“You look fucking great,” he smiled, and he kissed me this time, full, his tongue like a tapeworm, bent on my intestines, determined to reach all the way down to where his cock was reaching from the other end to meet it in a hot sticky mess of saliva and semen.

  “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” I yelped. We growled, we lost ourselves and rode our dicks like runaway horses. His final thrusts were so divine, my hands digging into his firm white buttcheeks like talons holding their kill. He split me like a piece of wood and my cum hit his chest so hard it bounced and splattered like blood would if the axe of his cock had buried itself in my forehead.

  I’d brought the diaper in my backpack.

  “Daddy…please…diaper me.”

  He guffawed, and then with an eagerness I’d never seen, yelped, “Yeeeeaaah!”

  He diapered me. Patted my ass. Told me to pack up and get out.

  My god, I’d done it. I’d seduced Clown Daddy.

  He didn’t kiss me good-bye, of course, or invite me to brunch. But I walked away without a videocassette this time. Progress.

  I guess that’s when it occurred to me I could save him. And maybe not only him. Maybe I’d just found the treatment for pedophilia. God knows, no one seemed to give a damn about these people. The last sexual minority. I could rehabilitate them all. My shaved asshole, a rehab center.

  That’s when I saw the squad car. Parked in front of my house. Next to the undercover white Crown Royal. Three men in dark suits. It was The Matrix and I was Neo, standing on a street corner in a sailor suit, my hips bulging from the diaper that swaddled my manhood.

  I knew what they’d found. I knew my chances. I ran. It wasn’t much of a chase. I had nowhere to go. All I had was a shot at making it back to Broadway where the great voting public could witness four cops tackling a child—a rather large child, to be sure—in a sailor suit.

  I felt the tug as one of them got hold of the back of my shirt just as I reached the intersection of 23rd and Broadway. I screamed as high-piercing a preadolescent scream as I could muster.

  I was interrogated at length. I assumed they had Clown Daddy somewhere. How else would they have nabbed me? I drank coffee, got knocked around, but through it all I endured by dreaming of meeting Clown Daddy—when I was finally convicted—in some filthy prison cell where we could pursue our love affair in peace—me trading cigarettes and gum for razors to keep my cock and balls soft as a baby’s behind for my Clown Daddy and his meat-Eucharist, truly a transubstantiation of all the misery around us into an Elysian Field of bliss.

  “Where did you get the tapes?”

  I refused to tell. “I found them.”

  “Where?”

  I had to place them as far away from Clown Daddy as possible. “In a trashcan in Vacaville.”

  “What were you doing going through trash in Vacaville?”

  “Someone on the Internet told me he’d put them there.” I was indicting myself. I thought I was saving Clown Daddy. If I had to lie, even to the point of destroying my own future, I’d do it for Clown Daddy—blinded by love, or myopia for his cock. Same difference. And to think I didn’t even know the details of his crime. We’d never discussed it. I didn’t want to know.

  “Who?” The cop demanded, but in a boring, annoying, nonsexual way. Why couldn’t Clown Daddy be my interrogator?

  “It was one of those throwaway names.”

  “What was it?”

  “Bob.”

  “Goddammit! Bob who?”

  “Bob1 at aol-dot-com.”

  Whack! And he backhanded me across the face.

  They threatened me with a stiff sentence if I didn’t give them something. I only considered that their sentence could never be as stiff as Clown Daddy’s meaty member, so I was unimpressed by their threats.

  They gave me five years.

  Clown Daddy did not appear in my cellblock, though I looked and waited and pined. It had been explained in my trial that the videos found in my home had been coded with a tracking device, leading the authorities to my house. Not unlike an ankle bracelet such as Clown Daddy wore. It had even been suggested that Clown Daddy was a narc, or had used me as a patsy. The judge put a stop to those conjectures, admonishing the defense: “Whoever gave him the pornography is not on trial today. Another day. Right now, we’re trying this man.” And he pointed at me like Clown Daddy’s member used to do.

  Clown Daddy never appeared. Only Vernon. He was my cellmate, and, as a skinny white fag, he informed me I’d be wise to do his bidding. I’ve done it, though he lacks both Clown Daddy’s girth and length, not to mention all the other characteristics that gods wield over man.

  Ah, but the gods are kind for they have blest us with imagination. And so when Vernon slicks his member with Crisco I steal from the commissary and mercilessly impales me, I close my eyes and see a circus tent, and the circus music begins, and all the clowns drop their baggy pants, and then the tigers and lions turn, lifting their tails, and the dwarves and ape men offer up their tight behinds, hands firmly gripped to their ankles— and the crowd cheers, and then goes AAAHHH as Clown Daddy in all his naked huge-dicked grinning Josh Hartnett–throated glory comes swinging through on the trapeze spraying his jism all over the clowns and animals, dwarves and freaks, and the whole damn crowd, who bathe in it as in the blessed waters of Lourdes.

