“I'm sorry, bitch.” I said.
He slapped me. The noise was like a round of nut-
sac applause against somebody's ass. I smiled and nudged
my hard-on into his leather pants.
“This time with feeling.” I taunted.
“Oh my fucking god! You're sick! What's wrong with
you?” He was already giggling.
I reached into my pants and tugged my cock up under
my belly. He slid his hips against me and I licked his
salt-covered face.
“Why do you always make me forgive you?” he
whimpered.
I convoyed my tongue down his throat. We were too fucked
up and tired to break our old records. Post high school,
our sex life was becoming less and less gymnastic. Our
cocks would probably die before we did.
I came too soon and had to finish him off with both
hands. I struggled not to fall asleep using his ass for
a pillow. When I did, he kicked me, and said the glass
pieces in my shoulder were cutting him.
“Did you get the condom out?” I droned, half-
sleeping.
“You're still wearing it. You can't tell 'cause I
pressed it on so tight.” He lisped.
We snickered and, for the first time in years, I
met Billy's eyes. It was difficult. “I'm sorry.” I said,
not able to stop and positioned myself in a bow across
his body; artifact that it was, frail, mistreated. If I
was always too selfish and numb to consider Billy's
feelings, I could worship his everything else. I dragged
my lips across his ankles, up along his side, the ribs.
I smeared roses of spit on each wrist.
“What are you doing?” he said.
“Crucifying you with my lips.”
“You're weird.” He said.
But he understood that love and religion were
designed for people stupid enough to try to articulate
them. We both went to the same Catholic High School,
suffered the same indignity of forced prayer. I nudged
my face along Billy's ribs, feeling him begin to sleep.
Earlier that day, I saw this family stuffing their
contents into the room adjoining ours. A husband, wife,
and their three pink-clad ninnies. His wife was like a
peach-colored skeleton and strangely man-like. Small
wires of moustache and really old, like middle-aged, but
scary with sharp bones - and hot like some wrongly drawn
animation corpse.
Billy was out scoring for anything. I was on the
bed in just my leopard-skin pants with the door open.
She passed by once, twice, glancing in. I was kind of
jacking off by squeezing my legs together in fast
motion, but I couldn't cum for various reasons. She
floated by a third time and I followed her into this
really narrow crevice between bungalows. She unzipped me
with her teeth and tongued my cock free, but when I
couldn't keep it up, probably because her lips were so
chapped and she had cat tongue, she turned around and I
gave it to her the normal way. She had obviously
renovated the space before, even recently. She didn't
pink-dot my clothes. We finished quick enough, parting
with no smiles, not even a handshake. It was less
personal than a business meeting. You could have said I
fucked the bungalow wall instead, if it was softer. I
forgot about her for a few hours, until Billy returned
dry, with one forty, not willing to share.
Someone in the next room yelled “FAGGOTS!” through
the wall and I wasn't sure where I was or if we were
safe. I sat up in bed and cleared my throat. “Yeah,
well, true!” I yelled at the wall, “But I bet your piles
are still bigger, meaner, and can't be counted as
trophies!”
“Fuck you, motherfucker!” The invisible cuckold
spat, in a southern twang, no less. I sighed, bored
already.
“Your mother claps the bible shut with her legs
every night, kiddies!” I informed their children,
trailing off, more concerned now with finding something
in my room to snort.
Like the cliché of a hundred motel movie scenes, I
heard the guy next door get out of bed, walk to his
door, slam it, walk over to mine and knock loudly. I was
searching the refrigerator, nude, used condom dangling.
“How's the weather out there?” I quizzed. That's when I
noticed Billy wasn't in the room.
I checked the bathroom. Behind the shower curtain.
Then under the bed. Some toys were under there, from
earlier. I unscrewed a vibrator, checking the battery
storage for dope. What cop would touch fag fuck toys?
Nothing - we had tapped all our resources.
I rose, stoned by Billy's absence. I stood with my
hands on my hips - fooling myself - as if this impatient
gesture could somehow force Billy's reappearance. I
imagined Billy shrugging idiotically in the same
situation and instantly longed for him.
