How To Rape A Straight Guy (7 page)

Y’see, my mom...well, let’s face it -- she was a slut who’d do anything for a drink, though she’d never admit to that now.  She’s all married an’ respectable an’ born-again into the middle class with two daughters that’re honest kids, not fatherless bastards like me an’ my brother.  She really said that to me, once, leadin’ up to tellin’ me how I’m the bastard she didn’t want to have.  But since she lived in this dinky-assed town in Wyoming an’ the guy who usually did her abortions’d been slammed into jail an’ the nearest legal clinic was in fuckin’ Denver, I got born.  Considerin’ how I “turned out,” she felt it was too bad she couldn’t make it to Denver.

Y’know, we spent more’n six years in that stinkin’ hell-hole of a Wyoming town.  With my mom turnin’ tricks at the truck stop for money for booze.  An’ her mom makin’ sure I got fed an’ my diapers got changed an’ I got a hug, once in a while, an’ all that shit.  At least, till she keeled over from a heart attack that nobody -- not the paramedics or the E-R doctors -- believed was a heart attack till it killed her.  I was four.  By the time I hit six, I’d figured out how to fix my own cereal an’ rip off milk from other doorsteps an’ keep myself goin’ while mom slept off her drunks.

We didn’t move to LA till the state tried to take me away from her.  Fuckin’ bureaucrats an’ “Christian” folk didn’t give a shit about me till my grandmother was dead from takin’ care of me an’ my mom got preggers, again.  Then, by God, they wanted to make fuckin’ sure I was raised right.  Same for the kid my mom was carryin’.  Fuckin’ hypocrites.  They didn’t give a fuck about my mom gettin’ abortions till her usual guy cut too deep into some rich bitch’s scared little girl an’ she bled to death; then they ended the “illegal” practice everybody in town knew about.  Those “good Christian folk” who turned my mom in, they wouldn’t take me in or any kid like me.  No fuckin’ way.  That’d mean practicin’ what they preached, an’ that might be real inconvenient.  No, I was gonna get farmed out to some foster family who were more interested in the state stipend than in me, an’ if that didn’t work then I’d get dumped onto the state.  So me an’ mom, we split in th’ middle of the night with some trucker who just loved her mouth.

Jesus, over the next seven years we lived in every part of Southern California there was.  LA.  Oxnard.  Oceanside -- mom loved Marines for some fuckin’ reason; maybe my dad was one, once.  Riverside -- which stinks, an’ I mean really.  San Bernadino, Santa Clarita, Palmdale,  Ojai, you name it, I could probably give you an address there.  An’ she turned tricks the whole time.  Till she married this insurance salesman from Pasadena who “didn’t care about her past.”  By that point, I was thirteen goin’ on thirty, an’ nobody had say over me but me.  Still, things calmed down a lot.  For a while.  Till I realized he was a cheap-assed son-of-a-bitch who only took my brother an’ me in ‘cause we came with the package an’ he wasn’t gonna give either of us a fuckin’ penny more’n he had to.  An’ I got goin’ in the drug biz.  An’ wound up at county.

Anyhow, when I was eighteen, I got dumped out on the world.  I couldn’t go home if I’d wanted to.  My mom an’ her motherfucker told me there was no fuckin’ way they’d let me back in; I was too “out of control” and’d be a “bad influence on the other kids.”  An’ I had nobody else to hold onto.  All I had was a few bucks an’ the address for a halfway house in Silver Lake.  So I headed there.  Tello’s church was in Hollywood.  I figured he’d help me get a job an’ get my life goin’ right.

But he didn’t do shit.  Didn’t make one fuckin’ call.  Didn’t return calls when I gave him as a reference.  Got to where he was always “in a meetin’” when I tried t’ call him.  It’s like I didn’t exist, anymore.  For a while, I thought I’d done somethin’ t’ piss him off, but I couldn’t figure out what.  I mean, I was workin’ a regular job at a burger joint for slave wage.  I was stayin’ in the halfway house.  I’d stopped doin’ drugs, complete.  It didn’t’ make sense.  Then this kid named Mario who was in county before me explained it.

“Out of sight, out of mind,” he said.  I didn’t get it, at first, so Mario laid out the full 4-1-1.  “You ain’t around him, no more, vato.  He’s like this lifeguard that says he’ll save ya from drownin’ but when ya really need him, he’s on his lunch break an’ it’s your own damn fault for tryin’ to drown at that time.  He thinks he did all he had to do while you was inside.  Now it’s up to you to make it.  Even if you drown.”

God, I felt like a dumb fuck.

But I ain’t one, now.  I’m not “educated.”  My grammar sucks an’ my two-plus-two’s are about as basic as you can get.  But I ain’t stupid, not no more.  I know how to take stuff that I need an’ not get caught.  I know how to get what I can’t take without bein’ caught.  I can do whatever I got to do to keep myself goin’ an’ not worry ‘bout it till it’s done, if then.  I guess you’d call that bein’ an animal, but if you’re treated like a dog, that’s what you get to be.  Like a dog.

