AARRGGHH! etc

[Nothing here is to be taken other than as amusement, punch lines and all. No squawking about the end of the first one, puh-lese! – it’s just sometimes sassy, entirely fictitious fun, like the others.]

AARRGGHH...! NOT!...

“Hey! Pablo, wait up.”

“Wait for what? Why you running? It’s not raining.”

“Don’t go in there,” I caught up with him.

“Huh? Why not? I was invited to a party.”

“I’ll bet. Thought you might have been when I spotted you heading that way.”

“So? I’m prepared. Got condoms and lube in this pocket, a vial of poppers in the other, some regulation cuffs in my back pocket. And I’m horned up.”

“Listen, my friend. That’s not a place for you.”

“Why’s that, exactly? You jealous?”

“No. I was there last week.”

“You antsy about not being invited back?”

“Hell no. You couldn’t pay me enough.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Stand close. I got to whisper this.”

“Okay, but don’t get any ideas.”

I gave him a shake. “Listen to me.” I confided, “They’re perverts.”

“PERVERTS?”

“Hush, you fool. You don’t want to be hurling accusations like that around. Could get in big trouble. They might sue your ass for slander or something.”

“My ass?” He tried to look back at it. “Tell me. Quit beating about the bush.”

I whispered, “They..are…I hate to say it…oh god…het-ero-sex-uals.”

Pablo almost lost it. I could tell – the way he exhaled the word, “No!” Total disbelief.

“Yes. They serve you layer cake and vanilla ice cream, talk about weather predictions they listen to on the radio, actually ask how-are-you and what-have-you-been-doing and care about that shit. They think you want to hear what cartoons they prefer, how they give their outdated clothes to Goodwill Industries (washed first, of course), which Reader’s Digest jokes they like, and brag about how sweet their girlfriends are.”

“Girlfriends – for real?”

He looked peaked. “They don’t want a look at my Puerto Rican pene, my cajones or my culo?”

“Furthest things from their sick – like, abnormal – minds.”

“Wait a minute. I don’t believe you. You mean, they don’t want to suck or fuck me…me, Pablo Sanchez, the hottest puto in the market?”

“I do.”

Pablo’s shoulders slumped. “It’s a sad day. Queers like that are taking over the world.” His sigh was so sad, “What can we do?”

“Go back to my place. I’ve got weed, beer, hard stuff if you want it, some amazing dildos, strong rope, and a new whipping stool.”

“Now you’re talking right – for a guy as old as you are.”

“I’m thirty.”

“That’s what I mean, really old. But I’m okay with it if you cross my palm with a couple of Andy Jacksons. I’m in business.”

“Licensed?”

“Not yet. I’m thirteen.”

“No!”

“Okay, twelve-and-a-half.”

“Deal.”

* * *

I remember lucas 

First mention of him to come my way was that he “poked his nose in everybody’s business like a dog sniffing a fire hydrant.” Second mention came from someone else who claimed Lucas was “as funny as lice in your britches at a Christmas party.”

Naturally, I wanted to meet this Lucas.

When I succeeded, and managed to corral him into my place, I was struck by his power of observation.

“You’re the only guy,” he said, “I know with real shag carpet on the floor, and it’s not even frayed.”

That I was after sex he divined. “Do you know what thirty-four-and-a-half is?”

To my blank look, he answered, “Half of sixty-nine. You gotta blow me.”

Hard to follow his thinking. I took a different tactic. Asked, “Is it true that people say you get so horny that you’d fuck a bush with a snake in it?”

“Well, not ’less I bit its head off first.”

“Lucas, you’re what people used to call ‘a trip.’ Tell me, would you be cognizant of the snake’s pain?”

“If I chomped, he wouldn’t wiggle long – so, nope.”

“Do you think its death agony would be like cumming in sex?

Nostrils flaring, he waxed philosophical. “That would be my kind of catharsis – purification through the pain of high-powered sex. Say, a love tap to your nuts when you’re cumming from my dick driving you crazy. Or when I spit in your eyes and wipe my hand down your face.”

“Hey, that’s personal.”

“Damn right, and when I’ve done both of them to you, you’ll know your place.”