  And Vernon is proud. He thinks he’s made that mess all over my chest and belly. Let him think it. The truth is hardly important at this point. I’m an innocent man doing time for kiddie porn, the police are fools, Vernon’s a chump, and my asshole’s just a 7-Eleven that he holds up every Saturday night. As for the cash, I hand it right over. In fact, I leave the register open. No way to run a business. But I, unlike Vernon, am not proud. For I have seen God.

  I spend all my time with him. Vernon that is, not God. We even eat pancakes together. I stuff my face. I’m fattening up for Clown Daddy, while Vernon goes on and on with his theories.

  “The earth is a plate,” he tells me. “Mankind sat down and is eating. When he’s through, it’ll be over.”

  “Where are we now?” I ask, bored.

  “Somewhere deep in the mashed potatoes; maybe halfway through.”

  “Are you gay, Vernon?” I like to get a rise out of him.

  “Not at all,” he explains. He tells me men are pigs, and this is why you can’t call him a faggot. Vernon says if it were legal most men he knew (and he knew a certain kind, though he always meant every man) would fuck everything in sight, and what’s more, they’d never let their sex partners survive to betray them (as they always will, by his reckoning—something to remember when I get out of here). Therefore, he’s of the opinion that men “would drill holes in their sex partner’s skulls if they could, and fuck their brains out. They’d drill holes in backs and arms, thighs, through the bottom of feet, right through the front of ’em, core the motherfuckers like apples,” he says drolly, “leave them like the dough after all the cookies have been cut out of it. But the screaming would be annoying, so you’d do the brain first.”

  “Do you like the circus, Vernon?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “I don’t like those clowns. Creepy.”

  “I knew a clown once.”

  “Shut up and eat.”

  I pour more syrup on my pancakes and watch it vanish, watch it run away and join the circus.

  DOGBOY AND THE BETAGOTH

  Nadyalec Hijazi and Ben Blackthorne

  “Goddamn,” says Ben.

  “Goddamn,” echoes Alec.

  On top of the shitty news that Kerry conceded last night, they’ve just found out that their high school’s mock election voted 99.87 percent for Bush.

  “Point thirteen percent. That’s pretty much us,” says Alec. “Pass me a fucking cigarette, would you? God, I wish I had a beer.”

  Ben passes him a cigarette. They smoke in grim silence.

  “Fuck.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Let’s move to California. Get out of this fascist fucking state.”

  “Okay. We can steal your mom’s car.”

  “I hear San Francisco’s gorgeous this time of year,” says Ben.

  “Really? I hear it rains all the time,” says Alec. “But I’d rather have rain than fucking fascists.” They contemplate this for a moment. “Well, fucking fascists might be okay. It’s the celibate ones you’ve gotta watch out for. You’ve gotta watch out for the fucking virgins.”

  Ben feels his ears heat. He focuses on his cigarette.

  Alec warms to his theme. “Fucking virgins. Yeah. The problem is they’re all tight-assed repressed little virgins who need to be bent over and fucked senseless. Fucked senseful. Have the sense fucked into them. And I—I’m the man to do it.”

  Ben has no comment.

  “What this state needs is more sodomy,” says Alec.

  Ben has nothing to add.

  To his eternal gratitude, the subject changes to the relative merits of the Yeah Yeah Yeahs and System of a Down.

  And then it’s time for the pep rally. Ben and Alec walk into the gym, take one look around, and walk back out again. The vice principal in charge of discipline is standing outside the door; he scowls and points. They walk back inside and lurk just within the door.

  Alec gets a mischievous look. He waits until nobody’s looking, then grabs Ben’s hand and drags him under the bleachers.

  Above their heads people are stomping their feet and shouting. Here under the bleachers, though, it’s dark and weirdly quiet.

  Alec finishes rolling a joint and hands it to Ben, chivalrously offering it to him first. Ben takes a hit, wondering where Alec gets his pot. Lately Ben’s been giving Alec money to buy pot for them both, but he doesn’t know where he’s getting it. It’s one of the mysteries of being a senior—Alec’s not a virgin, he’s done it with boys and girls, he always has drugs. He’s taller than Ben; Ben has gotten used to tilting his head and looking up at him.

  “Good shit,” says Ben.

  Alec nods and takes a drag.

