he last gasp of sunlight slanted in angles through the boards that kept the dilapidated roof from collapsing right on top of the shabby little squatter’s house on the corner of Somerset and A in the Philly’s so-called Badlands.
In the only somewhat livable space in the entire place, the kitchen, three candles flickered around a smorgasbord of food that was today’s garbage: a half-eaten tuna sandwich picked out of a trash can on Kensington Avenue by Brian LaBovick and five double cheeseburgers fished out after an hour of sorting through bags of scraps by Brenda Hall from the McDonalds on the corner of Lehigh Avenue and Second Street. Her hair sported little pieces of chewed up garbage, undoubtedly from her nose dive through the abyss that is a McDonalds dumpster.
“You hit gold today, bren, gold. I tell you you should spend more time in the dumpster and less time trolling the streets for that less hearty meal that gets you five bucks.”
“Funny, sweetie, cause I could swear on my mother’s grave there ain’t any complaints when it puts a little something in that little thing you like to suck on,” she said, grinning.
“I have a plan, honey. I think it will clear up a lot of the problems.”
The two met right in front of the house as Brian watched his friend being whisked off in a Police Bronco a year ago. He didn’t know what they caught him doing and he really didn’t care. What he did care about was the $50 of rocks his friend was supposed to buy while he completed his morning ritual of heating up a spoon full of that tasty, brown liquid that got him through the day.
Brian hunched over while sitting on a piece of cobblestone staring down the street at a steel bridge and nodding out. The cobblestone had long outlived its meaning. It was a total anachronism for the neighborhood where Burrito trucks and the occasional smell of decomposing bodies wrapped in carpets and thrown into empty lots were the norm. The section of the city had seen better times, like Brian.
Once a successful stock broker, his life took a nosedive along with his shares of Arthur Anderson. Then he got sick, lymphoma. He beat it but not before he caught his wife beating off another man in his bed when he came back from his weekly shot of Procrit. Yes, you could say he had seen hard times, but that was nothing compared to the unrelenting cycle of hell he found himself in as days passed without meaning for the most part and his only thought revolved around his next fix.
On the day they met, Brenda sat down next to him and asked “why so glum, you’re mission fail?” he just looked at her and said “You know, you’re really pretty. Let’s make out.” It wasn’t the best pick-up line, but those are the ones that work sometimes—straightforward ones. And they made out. Then they went back to her place, the shabby little squatter’s den that he was sitting in front of, the one he would come to know so well.
“So what’s the plan.”
“Well, we steal a car and ride up to Eighth and Percy. You know, where they sell wet.”
“What the fuck do you want wet for?”
“I don’t. But, I found this funny money today and it looks really real so we could just put a five on top of it ask for two bundles and then high tail it down to Allegheny and then zig zag so they can’t catch us.”
“Again what are you going to do with two bundles? We don’t even have a fridge to store it in. It goes bad if it ain’t kept cold.”
“We sell it. We could get like $500 for it from some 17-year-old suburban type, ya know.”
“No, I don’t. It sounds dangerous. They’d shoot us. And we’re doing just fine.”
“They won’t shoot us. Don’t you want to get out of here. We could go somewhere. California. Boston. Seattle. Anywhere.”
“You’d shoot the money and you know it. And I’d smoke it.”
“We could leave, we could leave this behind.”
“Sweetie we both know it’s not going to happen, money or no money.”
Before Brian had met Brenda and after his life went to the ninth stage of hell, he slept under bridges and in alleys. He’d found an empty trailer that was used for some construction project that never happened and used it as his toilet. The trailer sat in an empty lot, unprotected from the searing heat of the sun in summer. Most of the row houses along this section of Clearfield Street near A Street had boarded up windows and doors. An old slaughterhouse stood in all its former majesty two blocks away from the trailer. That’s the thing about Kensington, much like parts of West Philly, you can find traces of a much richer past when the streets were freshly paved and children played half-ball against the buildings. That time is gone.
The smell of the daily bowel movements finally caused Brian to seek grayer concrete above Cambria Street. That and the fact that he smashed open the head of a drug dealer on the corner of A Street in an ambush at four o’clock in the morning while the dealer was taking a leak in an alley. He should’ve killed him because now they were itching to replace the glass dick in Brian’s mouth with a Glock.
He never told Brenda what he did and this little plan Brian hatched up was the first intimation Brenda had that Brian could be something other than sweet—that he could be brutal. She thought he was just throwing ideas out there at first, but everyday for the next two weeks he would go over at least once a day how they would do it. He even made her take a walk down to Percy Street to finalize their getaway plan. It was then that she realized this was more than some half-assed scheme he read about in some fake brochure called “Welcome To fantasyland.” Because, to her, that’s exactly what this was, a fantasy, and a very deadly one at that.
