Faggots (17 page)

“Will you shut up and finish sucking me off,” someone else ordered. “I’ve almost come twice and you stop to hold a geography lesson.”

Winnie, who had just concluded a deal with The Gnome for a gram and a half of Best Angel Dust, sampled, purchased, delivered on the spot, was doubly pleased when he saw Troy come back into the living room, fully clothed and alone.

“Where’s the beauty?” Winnie asked him.

“I think he fell asleep.”

“How was he?”

“I was his first. I feel one hundred and five. I didn’t even come.”

“You were his first?” Winnie felt hugely despondent. How could he have missed out so outrageously?

“He’s beautiful. So are you. Go take a look.” Troy caressed Winnie’s cheek as he thought to himself: Poor baby; about to be unemployed; I’m glad I arranged a shoot in Tokyo so I don’t have to tell you, and said: “See you in the factory.”

Winnie watched Troy leave. They’d been friends for years. Then he went into the bedroom to look for the kid.

Timmy was definitely not asleep. He was being devoured by ten men. Two held his hands and played with his fingers, while another sucked his toes. One, of course, was sucking his front thing while another, of course, had a finger up his back thing. Another naturally played with his young marbles and one more sucked each of his titlets, one after the other, then back again, and the soft adolescent nipples for their first time puckered slightly into older ways. Another man had his fingers in both of Timmy’s ears. Another, soon several others, massaged his stomach, touched his teen-aged skin, touched him all over, wherever prior prospectors had not staked their claims. Timmy was being worshipped like a god. If this was New York, then he wished to live enthroned here forever.

“Suck it, man, suck that chicken cock,” someone exhorted.

Timmy wished they wouldn’t talk so much.

“Suck it, suckerooooo…”

Timmy winced. “Be quiet, please,” he requested.

And they were quiet. But active. In a few moments he felt the returning tinglings in his solar plexus, the beginnings of his river’s rush upstream from its source to its dispatch. He felt it moving, slowly, warmly, exceedingly pleasurably, and he lay back, back into all the flesh and arms and sheet and warmth and desire and strength he could feel support him, as this pleasure took over and left him to visit another receptacle, a licking tongue in a warm mouth, which was slurping away like a kid in an ice-cream parlor.

Timmy wished the slurper wouldn’t slurp so much. The orgasm was over, he realized, when the slurping began to bother him. Then he opened his eyes and looked up at someone standing over him.

It was the Winston Man. He knew he was the Winston Man. The whole world knew the Winston Man. He had masturbated over the Winston Man, taking his father’s American Legionnaire magazine into the bathroom and jerking off with the faucet running, wondering how one ever became as handsome as the Winston Man, wondering down deep if it would ever be possible to meet someone so perfectly handsome, so perfectly perfect, and perfectly the perfection of one’s dreams. Yes, seeing him there, Timmy winced. He winced at first because he thought he might be hallucinating from the drugs. He winced at second because he was suddenly frightened to have yet another dream metamorphose into reality—too many dreams were coming true too quickly today in New York, things he hadn’t even known he was dreaming about. And be winced at third because he didn’t know what to say. Whatever he said to such Perfected Beauty he felt would be insufficient.

The Winston Man spoke first: “Hi. My name is Winnie.”

“I…I know.”

“Now how do you know. We’re just meeting for the first time.”

“You…you’re the Winston Man.”

“That’s right. That’s why I’m called Winnie. And who are you?”

“Tim. Tim Purvis.”

“Hello, Tim Purvis. Would you like to come home with me?”

Winnie helped Timmy find his clothes, scattered to the four corners of the room, and helped him dress, pushing away other hands which, Laocoön-like, wished to impede. All was silence. Even slurpings had stopped. Winnie felt the silence and felt the eyes upon him and young Tim. Something in the room was ending, phase one of the evening perhaps, and with the departure of Adonis, Junior and Senior, something would be drained away, some of the energy, some of that ideal physical fuel necessary to heat the rest of the night. Winnie felt this tangible atmosphere and knew that he and Timmy were responsible for it. Still no one spoke.