A dog.

Shit.  That reminds me of this cousin of my mom’s, lived in Montana.  Butte, maybe.  He was a mean-assed SOB who wouldn’t do jack for anybody, not even his own family.  An’ he had a dog.  A scared little mutt he treated like shit.  Kicked it.  Barely fed it.  Yelled at it.  I saw him do all that shit the one time I was there.  How old was I?  Five?  Maybe six.  Maybe just before we left.  Yeah, I think mom went to him for money an’ he whined about how broke he was or somethin’.  Had a brand new Ford truck, I noticed, but he still whined about not havin’ any money.  Asshole.

Anyway, I saw that dog gettin’ knocked around by one of his kids -- this nasty little fuck named George -- an’ it bit him.  I laughed when I saw it; I mean, the little fuck deserved it.  But when his asshole father found out what happened, he pulled out a pistol an’ shot the dog as it cowered in a corner.  Then after he dropped us off at the bus station the next mornin’, he went off to get another one.

I asked my mom why he’d be allowed to do that, an’ she snapped, “What the fuck do you care?  We got our own shit to worry about.”

I used to have nightmares about that dog.  Till I finally caught on to what my mom was talkin’ about an’ started actin’ on it.  Right about the time my mom decided she wanted to change her life.  Too late for that, for me, though.  But then I met Connie, an’ she’s the one who brought me back to humanity.  For a little while, anyway.

I met her at this rave downtown.  I was the promoter’s main connection for “X” -- ecstasy for those who ain’t payin’ attention -- an’ I was sellin’ off some extra tabs for a nice little profit in the mosh pit.  I never did that crap, myself; it was too much fun watchin’ all the neon glow sticks an’ pacifiers swirlin’ in the darkness.  Lots of slim sweaty boys an’ slick hot girls twistin’ ‘round an’ glidin’ into each other while some overpaid DJ dropped tunes.  That promoter was a cheap bastard; he never had live bands.  Besides, if I had gotten wasted it would’ve been way too easy to get into the rhythm of the night, an’ I’d probably have wound up givin’ the crap away to keep the joy goin’.  An’ I might’ve missed seein’ her.  Seein’ Connie standin’ stock still in the middle of all those fuckin’ gorgeous guys an’ girls.  No glow stick.  No pacifier.  Just a bottle of water an’ little smile on her face as she watched ‘em dance.  God, she looked hot.

I swung over to her, but she saw me comin’ an’ raised a finger at me.  “Not for me, buddy; I gotta work, tomorrow.”

“Wasn’t gonna offer,” I said -- even though I really was, as a way of gettin’ t’ talk with her.  “Just wanted to ask you to dance.”

She looked at me, real tight.  “You’re straight.”

“In every way.”

“I meant you’re not flying.”

“An’ I meant in every way.”

She looked me over an’ nodded.  I ain’t gonna be fake an’ modest, here; I knew I looked good.  I wasn’t as built up as I am now, but I was done up okay.  An’ I could see from her eyes she saw me as a one-nighter, someone over for a quickie.  Which was fine with me.

So we danced an’ did the bullshit thing.  She was workin’ on a cheap-assed indie flick in Venice, some soft-porn thing for the European video market.  I got the hint that she’d watched some of the shootin’ an’ got horny from it.  I told her I was open to doin’ somethin’ like that.  She told me the pay sucked.  I told her I was workin’ at bein’ a contractor, do roofin’ repair an’ shit.  Which was bull an’ she knew it, but she didn’t give a fuck.  She took me home to her place an’ we found out just how perfect we were for each other, that night.  Holy shit, did we find out.  She had to go to work with maybe two hours sleep, but she went purrin’, lemme tell ya.

I moved in with her two weeks later, an’ we got married two months after that.  An’ for three years, it was cool.  Shit, it was perfect.  She got herself out of the soft-porn crap an’ into some pretty damn good indie flicks.  “Things that’re being made by the mini-majors,” as she put it.  An’ me, I got into the paintin’ gig, doin’ houses an’ small buildin’s an’ workin’ on sets when Connie referred me.  An’ we fucked every night an’ loved it.  Loved it till I got busted for doin’ a buddy a favor.

Guy named Terrence, who asked me to cart a couple bags of coke to a friend of his.  I’d done it before, so I figured no big deal.  Only Terrence’d been busted an’ was workin’ the cops to cut down on his time inside, an’ he was turnin’ over anybody an’ everybody he’d ever worked with, me included.  So I got grabbed with two kilos of coke in my backpack an’ was handed a sentence of eight to twenty for possession with intent to distribute.  The asshole.  I made sure word got into his mini-security facility that he was a skunk.  I hear his time inside was made wonderful by those who could do it to him, anytime.