“We can’t do this Brian. We can’t. We’ll get fucking killed. I heard all those corners over there have snipers and RPGs and sentries with cellphones that monitor police movements and shit.”
“That’s all hokie. Nah. They’re not a fucking military; they’re scumbag drug dealers. They’ll get what they deserve.”
“Please, sweetie. For me. For me. Don’t do this. We can’t.”
The rain from the summer storm turned from a drip from the rooftop to a full on waterfall. If you looked around the place, since the sun escaped from the black clouds, you could see little rainbows popping up in corners and crevices and the way the water fell in several different areas and the movement of the light transformed a place that was almost unbearable to something resembling a weird piece of art: abstract and ugly but with just enough coloring and beauty as to make it almost pretty. Almost.
“Is this what you want? A house with a million holes. A roof that doesn’t work. Candles? Smelly clothes. And that glance people always give us when we walk by—the one filled with that volatile mixture of contempt and pity. I can’t take it. Don’t you want to leave?”
“Leave? You think I enjoy sucking off skeevy old men and perverts? You think that makes me fucking happy? To be a fucking whore? You’ve known me for a year, what the fuck do you think? But do I want to die in a gutter on the corner of Eighth and Percy? No.”
“It’ll be fine. Fine, I tell you.”
“Please, I love you. We can’t do this. We can’t”
That was the first time he heard her say that. He didn’t even know that she was capable and it was a phrase he hadn’t heard in a very long time. It’s funny how life works out by not working out.
“I love you, too. I love you too. And that’s why we have to do this. It’s now or never.”
When Brenda awoke next morning on a rug they found in a dumpster, dead body not included, she was a hugging a pillow that Brian had placed next to her as he creeped out of bed. If couldn’t hold him, she’d wake up.
She knew he was up to no good. She threw a half-full bottle of Mountain Dew across the room and cried. She was still young. Her mousy brown hair, even though it hadn’t been washed in a week, climbed down her back sticking to her like a child to his mother—it had a dirty pretty quality about it. A punk rock quality.
And that’s what she was and that’s how she ended up here. She ran away from home in Newtown at the age of 17 with her musician boyfriend. They wanted to be free and he wanted to rock out but have the thrill of telling people he used to be a vagrant when he finally hit it big. The problem was they started using. First a little bit of blow. Then a little bit of dope. Then a lot of rocks when the blow didn’t work anymore and finally even more dope to make that shitty crack hangover go away. She had been a little overweight, but the stemfast diet helped her shed that extra bit of weight on her hips.
But the boyfriend left and went back to his parents. Her parents would no longer have her until she repented to God and went to church every Sunday and that was something she didn’t like doing. She became stuck like a 17-year-old single mother. But she didn’t even have someone who loved her; she only had dope. Until Brian that is. She didn’t even care about living before him. Of course, neither did Brian. Nothing brings two people together like misery. They constantly talked about kicking the habit. But it was always tomorrow. But that day was now today.
Brian pulled up in a beat up old Buick. He looked like the kid who discovered he just got what he wanted for Christmas after peeking through the secret spot moms always hide the presents.
For Brenda, this was no present but a one way ticket to death, not California.
“Please. Let’s just leave then. No robbery. Please. I love you”
She couldn’t stop saying those words once she let them escape from her lips. And she meant it. It wasn’t one of those tricks a person says to a lover to get them to do something only to regret they said it in the morning when the person actually loves back; it was real.
“I’ll just go myself.”
“Please.”
“I’ll be back, I promise.”
He sped off and Brenda collapsed on the cobblestone curb, sobbing. Then crying. Then full on bawling. Her thoughts raced. She though about how when he handed the money and swatted the bundles out of their hands. She though about how some sniper on a rooftop would aim his crosshairs right on his forehead and splatter his brains all over the Buick with one quick shot. Or worse, they could pull him out and beat him and torture him before slitting his throat. Maybe they’d just pop in the head right there and roll his body into a carpet and deposit right in front of their dilapidated squatter’s house in some sick display of revenge. Though that seemed far fetched since they couldn’t know where he lived since he lived nowhere.
She already felt like a widow and she wasn’t even married. Her despair turned quickly to anger and then back again. Funny thing about love is how it’s endless forgiveness and how it has a way of consuming you—especially when you think that person is gone, forever.
Hours passed and she didn’t move. He’s dead, she thought. And how would she even know? She didn’t own a TV—hell, she didn’t have electricity. That amenity was a mere illusion from time past. From a life where she wasn’t sitting on a curb wondering if the man she just professed her love to was lying face down in a gutter full of blood.