He tipped me over, jerked off my clothes, pinned me down and, exercising his privileges as guest, took stock of my entry point. “Nice!”

With strength I didn’t think he had, he picked me up and flopped me into my old Granny’s rocker. Legs draped over its armrests, I was open to attack.

Lesson one: Lucas could not be predicted. He didn’t spit on his dick and plow me. No. Instead, his eyes lit delightedly on her nearby walking cane and his smile turned to a sneer. “Look at that handle’s curve! I know just the place to put it.”

“Why would you want to do that?”

“You gotta embrace pain to understand. With this up you and me inflicting what you want – since you want to know enchantment of agony – you’re bound to get the point. When this is where it’s going to be, you’ll enjoy it because it’s shameful for a guy like you to want his ass plundered and,” he added thoughtfully, “and thus pampered.”

“Well, as long as you remember to wipe it off when you’re done.”

With my personal spit for lube, he crammed in the handle and used the cane’s stick part to leverage its curve against my inner spot. You know the one. Starts with a P.

During my paroxysms, he did more than tap my nuts – he used the back of a hand to smack them from underneath. And – Lesson two – aimed his own spit directly into my eyes. Got them both then, holding my balls, used his other hand to wipe my face over and over, smearing spit down and around while I flashed in and out of this and the other world.

 I didn’t know about the Polaroids. One, left on the floor, did not amuse Granny. Initially furious, she burst out, “My cane’s not a sex toy!” Then softened, “Well, maybe. You can keep this one, but you have to buy me another.”

* * *

Satisfaction

I can be satisfied with less than love. Sex, for example, is a good substitute. Let me reminisce.

When that brusque brute, Cord Curly, lived around the corner, he used to come by after I got home from school. Told Ma he’d take me out for some exercise.

She always said, “You do that, sweetie. Otherwise, he’ll just do his homework.”

To me, she’d wag her finger, “Don’t get those clothes sweaty or dirty. I’m out of detergent.”

Which is why, soon as we were in the garage behind his house, I was naked and being chided for having a small-hung packet. Didn’t embarrass me because he always did that before showing off.

For me, Cord liked to strip. I’d whistle at his muscled shoulders and pecs, narrow waist, hairy bowling-ball butt, and, particularly, at what stood out in front.

He’d push me to my knees and lead my cheek to the long lump constricted to a clump by the strap he sported. He’d press me there. Hold me while lump became slab. From the first time he poked my other cheek with one of his blunt fingers, I’d learned that meant to open and to chew – really, nibble – on what was in the meshy fabric. A thrust or two against my face told me to move in a steady rhythm on the elongating dick and tightening ballsac.

My chin, he liked my chin nudging there. Didn’t say so. But, I knew. My head-back position let me see Cord’s eyes narrow to mere slits. Sure scintillated me! I’d pop what he called my ‘bonerette.’ A hard one. So hard, it quivered with hope for a sign of love.

Fat chance.

“Pull down the strap.”

Early on, I learned to dodge out of the whopping thing’s way – me, usually down between his legs – whereupon my head’d get ‘tea-bagged’ while he snorted. Of course then, he’d see my fanny and go for it.

Back then, while he could get his rocks off from elementary mouth-action, the other end of me would barely accept one of his bluntnesses…even with my spit and some of his on it. He called where he poked my ‘bunghole’ and promised that one day he’d love to get his thing ‘in there.’

Love, he’d used the word itself!

I extrapolated from that to build my case of heartthrobbery on the splindly legs of hope. Lot of good that did me. By my freshman year in high school, I could take three and his big thing (not at the same time) and have to put up with him complaining, “It’s slushy in here.”

“But you love it, don’t you, Cord? You made it that way.”

Can you believe, the SOB’s job transferred him to Tuscaloosa! I was adrift. Not an idea where to turn for love. Met a swinging senior named Dixie who was our football team’s slut and about to go to college. Luckiest day of my life.

Dubbed the team’s ‘Loverboy’ with an official school sweater to prove it and praised by the cheerleaders because they aren’t getting pregnant, I am today totally satisfied.

For the full background on swinging senior Dixie, have crotch-fun reading Impertinences.