Shit, fuckin’ Terrence.  There’s another asswipe I’d like to take care of.  Not like I was gonna do with this bet; that fuck was too fuckin’ skanky for me to even think about it.

An’ don’t start thinkin’ I’m a racist.  Me not wantin’ to fuck Terrence’s got nothin’ to do with his color; it’s got to do with the fact that he’s an ugly fuck an’ had some kind of prejudice against bathin’ more’n once a year.  I don’t care what race a guy is, so long as he looks decent an’ keeps himself clean.  An’ such.

I mean, I once wondered what it’d be like to do my thing with a famous black actor, you’d know him I said his name, if he wound up inside.  He looked like he’d be fun an’ frisky.  Not that I’d even really thought of tryin’ t’ connect with him on the outside -- I’m not queer for man-sex, don’t y’know -- but he’s one of the few black guys I’ve seen who’s not just black, if that makes sense.  I mean, he’s just a guy, y’know?  A good-lookin’ guy, an’ I’m comfortable ‘round them for some weird reason.  Good-lookin’ girls I just wanna fuck.  Good-lookin’ guys, I wanna be pals.  Wanna be buds.  Tight buds, y’know?

Even fuckin’ Anthony, as much as I hate the fucker, I -- shit, I gotta admit, I did want to be buds with him.  He wasn’t the Big Man On Campus; the football quarterback always got that job ‘cause, for some weird reason every one of ‘em looked like they should’ve been on a box of “Wheaties.”  But Anthony, as uptight an’ “proper” as he was, he played ball like it oughta be played -- easy an’ natural, like he was destined for the majors.  He actually made it to the big leagues for a few years, till he ruined his knee slidin’ into home, one game.  I think that’s why I let him con me into givin’ him that joint -- for a buck, which didn’t even cover its cost; that an’ I sort of wanted to see just how loose he’d get once he got stoned.

Y’see, he reminded me of pictures I saw of the guy mom said was my old man.  Some hippie or yippie or whatever they were called at that time, passin’ through Wyomin’ on his way to Seattle.  In a VW Microbus that wouldn’t go more’n sixty downhill.  He picked my mom up in Cheyenne an’ she rode with him up to Sheridan -- that was mom’s moneymaker route -- an’ somewhere along in there I got started.  “For free,” she said, “‘cause he looked like Jesus.”  An’ he did.  It’s weird.  She took some Polaroids of him by a creek in the middle of nowhere an’ he seemed to glow in ‘em.  Long brown hair.  Deep sleepy eyes...he was probably stoned.  Golden skin.  An expression of peace an’ happiness...no, he was definitely stoned.  Even with somethin’ of a beard, you could tell he had a strong chin an’ good nose -- like mine.  An’ he had a perfect mouth.  A man’s mouth; I got more my mom’s lips.  He was wearin’ this Indian-lookin’ pullover that was so light, you could almost see through it, an’ that with tight low-cut jeans, you could tell he was in good shape.  I got some good genes off him.  Wonder what ever happened to him, ‘cause she never saw him, again.  Never heard from him.  Nothin’.  He probably don’t even know he’s got me as a son.  Lucky fuck.  Who’d want t’ be related to a guy who’s dumb-fuck enough to get sent to jail by some tight-assed dumbfuck he’s tryin’ t’ be friends with for buck’s worth of pot?

Shit, where was I?  Walkin’ down Santa Monica.  Smilin’ at the faggots who looked me over an’ whistled an’ made their faggoty little comments an’ shit.  An’ the whole way I’m thinkin’, “Dream about it, cocksuckers.  I don’t need you, right now.  I’m in control, asswipes.  I’m king of the fuckin’ world.”

I didn’t realize it, then, but lookin’ back I can see that’s when I first got this hint of an idea of what it was I really needed.  Control.  Power.  No matter what you call it, makin’ another guy do what you want him to do when he’d never want to do it on his own -- that’s the best feelin’ in the world as regards bein’ the man.  I felt it with my first punk, when somethin’ behind my heart started racin’.  Somethin’ deep inside me that said, “Fuck drugs, fuck booze, fuck worries forever.  Right now, you are the master.  You are in control.  You are the man, an’ you ain’t nobody who can get pissed on.”  An’ here I was about to get it, again.

I dunno if I can really get across the feelin’s I caught hold of as I walked down that street.  The tingle of my jeans an’ shirt not...not rubbin’ but whisperin’ against my thighs an’ pecs an’ tits an’ ass, makin’ me feel like I could cum without a thought.  The cool night air movin’ round my face.  The breezes whipped up as busses an’ cars zipped past me in the opposite direction.  The sounds of silence over long stretches of the street, where the cars an’ trucks an’ busses were stopped at one corner or another.  It all added to the moment.  I was startin’ to feel...I dunno, light headed, I guess.