He kicked the door. I looked around the room for a
weapon and decided on our vibrator. Even without
batteries, the threat of AIDS was worse than a headache
from the sound. Being clad in just a dripping condom
would also work to my advantage.
I flung the door open and jumped back, zigzagging
the vibrator above my head and making my cock flap up
and down - a battle cry of lewd smacking. “I HAVE AIDS!
FUCK YOUR JOHN WAYNE SHIT!”
Backing up to the railing, revolver in his left
hand, he took aim. “Drop the dick!”
“Oh fuck!” I set the dildo on the ground and rolled
it to him with one foot.”
“Don't roll that fuckin' thing at me! Fuck I want
it for?”
“Dude, you should probably just rape me, okay? You
know I won't call the cops.”
“Damnit, son. What is wrong with you? Just shut up
and throw on them lion trousers you fucked my woman in.
We got a date in the parking lot.”
He watched me dress from the doorway, gesturing the
gun toward my crotch, his cop jowls bent sideways in
disapproval of my nakedness.
“Not that kind of date!” He added.
I buttoned my pants over the condom and walked
toward him. He stepped into the room, wanting me to exit
first. I shooed my hands at him, smiling.
“Sentimental about your pecker protection? Usually
take mine off after.” He growled. He was really lumping
in his pants over the power his gun gave him.
“I'm going to cum a line of HIV blood into your pig
snout, you pull that trigger.” I said, more shakily than
I had hoped.
“Walk,” he said, “we got your wife.”
Like a wire brush scraping my interiors, the tears
rose. I repressed them. There was always enough hate to
repress them. I told myself I did not care and
consequently had to prove it, even if that meant dying.
“Well, I didn't get your wife. I mean, not in her
cunt.” I was suddenly intimate with the stairs we were
walking down.
By this point in my life, I was accustomed to
waking up covered in blood. The ground was like cold
plaster in my ribs. A row of boots, glinting in the
shadows. The stench of feet. I couldn't look up. I heard
their tongues moving inside their mouths. I was in the
parking lot, inside a circle of police SUV's and they
had Billy.
I recognized his naked legs, and like something had been
spilled between them, there was a scoop of red where his
crotch was supposed to be. It took me a minute to
understand why he was holding himself together so
stiffly.
Two cops propped him up. I did not want to
understand. His face gleamed like a flashlight through
the darkness. I did not see their faces. Something soft
hit against my lips, bouncing off. Bulky fingers sunk
into my hair and I was lifted backwards. I saw what had
hit my lips. Just a piece of meat. Cut out of someone I
told myself I loved. It wasn't recognizable, but I knew.
A voice came like asbestos stuffed against my
eardrum. “Didn't you want to kiss him goodbye?”
“Not worth it.” I said, automatically.
“I guess you really don't give a fuck. Are you a
badass?”
“No.” I whispered. Three more sets of hands pressed
me flat against the gravel, in case I went crazy.
“We love young faggots out here. Know why? Because
they're usually from the city. And they're usually so
fucked up on drugs they end up taking each other out.
Just like you de-balled your man. Just like you're about
to end this relationship in tragedy.”
As soon as the voice stopped the V-shape of a blade
slid beneath the skin of Billy's neck. It was so easy
for them, the technicalities of murder. When Billy's
body dropped, just below the neck, I closed my eyes. It
was not raining, but for a moment I thought so.
“Now me.” I was saying. They stood me up. Someone
handed me a towel. “Now me.” I insisted.
“We want to watch you walk down that road like it's
a fuckin' catwalk. We have some decisions to make while
you're gone. Just keep on going and we'll get back to
you either way. Don't worry.”
I was shoved and began to walk. Someone stopped me.
“Take this.”
It was a knife. I held it limply and kept walking.
“Now me. Now me. Now me.”
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Bio: I build all my literature with a malfunctioning
chemistry set. Please do not sneeze while reading this,
things could get out of control. My science has been
featured in Exquisite Corpse, Stirring, Zygote in my
Coffee, and soon in Erosha, Cellar Door, and Arsenic
Lobster. Contact me at nakedlunch@comcast.net.