Andy Stevenson vs. The Lord of the Loins (7 page)

He tensed up.

"I need your help. I need to get boff."

"Buff,” he corrected me.

"That, too.” I didn't skip a beat, though why I'd mention getting boffed was beyond me. I'd just gotten boffed, which was why I was there. Boffing was bad—bad boffing—and also the last thing I needed right now. “Squat me."

"Spot you?"

"Call it whatever you want, but let's get a few things straight.” Oh, I could speak his language just fine. “I don't like you, but I'm going to give you a chance to do what you do best. I'm here to be bullied. I don't care how many raps you put me through. My deltas are dense, my dewpoints are drawn, my squads are strained, my peckers are puckered and I'm here to burn off some celeries."

There was a really long pause here.
Really
long.

"I'll start you off with something light.” Daryl gave me the strangest of looks, like he wasn't sure if I was mentally all there or not.

"What? Are you a pansy?” I struck another nerve. “You keep telling me that without pain, there's no gain. Well...” I stared at him. “bring ... on ... the pain."

"I really think—"

"
Bring on the pain!
"

Okay, “bring on the pain...” Not the smartest fucking thing I've ever said in my life, especially when Daryl did just that and I had been in it for nearly a week since. It hurt to move. It hurt so bad that my inner bitch went back to sleep. Crisis solved. Well, sort of.

Everything was fine that first night, but the next morning? Oh, hell no! I couldn't even raise my arms. It took me putting my hands on the wall and then kneeling down to get them over my head so I could put a shirt on. And bending my knees to actually get down on the ground? Not nearly as painful as trying to get back up. Screw steroids! Where was the Tylenol? It did take my mind off of Tristan, though.

It was during my recovery that I tried my best to concentrate on homework and writing stories for the creative writing class. Miss Kim was giving me the cold shoulder, which was probably a good thing since I couldn't defend myself should she decide to exact revenge. I had no doubt that the authorities would never find my body.

Mien Fuehrer Cathleen felt the need to impose her master will on the exact kind of writing we were to turn in to her. Horror and science fiction didn't interest her at all, but real-life dramas, human nature stories and comedies did, especially if they were inspired by anything ever done by Peter Bogdanovich or starring Patty Duke. In an act of defiance, I wrote a horror story over the weekend about a blonde vampire obsessed with human sexuality. Every time he initiates intimacy, he compliments them on how nice their ass is then rips their throat out all the while reciting lines from
Paper Moon
and watching
The Miracle Worker
. He then writes a lovely little sonnet called “Climax” in memory of each victim.

I called my own lovely little story “Copuletus Interruptis Of Count El Slutto,” and was to present it to the class the next time it met. It all would have gone so well—or at least better—had I not run into Cathleen before class.

"Andrew.” She acknowledged my inferior presence.

"Kaiser Cathleen.” My response came so naturally that it almost scared me. It had to be the pain I was still in. I needed to cover my little blunder up quickly, so I latched on to the only observation I could make. “You're not wearing your headphones today?"

"Not after last night.” She seemed a bit uncomfortable talking about it.

"You must have read Reuben's mutant earwig story.” I laughed—aka, I sucked up—and hoped she wouldn't re-member what I'd just called her.

"You're perceptive."

"Thank you.” Yes, I was ignoring her sarcasm. “You know, I've been wondering what it is you listen to ... when you do wear your headphones."

"Classic Heart.” She sounded a bit guarded, which might mean that she'd read some of my reviews.

"Oh, you mean like ‘What About Love,’ ‘Never,’ ‘Who Will You Run To’ and ‘These Dreams?’”

"No.” She stopped and looked as if she was having four very different thoughts occurring at the same time, none of them pleasant, and had absolutely no ability to put them into coherent words. “I'm talking pre-nineteen-eighty-five material, songs that they actually wrote and felt, man. ‘Dog and Butterfly,’ ‘Devil Delight,’ ‘Barracuda,’ ‘Mistral Wind,’ ‘Dreamboat Annie,’ ‘Love Alive'—songs that established them as rock legends. Forget all that slick studio eighties crap they were forced to play later on."

Okay, let me say right now that what I'm about to do will completely merit any and all consequences that will follow.

"You mean they had albums before nineteen-eighty-five?"