“Hey, there cutie,” Brian whispered as he tapped her on the shoulder, flashing $500.
“You fucking asshole. You fucking asshole. How could you do it. They’ll be after us. They’ll find us. This is life not some fucking action movie for 15-year-old pubescent boys.”
“What you talking bout, mama?”
“And you’re so fucking glib after you just did—that.”
“I didn’t do it. I pulled up. Took the money out. Scouted them. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about the picture of you, alone—that and my dead body rolled up in some rug.”
“Then how?” she pointed to the money.
“I sold them the car instead and then told them a joke about how I really came to rob them. The got a fuckin' kick out that one.”
“So where to and when’d you start thinking of this anyhoo?”
“We can go anywhere that’s not here. We’ll just spin a bottle on a map and hop on a Greyhound. Start our lives together. Oh, and I started thinking about it when I that one board fell off the roof and hit you on the head. That and the looks from people. And those fucking candles. I guess, you could say this: It was an accumulation of things,” Brian said.
Sunday, December 5, 2010
Only in Philly
The computer, its screen dusty like it hadn’t been cleaned, well, ever, was open to a post on Craigslist. Nick spent days on the Web site at times. He’d browse through the pages, read the posts, go back to another, and then hit the reply hyperlink at the top. When it opened and he was set to respond, he’d jus sit there in front of a blank e-mail and then he’d X out of it without writing a thing, without sending the message he so desperately wanted to send.
During the day, he worked at a local diner and served food to angry old men. Sometimes he’d work the bar and schlep drinks to people who probably would be better off at an AA meeting—noon is no time to down four martinis on a Monday, unless you’re on vacation. And these people were on a vacation alright, a vacation from being alive. So was Nick, but he was trying to find himself, find someone, find happiness—in the form of personal ads on the Men for Men section of Cragslist Philadelphia
. The ads, often of a very sexual nature with picture of erect penises, brought a smile to face when he would read some of them—and he didn’t smile very often. Sometimes the posts featured someone looking, hoping for some type of love, not just a casual bathhouse encounter. Something real. That’s what Nick wanted.
Nick bought a gun a week ago. He went to the Wal-Mart, filled out the form, and he picked up his 9mm Glock an hour ago. He wasn’t hunting. He wasn’t using it for protection. He wanted to end it.
He wore a blank expression on his face at all times and barley moved his thin lips from their constantly sealed state. He pretended for years to be someone he wasn’t; he pretended to be straight. He played basketball on the high school team, he was prom king, and his date was the most beautiful girl in the school, if a bit of an airhead. He fought people. He took people’s lunch money.
When he came out to his parents, they kicked him out. Now he lived in a lonely apartment in Bristol Gardens. He’s stuck the gun in his mouth when he arrived home. He put his finger on the trigger. He cried, the tears streaming down his face and splashing ever so softly on the cold, black steel of the handgun. He laid the gun on the table. Then he picked it back up and put it back into his mouth, as the tears ceased and went back to their bottomless pond.
This was it. This was the end. Why go on living in a world that hates you, in a world that would rather erase the whole idea of your innermost and unchangeable desires?
He put the gun back down, picked it back up, then put it back down and walked to the computer, and, as soon as he was online, he went straight to Craigslist. Confused. You bet. Better than dead, though.
He posted his ad. It read: Mature, funny, SGM seeks LTR with masculine individual like me. About Me: I’m a former gay turned born again Christian who realized he was Gay! Let’s Meet. Looks not completely important but you know how it goes. Your pic gets mine. TTYS.
I just looked at the gun and then glanced at his wristwatch. How long would a response take, he thought? A minute. An hour. A day. Never. Wait and see.
Nick worked at a local hotel at the front desk, signing people in and out of hotel rooms. He’d see couples come in from across America. They’d be holding hands. They’d be kissing each other. They’d smile and tell him have a great day. He'd smile back, covering his feelings with a grin and secretly hating them for the hand he was dealt, for the loneliness and isolation, for the animosity.
But he held out hope that life could actually be good. That he wouldn’t have to paint his apartment red and gray with contents of his head. He’d imagine when they would find him: his body would have a giant hole from the neck up, pieces of skull would be stuck to the carpet, and the blood would be dried and dark while his brains would resemble little pieces of dried oatmeal until you took a closer look. A stain inflicted on the person that could not be removed. That was his problem: he thought about how he felt and even though he was filled with animosity that he wanted replaced by love how could he ruin somebody when he felt ruined?
The phone rang. Nick stared at it sitting on his coffee table. A creditor, he thought. Maybe an old friend. “Hello,” but it was too late as the person had already hung up and the number was marked private.