Instead, two arms reached up and pulled Winnie down, backward, and pinned him to the bed. Since these arms belonged to Vladek, the Hungarian hustler, thick, hairy, and overbeefed in bicep and wrist, Winnie could not resist. Another two arms began to unbutton his shirt, another set to extricate him from his trousers. Others attended to Timmy, like handmaidens to the Princess in some movie about ancient Egypt, pulling him down and back, removing his raiment. Soon the two naked beauties were side by side on center stage, the edges of the wide expanse of king-sized bed now packed with spectators, each watching the animal of his choice, as if two cocks were pitted in the arena, which, in truth, they were. Winnie and Timmy, mesmerized by the moment, by their naked exposure, by the sheer exultant glory and joy of being so visibly, forcefully worshipped by forty pairs of eyes, now growing to fifty, sixty, seventy, as the word spread round the apartment: “the hot stuff’s in the master bedroom,” “which one’s the Master’s bedroom?,” and other rooms evacuated swiftly, as naked bodies, eighty flavors of manpower, fought to witness beauty meet perfection meet beauty, these naked witnesses now coalesced into one huge grabbing organism, with undulations of its own, as a group and not as individuals, all swaying, holding, watching, breathing, wishing, empathizing, true Stanislavskians all, as Winnie held Timmy close to him, and Timmy surrendered to the cherished bondage, and they kissed as two long planes of flesh layered together like some delectable French pastry, then began to twine and intertwine, into cruller or Danish, receiving pleasure from each other’s movements, from the touchings each to each, each growing hard, Timmy still too young to know that this, his third time coming within one hour, would be a record many of them, try as they might, could not emulate, Timmy learning how to experiment with his tongue and fingers, learning how to duplicate the movements perpetrated upon him by Winnie’s tongue and fingers, Timmy, being Crisco-ed anally by a strange hand reaching from ringside, Timmy, on his back, receiving, from Winnie, for the first time a man’s cock up his ass, so this is how they do it!, his own legs grabbing round that famous narrow waist, wanting to cry out in pain, the virgin on her wedding night, her hymen pierced, he thought of that, of reading
23 Ways to a Sexually Fulfilling Marriage
in a plain brown wrapper, hidden in an old suitcase under his parent’s bed, expecting pain, trying to ward it off by thinking of the widest hole he could think of, like the La Brea Tar Pits, and emulate that, but no, there is no pain, for Winnie’s deep inside of him, up, he thinks, to just beneath his heart, he feels his heart massaged, he feels the love within it, imprisoned within it all his lifetime up till now, begin to explode out, start to ooze toward Winnie, like a life handed over, take my life, Winston Man, take all of me because you are the most beautiful human being I have ever known and felt and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, just like this—“Fuck him, fuck him…,” there they go again, soft chantings from the witnesses, “Fuck his tight young pussy…” Shut up, Timmy tries to call out, if he could only speak, don’t ruin it all with those ugly words…“Fuck him, fuck him…” and Winnie fucks this virgin chicken, excited in a way that he has not been since little Sammy Rosen at Hill School in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, and getting pleasure from a fuck, no boots, not even a Jewish boy, no extra paraphernalia necessary, though he wished the lad were circumcised, well, perhaps this was nice for a change, the beginning of a new era, feeling his own love grow as he comes closer and closer, no, hold it back, make this time last, uncircumcised only requires extra cleanliness, extra attention to smegma, hold it back, hold it back, make it last, wanting to cry out: I love you, you little fucker, but not doing so, never say “love”—what is happening to me?, it must be the audience, it must be the angel dust, why am I turned on so?, Jesus God it never has felt like this, his little ass is squirming for more, wriggling about wanting me to fuck it, look, no don’t look, at the drops of blood on Garfield’s Bill Blass sheets, Christ he really is a virgin, “oh my Christ I’m going to come!” and damn it, come he does, and, would you believe it, at precisely this same moment, always a good omen, Tim shoots his own small load, up and into the air to stick to Winnie’s stomach like squirt against the ceiling, and Winnie falls on top of Tim and the two adhere together, clutching to each other, holding tight to prolong the moment, unconscious, oblivious to the fact that around them eighty, no maybe only sixty-five, other orgasms have been reached with such intensity that this night, Garfield will be proud to remember, will go down in history, and he will go down as the Perle Mesta of the Orgy Belt, where is that flicking Blaze!, he hopes that ditz has seen it all, there he is, pierced against the wall by a gigantic black cock like some invoice impaled on a white man’s desk, yes, Blaze is here, Garfield’s future is assured.