  “Man, fucking George Bush,” says Ben. Alec says something and Ben doesn’t hear it. More pounding from above. He makes a gesture of lack of understanding, wondering how Alec heard him. He realizes Alec’s staring intently at his lips. He feels weird, blushes, realizes that Alec’s reading his lips. Focusing on Alec’s lips makes him feel even weirder. Or maybe it’s the pot.

  “Fucking George Bush,” he says again, and Alec nods, says, “Fuck him.” He can’t hear it, but he knows that’s what he said. Lip-reading is cool.

  Alec passes Ben the joint and he takes another drag. “Fuck all of them.”

  Ben is starting to get stoned. “Why does everybody want me to fucking want fucking George Bush?” he asks. “I don’t want fucking Bush. Fuck. Fucking fuckers.”

  Alec is smirking at him, eyebrows arched. “You don’t fuck-ing want Bush? What do you fucking want, babydoll? Or rather, who? To fuck, that is?”

  Ben blushes to the ears.

  He’s saved when somebody above yells, “Bush!” and the crowd takes it up. Soon everybody’s chanting “Bush, Bush, Bush” and stomping. Ben and Alec huddle under the bleachers grimly.

  “Fuck all of them, too,” he improvises, and Alec grins at him. Alec has a beautiful mouth. Why has he never noticed that before? It must be the pot.

  Alec has kissed boys and girls. Alec’s mouth—Alec’s mouth has wrapped around guys’ cocks. He’s told him about it, looking amused while Ben squirmed and tried not to blush. Ben has never even kissed anybody. He feels like he has “Virgin” stamped on his forehead.

  Alec is smiling at him, though. Alec doesn’t look like he thinks Ben is stupid and uncool. Alec looks like he’s happy to be under the bleachers with Ben. Has Alec ever wondered— Fuck, why is he thinking this stuff? It must be the pot. It’s not the pot. It’s the lip-reading. It’s Alec’s mouth.

  Alec pushes his chin-length pink hair back and takes another drag. His hazel eyes are looking right into Ben’s eyes. It makes Ben dizzy. Then Alec puts his hand on Ben’s thigh.

  Ben freezes, then his whole body gets hot. There’s a very long moment while they look at each other, Alec leaning forward, his hand on Ben’s thigh. Then Ben puts his hand on top of Alec’s.

  “Do you want to kiss me?” he says, at the same time that Alec asks, “Do you want a blowjob?”

  They’re both blushing. Ben’s mouth has come open. Alec smiles at him, pushes Ben’s dirty hair out of his eyes, and says, “Yes.” Slowly, so slowly Ben wonders if he’s going to die, Alec leans forward and kisses him.

  It’s 4:30 p.m. and Ben is in his garage, smoking a blunt and thinking. Or at least trying to think through the pungent smoke. But that’s the point, right? Blunting the edges so he doesn’t really have to think too hard. Like about that kiss under the bleachers. This thinking business is overrated, he thinks.

  Alec is on his way over to spend the night and get wasted. Ben’s mother is in L.A. on some spiritual Botox retreat. She was so very relieved to hear his little friend was coming over to keep him company, as she’s been worried about his “lack of social connections” lately. Been hitting the parenting self-help books along with the pills, he thinks with annoyed indifference. Ben’s largely absentee dad died in a rather dramatic plane crash, leaving his working class mother and him an unexpectedly large amount of money that they never knew was there.

  Ben still wears secondhand clothes, which largely annoys his recently face-lifted mother.

  But back to Alec. A year older, decidedly not a virgin, and Ben is just sure Alec was talking disdainfully about him this afternoon under the bleachers. Fucking tight-assed virgins was what Alec muttered, having the sense fucked into them. Ben blushes in remembered embarrassment, trying hard to sit stone cool indifferent and not let his own tight-assed virginity show through the smoke and shadows under the bleachers. Alec had to know that today’s blitzed-out kiss was Ben’s first with anyone.

  Ben sits and feels vaguely nervous, anticipating how badly he’ll probably botch the evening. He’d been thinking about inviting Alec to stay the night for weeks, since he found out about Mommy Dearest’s lipo-yoga extravaganza. He’d gotten his cousin Jim to get a six-pack of Guinness and a bottle of Jack for the evening, and had scored a surprise—a full ounce of sinsemilla. He’s been thinking nervous exploration, maybe get Alec fucked enough that they could…Ben’s brain shuts down there, since he really doesn’t know what it would be like at all. Vivid imaginings and a seeekrit stash of Internet porn’s been enough to let Ben know he’s interested, and given him a vague sense of how the mechanics are supposed to work, but Ben’s nervous, and more than a bit neurotic.