He went back to the computer, clicked the mouse button to refresh his e-mail account and saw that someone had answered. It read: Hi there cutie, I’m looking for an LTR but of course we have to get to know each other first. How bout me and you meet up. Got a place?
He smiled. It did work! There was hope. Love was indeed possible, he thought, if nothing else. Then he clicked on the reply button and wrote this: Hi, that was fast. Want to meet at a diner? Do you drive? Let me know. How about seven?
He hit the send button.
Nick had been in a relationship before—one. The man had approached him at a bar and offered to by him a drink, an appletini to be exact. He asked him what he did, what his interests were, was he gay? And, it was obvious to both of them that they were both gay. For the first month, they went to the movies and shared popcorn in the back row while quietly rubbing each other’s thighs. Todd would pick him up in his Miata and take him to expensive restaurants like Le Bec Fin where they would order wine from the sixties. Then things changed as they usually do after people start to reveal their true feelings for a person. Todd, his ex, started to become jealous—at the strangest things: he thought he wasn’t really gay.
When Nick came home from work one night he saw it—Todd in bed with two other men who both started laughing at him, one of whom chucked a beer bottle at his head. It smashed on the wall and Nick ran out cursing. Then it got nasty after he called the police to get them all out of his place. The police kicked them out but the constant snickers from the officers didn’t help matters.
That’s when he fell into the depression.
He didn’t want to be gay anymore. He figured life was easier for heterosexuals who always had great, long lasting relationships—ones that led down the aisle to blissful happiness.
So he visited a church to receive counseling. The pastor told him he could help him see the light of Christ. Nick walked into service every Sunday well dressed and prepared to accept the Lord as his Savior. The church was huge and painted a pristine white. The choir would burst out into spontaneous song at every pause in the pastor’s sermon.
After services one day, Nick stood outside as the sun shone down on his face and waited for this girl, Carlie, to walk out the door. When she finally came outside, he asked her if she would like to take a ride down to Philly to grab a bite to eat. He decided on Le Bec Fin. Their romance was a whirlwind. His phone would vibrate constantly with messages like, “I’m so happy I met you. You’re the sweetest thing”; “I Think I Love U,”; “I love you J.”
He rented a motel room at the Marriot. He lit candles across the room. He knew she wanted to wait until marriage, but he also knew from her talks that she wanted to feel that big penis up inside her. He wanted him to make her squeal and lift her legs to her shoulders and bite her nipples.
When they went to do the deed—a little bit of the nasty—nothing happened. He couldn’t get hard as he lay besides her pushing his crotch into her butt, so he started to think of Todd. His penis sprang to life. When he screamed out his name during sex, needless to say, she threw him off the bed and ran out of the room. He was, in fact, gay. A hetero only needs to feel the soft skin of a woman to get hard; he had to think of the rough skin of a man.
Nick hit the refresh button on the computer. The message read: meet me at seven at the Red Roof Inn in Bensalem. I have room 107. Sex. Then dinner and a movie. Sound good?
He replied fast, writing that he’ll be there.
He went to the shower and shaved his face, scraping the razor softly twice against his skin to make it smooth as a baby’s ass. He slid on his most expensive shirt and donned a pair of faded blue denim jeans that were ripped at the knees. But he was a little apprehensive that it might just be a scheme to rob him, so he grabbed the gun and shoved it into a tan messenger bag he had. He threw some condoms in there as well.
Maybe this will work out, he thought? “It seems strange, but you never know. He knows I want something long term not just casual sex. It could be great. We miss 100 percent of the shots we never take someone said once, Wayne Gretzy?” Nick said to himself, looking up to the ceiling as if God himself would come down and tell him it would be alright.
He picked up his keys off the table, slung his bag over his shoulder, and pranced out the door like a boy in love with a man he never met. “Well, even casual sex is better than loneliness. I was about to it in and now I have hope!” he just kept talking to himself, as if he was convincing his mind that this was the right thing.
He never showed his face in the church again and wonders what Carlie had said to the congregation about him. It didn’t matter. He tried to be someone he wasn’t and that never works out, like some ex-con pretending he could enter the political system and change something—he’d be eaten alive—it was crock of shit that wasn’t ever worth it in the first place, it just eats you up.
He pulled up at the motel and saw the Room 107. He circled the lot and found a parking place in the back. He hesitated for a minute before turning off his engine, picking up his bag and walking briskly to the room.
He knocked.
“Hi, Craigslist friend,” said the tall, skinny man dressed in a pair of pleated tan pants and a white undershirt. “What’s you name?”
“Nick?”
Come in,” he said with a smile. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Ya look familiar a tad, but I don’t think so.”