Winnie’s eyes opened and looked down at Timmy’s, looking up at him.

The Winston Man spoke first: “I think I’m falling in love with you.”

And Timmy answered: “I love you, too.”

And they held each other tightly, and each began, unseen by other, to cry. If this was love, this was wonderful, and the moment must last forever, and each tried to memorize the feeling and what their senses were doing, so that, forever, they would be able to remember, to summon up at will. They held on to each other, neither knowing how to get the hell out of here before it’s too late, not knowing that it is now about to be too late.

Against the wall, Blaze Sorority is being fucked in a standing position by nine and a half inches long and two and a half inches wide. Gone are thoughts of mortgages and loans and trusts and immigrants’ savings, even
Avocados
and role models. All he knows is that heaven is near, with the thump thump thump of two hundred and fifty pounds of solid black flesh against his own frail back as that elephantiasis of a cock goes in and out of him doing untold pleasurable damage to his intestines and rectal area but caring not one whit. Blaze is about to enter the Kingdom of Heaven. “Shit, shit,
Sheeetttt
…jam that nigger stick into my pussy muff here I cooooommmmmeeeeee!!!!” and, at the same time, the nigger stick’s owner, one Jefferson Monroe, an assistant dean of urban affairs at State University at New Paltz and just down in the city for the evening, starts ramming his nigh-unto-dangerous instrument up, up, awkwardly up, so that Blaze’s feet are off the ground, and not only is Jefferson shooting into Blaze at the rate of 2000 cc’s per minisecond, but Blaze is depositing come all over Garfield’s maroon-and-green, sheep-patterned, raised flock wallpaper, forty-seven dollars a roll at Schumacher’s and through decorators only, and not washable, and, while Jefferson is yelling “…you done take our cotton fields
away!,”
and pushing Blaze even further off the floor and into the air, so that now he is screaming “Put me down before you split my asshole, you asshole!,” Garfield Toye, the genial host, the calm Gwen Cafritz, is running naked into the room with his roll of Charmin towels, hoping to rub Blaze off the flock wallpaper before it’s too late, before several thousand dollars in now dipped sheep can be kissed good-bye, Garfield whimpering loudly, forget fame, legend, and history: “You fucking mess, you dribbling cock-fucking idiot, you have destroyed my home!” and Blaze yelling back, still up in the air, when
will
Jefferson’s thing detumesce?: “Don’t be such a prissy housewife, you Central Park queen!,” and someone is yelling: “Cool it, Garfield, you can’t have an orgy without some muss…” and Garfield is scrubbing and rubbing and the flock is now flecked with loosened dots of green and maroon and bits of Blaze and no longer are sheep safely grazing in this particular area, and Blaze, now being gently lowered to the ground as Jefferson’s forklift finally descends to the main floor, purrs “easy does it, baby, that feels niiiiiceee” and he turns around and he and Jefferson embrace, and, for an instant, Jefferson’s fire hose of a penis flops in the air, scattering various droplets of their mutual efforts, and at this second, Timothy Peter Purvis, late of Mt. Rainier, Maryland, bolts up from the bed and rushes to the nearest bathroom to be sick. He jumps up from the bed so quickly that Winnie can’t catch him or realize what’s up, and he rushes into the bathroom and shuts the door behind him and vomits as if his life depended on voiding everything within him at this particular accumulation of his life.

What he does not notice is that in the king-sized American Standard bathtub, installed by Garfield at great expense and for just such use as this, four figures are intertwined, two black, two white, arms and legs and erect cocks all jutting at differing angles like some corporate symbol for IT&T or the medical profession, black flesh swirling with white and blended into something Duncan Hines might call Marble Bundt.

Morry van Gelding, only three years ago all-American linebacker for Baylor, stepped out of this emanation, his enormous black being all concerned for the young boy retching out his guts. “Here, let me hold you, baby. What have you gone and ingested that makes you spit up so?” And he held Timmy from behind, his arms around the boy’s stomach so that he could lean forward and spit up more directly. Soon nothing more came out and Timmy collapsed into Morry’s arms, just allowing himself to be held and trying hard not to think of anything, particularly not to think of Morry’s semihard cock, so awfully big. Timmy just closed his eyes.

“Hubie,” Morry said to his buddy in the bathtub, “we’ve got to do something for this lad.”