"Fuu...” It was the start of a word or phrase, but never made it past that initial sound. That couldn't be good.

"Cathleen?” Maybe I could still cover it up.

"Call me Professor Gevaultski."

Maybe not.

"I can't believe she used a food analogy to symbolize her reaction to my story,” I complained to Ryan on the way over to the student center after class. The wind wasn't as bad today as it had been, and it wasn't snowing, so we could actually carry on a coherent conversation while we walked.

"Did you do or say something beyond what you usually do to piss her off? It's like she went out of her way to be brutally honest with you.” Ryan was trying to make me feel better by making sense of things, only it wasn't helping and I knew why. “Besides, she didn't start using analogies until you got defensive and called your work ‘an intense study of the hidden desires and dark human nature present in poetic slutty types.’”

My own words didn't sound quite as eloquent, hearing them spoken by someone else.

"She called my presentation ‘cold, watery gruel at an ethnic festival of life.'” God, that was embarrassing! “I told her that sometimes gruel is good for you because it's the real thing, even if it doesn't look too appetizing. Then she came back with that bit about people still getting what they need from a meal even when it's not the real thing. She then further suggested that I put my gruel up against a plate of imitation crab, mock applesauce, an enriched white roll with I Can't Believe It's Not Butter and a glass of instant iced tea with NutraSweet and see what gets chosen more often."

"You know, I seem to remember that entire conversation. Why? Because I was there.” The corner of Ryan's mouth raised and formed a perfect half-smirk. “At least Rueben said he liked it."

"That's when I knew I was screwed.” I shook my head in dismay. “Connect the dots probably amazed the hell out of him as a child."

"Not as much as paper cuts."

"Blood,” we chorused.

"Hey.” Ryan opened the door to the building and grabbed my arm. “What's up with Kim? She acts preoccupied."

Who wasn't lately? If someone didn't have his or her own personal issues to dwell on, listening to Tristan and his orgasm poems was certainly bound to bring up a few, especially the latest one.

Speaking of Tristan, we watched as he walked in and headed towards the bathroom while we finished taking our jackets off.

"Sex."

Ryan raised an eyebrow.

"At least I think it's sex."

We shoved our gear into a booth and sat down.

"I saw her this morning at breakfast,” Ryan said. “The lady asked her how she wanted her eggs. You know what she said? ‘Fertilized.’”

"What did the woman do?"

"Gave her sunny-side up."

I wished I knew why Kim was so obsessed, but she wasn't offering any insight and I dared not ask considering what I was holding back from her and hadn't bothered to come clean about yet. Half of it was that I didn't want her to kill me and the other half was that I was ashamed.

"I guess we're all a little emotionally strung out right now. One wrong word is all it seems to take to set somebody off."

"Cheetos!” Ryan pulled out a bag from his backpack.

"Insensitive bastard!” It was as if he'd read my mind.

"I was going to share, ya moody prick.” He changed the subject. “So, what was so important that you had to blow me off on the phone for last night?"

"Something came up.” He didn't seem satisfied with that. “An emergency."

"What? MTV show an old interview with the Go-Gos you couldn't miss?"

"No. I had to do ... you know...” I leaned in closer, and he leaned further back, wondering what I was going to say. “A number two."

"Why do I ask?” Ryan rolled his eyes. “Speaking of numbers,” he sighed, “what are your Top Five Singles this week so I don't have to read about them in the paper?"

"Well, Ryan...” I used the best announcer voice I could muster. “...I'm glad you asked. Coming in at number five this week is ‘You Came’ by the lovely Kim Wilde, moving up a notch into the number-four spot is Camouflage's ‘The Great Commandment,’ clinging to number three continues to be Transvision Vamp's ‘I Want Your Love,’ a surprise upset at number two is Pete Wylie's ‘Sinful’ and the new number-one song on our countdown is ‘We Are What We Are’ by our German friends The Other Ones."

"Transvision who?” Ryan didn't have a clue who any of them were.

"Vamp. Jerry, my friend from Hong Kong, introduced me to them."

"You have a friend in Hong Kong?” He stared at me. “Never mind. I have no freaking clue who these groups are, how you ever heard about them or if you're even making them up.” He changed the subject. “So, what did you think of Tristan's latest poem, ‘Orgasm Sixteen?’”