“Hmm, oh well. I always remember a face. I’m sure it’ll come to me. This is quite a surprise.”
“What?”
“That you came, didn’t expect it. Most never do. Most never respond.”
Pat patted Andrew’s butt and left it there as he guided him into the room and used his foot to gently close the door behind him. He then moved his other hand to his neck and gave it a tender massage. Then he gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to get comfortable on the bed.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Oh, just some condoms. Gotta be safe.”
“Oh, I’ll grab some.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll grab one for me. I like to be on top,” he said, curtailing any response, reaching in the bag and pulling out a strip of condoms. His hand briefly ran over the cold steel of the gun. Oh, Pat thought, this will make things much easier—if not a little messy.
“Why don’t you lay on you stomach sweet thing and I’ll be right over to pull the clothes off you. I’m gonna fuck you hard.”
Nick never saw it coming as Pat took the gun out of the bag, placed his finger on the trigger, climber onto the bed, pressed his crotch against pat’s ass, and placed the gun to the back off his head.
“What, wait…” boom.
“You little fucking faggot. Never thought I’d see you again after you betrayed your lord. I just wanted to kill some fag but this is so much better. Pastor told me all vengeance is God’s and to pray for you, but fuck him. He’s a fag, too. You get what you deserve.”
Pat shoved the gun in his pocket and walked out of the room like nothing had happened. Nick’s brains were scattered across the wall like little pieces of fresh oatmeal and blood poured out of his head, drenching the sheets in what seemed like and ever increasing circle of death. His eyes left open and frozen in horror, horror. The horror.
During the day, he worked at a local diner and served food to angry old men. Sometimes he’d work the bar and schlep drinks to people who probably would be better off at an AA meeting—noon is no time to down four martinis on a Monday, unless you’re on vacation. And these people were on a vacation alright, a vacation from being alive. So was Nick, but he was trying to find himself, find someone, find happiness—in the form of personal ads on the Men for Men section of Cragslist Philadelphia
. The ads, often of a very sexual nature with picture of erect penises, brought a smile to face when he would read some of them—and he didn’t smile very often. Sometimes the posts featured someone looking, hoping for some type of love, not just a casual bathhouse encounter. Something real. That’s what Nick wanted.
Nick bought a gun a week ago. He went to the Wal-Mart, filled out the form, and he picked up his 9mm Glock an hour ago. He wasn’t hunting. He wasn’t using it for protection. He wanted to end it.
He wore a blank expression on his face at all times and barley moved his thin lips from their constantly sealed state. He pretended for years to be someone he wasn’t; he pretended to be straight. He played basketball on the high school team, he was prom king, and his date was the most beautiful girl in the school, if a bit of an airhead. He fought people. He took people’s lunch money.
When he came out to his parents, they kicked him out. Now he lived in a lonely apartment in Bristol Gardens. He’s stuck the gun in his mouth when he arrived home. He put his finger on the trigger. He cried, the tears streaming down his face and splashing ever so softly on the cold, black steel of the handgun. He laid the gun on the table. Then he picked it back up and put it back into his mouth, as the tears ceased and went back to their bottomless pond.
This was it. This was the end. Why go on living in a world that hates you, in a world that would rather erase the whole idea of your innermost and unchangeable desires?
He put the gun back down, picked it back up, then put it back down and walked to the computer, and, as soon as he was online, he went straight to Craigslist. Confused. You bet. Better than dead, though.
He posted his ad. It read: Mature, funny, SGM seeks LTR with masculine individual like me. About Me: I’m a former gay turned born again Christian who realized he was Gay! Let’s Meet. Looks not completely important but you know how it goes. Your pic gets mine. TTYS.
I just looked at the gun and then glanced at his wristwatch. How long would a response take, he thought? A minute. An hour. A day. Never. Wait and see.
Nick worked at a local hotel at the front desk, signing people in and out of hotel rooms. He’d see couples come in from across America. They’d be holding hands. They’d be kissing each other. They’d smile and tell him have a great day. He'd smile back, covering his feelings with a grin and secretly hating them for the hand he was dealt, for the loneliness and isolation, for the animosity.
But he held out hope that life could actually be good. That he wouldn’t have to paint his apartment red and gray with contents of his head. He’d imagine when they would find him: his body would have a giant hole from the neck up, pieces of skull would be stuck to the carpet, and the blood would be dried and dark while his brains would resemble little pieces of dried oatmeal until you took a closer look. A stain inflicted on the person that could not be removed. That was his problem: he thought about how he felt and even though he was filled with animosity that he wanted replaced by love how could he ruin somebody when he felt ruined?