  Ben up until now has been fairly oblivious. Vaguely interested in big tits because hey why not, no real luck with the ladies mostly because he finds them terrifying. Pot, porn, video games, and skateboarding had mostly kept him shielded from the existential teen angst, the sorry state of the country, and the life with Mother he otherwise found himself tangled in. Until Alec showed up.

  Alec. Half his head shaved, the rest hanging in his eyes and dyed pink. Eyebrow ring under thick-framed glasses, tattoo, and tight black artfully shredded and safety-pinned clothes, always smelling faintly of clove cigarettes, atrocious taste in gothcore. Addicted to CNN and constantly depressed over the state of the universe. Ben met him during detention. Ben had been sullenly listening to music and flipping through an old issue of Thrasher when Alec had walked into the room, whipcord thin bad attitude with a twisted sarcastic smile. He sat in the empty seat next to Ben, and began whispering made-up stories about the bitchy cheerleader in the front of the room trying to blow the detention monitor and choking on his nasty dick. They were instant friends from that point on. Ben had never considered his sexuality beyond his own hand before Alec had shown up. Now he couldn’t stop thinking about it. Alec was queer, a take-no-shit pansygoth, and told Ben detailed stories about blowjobs in back alleys behind leather bars. Ben figured some of it was probably made-up, and some of it kinda scared him too. But they’d get blitzed together, and Ben liked to just watch Alec’s mouth as he told some outrageous story.

  And then there was today under the bleachers. One minute bitching about the damn sorry fascist state of their school, the next minute that kiss. And Ben was definitely fucked up when he asked Alec to kiss him, but he thought he might have heard Alec ask him if he could suck his dick. Ben hadn’t really gotten around to fantasizing about kissing; mostly he’d fantasized about faceless, genderless mouths or holes for his cock. The reality of a kiss had knocked him on his ass. He was secretly hoping but also terrified at the thought that the blow-job offer was still on the table.

  The clock strikes 5:15 and Alec saunters into the living room, letting himself into the house left unlocked for him. Ben, already suffering from damn cottonmouth, finds his mouth goes even drier. Alec stands in front of Ben, duffel over his shoulder, thrashed leather coat, thrashed boots, thrashed jeans, tight Pansy Division shirt and spiky dog collar, sneer firmly in place. Ben’s eyes go straight for Alec’s crotch, at eye level as Alec looms over Ben on the couch, find their way up to Alec’s mouth as Alec says, “Dude, you started without me?” and snatches the bong from Ben’s hand. Ben just watches as Alec’s cheeks hollow out as he sucks in smoke, a blissed-out look crossing his face as he starts coughing. “Aww, honey, you got me the good stuff,” he snarks cheerfully, and plunks himself down on the couch next to Ben. “But what’s up with the music? Dropkick Murphys is so Riverdance.” Ben scowls, remembering he’d been listening to “World Full of Hate” because it reminded him of Alec for no good reason. Alec pops in his own CD and they settle into some serious smoking.

  “Hey Ben,” says Alec abruptly, “I know a way to get even more out of this killer weed. You game?”

  Ben looks at Alec suspiciously, says, “What were you thinking, bro?”

  “You ever sucked smoke outta someone else’s lungs?” That could have been a leer if he wasn’t trying not to giggle. Ben blushes and takes a long hit, doesn’t say anything. Alec leans in, grabbing Ben by the back of the head, pressing his lips firmly over Ben’s, and sucks the air out of Ben’s lungs. Ben feels dizzy from the lack of oxygen, dizzy from the proximity, dizzy from Alec’s smell and taste. Alec breaks the contact, leaning back and slowly exhaling. He shoots Ben a sly sideways look, and Ben Can’t. Stop. Looking. Frozen in a sea of dope and hormones, Ben just watches Alec, mouth slightly open and panting, too scared to move, too turned on to talk. Alec looks smug as he says, “Ya know, you can touch me if you want. You’ve been staring at me since I got here. Actually, babydoll, you’ve been staring at me for the past week.” Ben blushes even harder, but musters up enough courage to reach a hand out and brush it across Alec’s cheek. Alec’s eyes close involuntarily and he sighs, leaning into the timid caress. Ben is afraid to move, afraid not to move, focuses all his attention on the feeling of Alec’s smooth cheek under his callused fingers. Alec takes hold of Ben’s hand and sucks two of Ben’s fingers into his mouth. Ben’s eyes go wider as his breath hitches in his throat. Alec’s eyes are open and predatory now as he slowly sucks on Ben’s fingers, licking between them, taking them deep into his mouth.

 

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