"I'm trying my best to forget about it.” The last thing I wanted was yet another reminder of what I'd done. Tristan couldn't skip reading that particular one, could he? Oh, no. He had to read it. He had to share it with the class. He had to get the entire experience, such as it was, completely back asswards.

"This one was definitely more comical than the others.” Ryan chuckled.

"I didn't notice."

"You didn't think it was funny how he described screwing that little number?” He flopped his hands around to demonstrate the mental picture he'd put together of the event. “How did he put it? The little grunts, the total submission and worship of his body, the chanting of his name, the begging for more...” Ryan sighed in total appreciation. “You could tell he really enjoyed it."

"Yes, it was very one-sided, and I feel confident saying I highly doubt there was ever any name-chanting going on.” Writers were supposed to write about what they knew, and the jackass wasn't even getting that right.

"Hell, even I was getting wood!"

"All right, that's information I didn't need to know.” I was embarrassed for the both of us now. “If you think he sounds so great, you go sleep with him.” Let him see what it was like not to breathe for ninety seconds.

"Yeah, that's about as likely as you sleeping with him.” Ryan looked away. “Personally, I think the guy is definitely weird, especially after all the stories I've heard about him."

"Stories?” I stammered. “What stories? There are stories?” There were stories?

"Just weird stuff, things that wouldn't interest you.” He saw that I really wanted to know. “I heard people talking about him last semester, but I didn't know exactly who he was until recently. Anyway, they said he's kind of a slut."

"A slut?” I peered at him. “Isn't it kind of strange to call another guy a slut?"

"What do you want me to call him? A gigolo?” Ryan stared at me. “There may be a lot of jiggling going on, but trust me, if he's anything even remotely close to how I heard him described then he's a slut."

"And you couldn't have mentioned this to me, oh, say,
sooner
?"

"Does it matter?” Something caught his attention. “Speak of the sphincter."

"Don't let me interrupt."

Tristan startled me and slid into the booth right next to Ryan. “I can sit here and start writing number twenty-one. The big question today, though, is whether I call it ‘Orgasm’ or ‘Climax.’”

Well, at least I no longer had to wonder if he'd caught the reference to himself in my vampire story.

"If you'd said that in class, I might've been amused.” Actually, if Tristan had said that to me in class, I might have just decked him. Then, too, after what Cathleen said about my story, anything anybody else could say would just kind of pale in comparison.

"Don't you want to know what I thought of it?” he baited me.

"And your cry-baby, whiny-ass artistic opinion would be?” Ryan jumped in. “Wait...” Something occurred to him at that moment, probably the very same thing that had occurred to me. “Didn't you just read ‘Orgasm Sixteen’ in class?"

"Yeah.” Tristan knew where this was going.

"And...” I followed Ryan's train of thought. “...didn't you say you had Twenty to read to us for the next class?” He nodded. “And didn't you just leave class, use the bathroom and come out here?” There had to be an explanation for this. It was going to be a strange explanation, but I was sure there was one.

"Yeah.” He grinned mischievously and reached down to adjust himself under the table.

Who the hell had been in there with him? Ryan and I hadn't been talking very long, so at least Tristan's timing was consistent. We looked back over at the bathroom, but there was no way we could be sure if whoever had been in there with him was still there or long gone. He couldn't have had some prearranged meeting, could he? People didn't do that sort of thing, did they? In a public bathroom? What the hell was next? Rest stops?

"I meant to ask you something the other night.” He looked at me. “What's your sign?"

"Do Not Enter,” I shot back. Ryan would have fallen out of his seat if he'd been able to, but Tristan was unimpressed.

"Oh, get over it!” He watched in dismay as I refused to give him the reaction he was looking for. “He who lives by the sword has a hell of a lot more fun than he who never bothers to take it out and use it."

"He who lives by the sword is simply shot by those who don't. Haven't you ever seen
Raiders of the Lost Ark
?” I glared at him. “Why are you here?"

"Why am I here? Come on, Andy,” Tristan cooed. “You know I'd go to the ends of the earth for you."

"Yes, but would you stay there?” The amused expression on his face faltered, and I knew I was starting to wear on his nerves. It was just a momentary twitch, but it was there and I now knew he could be flustered. It was a good feeling. “I don't like you, Tristan. At all."