The phone rang. Nick stared at it sitting on his coffee table. A creditor, he thought. Maybe an old friend. “Hello,” but it was too late as the person had already hung up and the number was marked private.
He went back to the computer, clicked the mouse button to refresh his e-mail account and saw that someone had answered. It read: Hi there cutie, I’m looking for an LTR but of course we have to get to know each other first. How bout me and you meet up. Got a place?
He smiled. It did work! There was hope. Love was indeed possible, he thought, if nothing else. Then he clicked on the reply button and wrote this: Hi, that was fast. Want to meet at a diner? Do you drive? Let me know. How about seven?
He hit the send button.
Nick had been in a relationship before—one. The man had approached him at a bar and offered to by him a drink, an appletini to be exact. He asked him what he did, what his interests were, was he gay? And, it was obvious to both of them that they were both gay. For the first month, they went to the movies and shared popcorn in the back row while quietly rubbing each other’s thighs. Todd would pick him up in his Miata and take him to expensive restaurants like Le Bec Fin where they would order wine from the sixties. Then things changed as they usually do after people start to reveal their true feelings for a person. Todd, his ex, started to become jealous—at the strangest things: he thought he wasn’t really gay.
When Nick came home from work one night he saw it—Todd in bed with two other men who both started laughing at him, one of whom chucked a beer bottle at his head. It smashed on the wall and Nick ran out cursing. Then it got nasty after he called the police to get them all out of his place. The police kicked them out but the constant snickers from the officers didn’t help matters.
That’s when he fell into the depression.
He didn’t want to be gay anymore. He figured life was easier for heterosexuals who always had great, long lasting relationships—ones that led down the aisle to blissful happiness.
So he visited a church to receive counseling. The pastor told him he could help him see the light of Christ. Nick walked into service every Sunday well dressed and prepared to accept the Lord as his Savior. The church was huge and painted a pristine white. The choir would burst out into spontaneous song at every pause in the pastor’s sermon.
After services one day, Nick stood outside as the sun shone down on his face and waited for this girl, Carlie, to walk out the door. When she finally came outside, he asked her if she would like to take a ride down to Philly to grab a bite to eat. He decided on Le Bec Fin. Their romance was a whirlwind. His phone would vibrate constantly with messages like, “I’m so happy I met you. You’re the sweetest thing”; “I Think I Love U,”; “I love you J.”
He rented a motel room at the Marriot. He lit candles across the room. He knew she wanted to wait until marriage, but he also knew from her talks that she wanted to feel that big penis up inside her. He wanted him to make her squeal and lift her legs to her shoulders and bite her nipples.
When they went to do the deed—a little bit of the nasty—nothing happened. He couldn’t get hard as he lay besides her pushing his crotch into her butt, so he started to think of Todd. His penis sprang to life. When he screamed out his name during sex, needless to say, she threw him off the bed and ran out of the room. He was, in fact, gay. A hetero only needs to feel the soft skin of a woman to get hard; he had to think of the rough skin of a man.
Nick hit the refresh button on the computer. The message read: meet me at seven at the Red Roof Inn in Bensalem. I have room 107. Sex. Then dinner and a movie. Sound good?
He replied fast, writing that he’ll be there.
He went to the shower and shaved his face, scraping the razor softly twice against his skin to make it smooth as a baby’s ass. He slid on his most expensive shirt and donned a pair of faded blue denim jeans that were ripped at the knees. But he was a little apprehensive that it might just be a scheme to rob him, so he grabbed the gun and shoved it into a tan messenger bag he had. He threw some condoms in there as well.
Maybe this will work out, he thought? “It seems strange, but you never know. He knows I want something long term not just casual sex. It could be great. We miss 100 percent of the shots we never take someone said once, Wayne Gretzy?” Nick said to himself, looking up to the ceiling as if God himself would come down and tell him it would be alright.
He picked up his keys off the table, slung his bag over his shoulder, and pranced out the door like a boy in love with a man he never met. “Well, even casual sex is better than loneliness. I was about to it in and now I have hope!” he just kept talking to himself, as if he was convincing his mind that this was the right thing.
He never showed his face in the church again and wonders what Carlie had said to the congregation about him. It didn’t matter. He tried to be someone he wasn’t and that never works out, like some ex-con pretending he could enter the political system and change something—he’d be eaten alive—it was crock of shit that wasn’t ever worth it in the first place, it just eats you up.
He pulled up at the motel and saw the Room 107. He circled the lot and found a parking place in the back. He hesitated for a minute before turning off his engine, picking up his bag and walking briskly to the room.
He knocked.
“Hi, Craigslist friend,” said the tall, skinny man dressed in a pair of pleated tan pants and a white undershirt. “What’s you name?”
“Nick?”
Come in,” he said with a smile. “Do I know you from somewhere?”
“Ya look familiar a tad, but I don’t think so.”
“Hmm, oh well. I always remember a face. I’m sure it’ll come to me. This is quite a surprise.”
“What?”
“That you came, didn’t expect it. Most never do. Most never respond.”
Pat patted Andrew’s butt and left it there as he guided him into the room and used his foot to gently close the door behind him. He then moved his other hand to his neck and gave it a tender massage. Then he gave him a peck on the cheek and told him to get comfortable on the bed.
“What’s in the bag?”
“Oh, just some condoms. Gotta be safe.”
“Oh, I’ll grab some.”
“Don’t bother. I’ll grab one for me. I like to be on top,” he said, curtailing any response, reaching in the bag and pulling out a strip of condoms. His hand briefly ran over the cold steel of the gun. Oh, Pat thought, this will make things much easier—if not a little messy.
“Why don’t you lay on you stomach sweet thing and I’ll be right over to pull the clothes off you. I’m gonna fuck you hard.”
Nick never saw it coming as Pat took the gun out of the bag, placed his finger on the trigger, climber onto the bed, pressed his crotch against pat’s ass, and placed the gun to the back off his head.
“What, wait…” boom.
“You little fucking faggot. Never thought I’d see you again after you betrayed your lord. I just wanted to kill some fag but this is so much better. Pastor told me all vengeance is God’s and to pray for you, but fuck him. He’s a fag, too. You get what you deserve.”
Pat shoved the gun in his pocket and walked out of the room like nothing had happened. Nick’s brains were scattered across the wall like little pieces of fresh oatmeal and blood poured out of his head, drenching the sheets in what seemed like and ever increasing circle of death. His eyes left open and frozen in horror, horror. The horror.
Odette in Love
Odette sprinkled the pedals of ten dozen roses she cut into pieces all over Bill’s apartment. Being an investment banker he tended to work long hours and she still had some time left before he made his usual stroll through the door then plop down on the couch routine. But it was Valentine’s Day, so she thought she’d do something so sweet and nice.
She threw them up in the air all over the bed, giggling and thinking about later. Like she was Gretel she dropped them in a trail from the door to the kitchen and then to the bedroom. She lit candles on top of the TV. She lit them on top of the bookshelf. She lit them wherever there was a ledge: the window, the little wall that separated the kitchen from the living room, the sink in the bathroom. Light was not an issue this night. A fire was burning.
Odette sauntered over to the kitchen to check on the Raviolis and freshly made tomato sauce spattered with portabella mushrooms and bits of sausage that she was cooking. It was Bill’s favorite meal. He’d order it every time they’d go to Non Sola Pasta in Yardley which was a good thirty five miles from the condo they had on the 20th floor in Center City. How romantic he’ll find this, she thought.
Odette, tired and running on Red Bull, finished her thesis on the Crisis of Communication earlier in the day, which she had been writing and researching for quite awhile now. Her main point was in modern America cellphones, television, and a million other distractions are driving people to lonliness and suicide. She cited suicide and single person household ratios in Finland and Japan. Both countries have high single person household ratios and suicide rates. The preferred method for a woman was to take pills; for a man, it was more violent: death by shotgun, death by cop, death by hanging, death in any way as long as you leave an indelible mark that can’t be erased like framed Molly Maquire Alexander Campbell’s make-shift blood on the wall of Cell 17 in Carbon County, Pennsylvania. Quite a gory thesis for a woman who gushed to undergrads and teachers about how in love she was any chance she got.
Odette laid back and put her feet up on the blue plush love seat. She kicked off her shoes. She unzipped her pants. She thought of later.
Odette then turned on the television and began flipping through the channels. A minute later she quit , zipped up her pants, and walked to the stereo and tried to find some music to play. Something romantic. Something sensual. Something to set the mood.
A key slipped into the door outside. The knob tuned. In walked Bill. His face froze. Then he beamed.
“Odette, you shouldn’t have. We weren’t going to fall into that coporate trap of Valentine’s Day remember?”
“I know, but I couldn’t help it. I love you so so much.”
He grabbed her by the her butt and squezzed her close to him and then forced his toungue into her mouth and kissed for what seemed an eternity. “Let’s eat,” he said.
Over dinner they talked of her thesis. He thought it was rather depressin. She said sometimes depressing is what people need to hear. He said people should be happy. She said they’re not and we’re lucky we are. They both smiled and laughes. He reached across the table and interwined their fingers and moved his foot to hers and placed it on top. Dinner was over.
He lifted her up like a baby and carried her across the threshold of his room and threw her down on the bed. He jumped on top of her and ripped her pink blouse off. He bit her nipples. Then he ripped off her white A-line skirt. She didn’t even car what she would wear home. She was just happy she came and did this for him.
As she presser her head into the pit of his right am and draped her delicate pale white hand over his heart, he said something.
“I don’t want to. Can’t I stay here?”
“I have to work early and you know how I get when I’m tired.”
“What will I wear?”
“You can wear something of mine. It’ll remind you of me.”
She kissed him on the cheek and jumped out of bed, throwing on his pants, which were so long she had to fold the cuffs several times. Then she picked up the light blue shirt he wore that day and left the top three buttons unbuttoned. She blew a kiss and made her way to the door.
“Hey, you can come over now. I just got home from work. I have a surprise for you,” Bill whispered into the cellphone.
When Sandra arrived she found rose pedals everywhere and a nice meal of raviolis burning on the stove. Bill pulled her to him, grabbed her butt, squeezed her to him and forced his toungue down her throat.
“My God, Bill, you’re so sweet. Thank God I met you.”
She threw them up in the air all over the bed, giggling and thinking about later. Like she was Gretel she dropped them in a trail from the door to the kitchen and then to the bedroom. She lit candles on top of the TV. She lit them on top of the bookshelf. She lit them wherever there was a ledge: the window, the little wall that separated the kitchen from the living room, the sink in the bathroom. Light was not an issue this night. A fire was burning.
Odette sauntered over to the kitchen to check on the Raviolis and freshly made tomato sauce spattered with portabella mushrooms and bits of sausage that she was cooking. It was Bill’s favorite meal. He’d order it every time they’d go to Non Sola Pasta in Yardley which was a good thirty five miles from the condo they had on the 20th floor in Center City. How romantic he’ll find this, she thought.
Odette, tired and running on Red Bull, finished her thesis on the Crisis of Communication earlier in the day, which she had been writing and researching for quite awhile now. Her main point was in modern America cellphones, television, and a million other distractions are driving people to lonliness and suicide. She cited suicide and single person household ratios in Finland and Japan. Both countries have high single person household ratios and suicide rates. The preferred method for a woman was to take pills; for a man, it was more violent: death by shotgun, death by cop, death by hanging, death in any way as long as you leave an indelible mark that can’t be erased like framed Molly Maquire Alexander Campbell’s make-shift blood on the wall of Cell 17 in Carbon County, Pennsylvania. Quite a gory thesis for a woman who gushed to undergrads and teachers about how in love she was any chance she got.
Odette laid back and put her feet up on the blue plush love seat. She kicked off her shoes. She unzipped her pants. She thought of later.
Odette then turned on the television and began flipping through the channels. A minute later she quit , zipped up her pants, and walked to the stereo and tried to find some music to play. Something romantic. Something sensual. Something to set the mood.
A key slipped into the door outside. The knob tuned. In walked Bill. His face froze. Then he beamed.
“Odette, you shouldn’t have. We weren’t going to fall into that coporate trap of Valentine’s Day remember?”
“I know, but I couldn’t help it. I love you so so much.”
He grabbed her by the her butt and squezzed her close to him and then forced his toungue into her mouth and kissed for what seemed an eternity. “Let’s eat,” he said.
Over dinner they talked of her thesis. He thought it was rather depressin. She said sometimes depressing is what people need to hear. He said people should be happy. She said they’re not and we’re lucky we are. They both smiled and laughes. He reached across the table and interwined their fingers and moved his foot to hers and placed it on top. Dinner was over.
He lifted her up like a baby and carried her across the threshold of his room and threw her down on the bed. He jumped on top of her and ripped her pink blouse off. He bit her nipples. Then he ripped off her white A-line skirt. She didn’t even car what she would wear home. She was just happy she came and did this for him.
As she presser her head into the pit of his right am and draped her delicate pale white hand over his heart, he said something.
“I don’t want to. Can’t I stay here?”
“I have to work early and you know how I get when I’m tired.”
“What will I wear?”
“You can wear something of mine. It’ll remind you of me.”
She kissed him on the cheek and jumped out of bed, throwing on his pants, which were so long she had to fold the cuffs several times. Then she picked up the light blue shirt he wore that day and left the top three buttons unbuttoned. She blew a kiss and made her way to the door.
“Hey, you can come over now. I just got home from work. I have a surprise for you,” Bill whispered into the cellphone.
When Sandra arrived she found rose pedals everywhere and a nice meal of raviolis burning on the stove. Bill pulled her to him, grabbed her butt, squeezed her to him and forced his toungue down her throat.
“My God, Bill, you’re so sweet. Thank God I met you.”
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