Boy Crazy, page 2
On the floor of the shack was a gray mattress, half folded against one wall and littered with dead leaves. On top of it was a billiard cue.
“Holy shit,” Nate said as he stepped inside. “Look.” He pointed to one corner. Stacked there were porno magazines, at least twenty of them. Nate picked up a stack. “These are weird,” he said. They weren’t the garishly colored covers of the newsstand porno magazines. They were dark and murky with foreign titles. The cover creatures were enclosed in latex and masks and gagged with red balls.
“We need to get back,” Carl said, but Nate was already rolling up four magazines and trying to stuff them down his pants.
“Help me,” Nate said. He handed Carl the roll of magazines and lifted his shirt, holding out the waist of his pants. At the last minute he held out his underwear waistband too. “That should hold them better,” he said. Carl looked down. Even in the dim light he could see Nate’s cock, soft and nestled in the cup of his briefs. He knew that Nate knew he was looking. He slid in the magazines. Nate lowered his shirt.
“You take some too.” The ritual was repeated. Nate took his time, rolling and rerolling the magazines to make them tighter, and unabashedly looking into Carl’s pants. “Let’s go,” he said once he had them inside.
They stepped outside the shack. The woods were even darker. And just there in front of them was a man. He was lying facedown on the ground, and how they’d missed him before was a mystery. He was wearing a white shirt and maybe pants. He was motionless, but that was all they saw because Nate took off running and Carl followed. They ran with a fear greater than any they’d ever known, until they were back on the tracks and back in the light.
“He was dead,” Nate said when they’d gotten a comfortable distance away.
“Are you sure?”
“He wasn’t moving,” Nate said, and that was true, though Carl later seemed to remember an empty bottle lying nearby.
They got back to Nate’s house but crept behind the garage to where his dad kept a metal barrel for burning. They put the magazines in the barrel, showered them with lighter fluid, and lit them. As the pages disappeared Nate took his dick out and peed on the fire. Carl took his out too. Though typically pee-shy, he was able to let go just then. Their urine hit the flames and evaporated. They burned the pile until there was no trace.
Once home Carl sat on the living room chair and took off his shoes. His dad and sister were in the kitchen carving a pumpkin. On his socks were black burrs from the woods. They were dark and insectlike, with twin prongs that attached themselves to the fabric. He picked them off one by one.
What ended Carl and Nate’s friendship a year or so later was unremarkable, being merely the period on a sentence that had well since finished its thought. Their sleepovers had tapered off, as their flirtation had begun to carry too much weight. They’d gained new friends, Nate with boys and Carl with mostly girls. They ignored each other throughout high school.
Carl wanted to walk to his house sometimes, just ring the bell, and see if it could be like it was. He wanted to ask Nate about the shack and parse its mysteries. He wanted to parse Nate’s mysteries too, Nate who’d developed into a wholly handsome and desirable young man, even if he never seemed to have a girlfriend.
Instead Carl walked into the alley behind Nate’s house at night, holding a paper bag. There was a small factory just across the alley from Nate’s backyard. The factory made burial vaults, those thick concrete boxes that encase caskets when they go into the ground. The gate to the lot was open, the periphery cordoned off by six-foot concrete walls. Most times the lot was deserted.
Several of the vaults—rejects, maybe—lay in rows inside the lot, glowing gray in the moonlight. Carl perched on top of one and opened the bag, removing a pair of binoculars. He directed them across the alley at Nate’s house. There was Nate in his room, shirtless, staring at his computer. There was Nate’s dad in his pajama pants, closing the curtains to his bedroom. And there was Carl, watching, suspended on the burial vault like a ghost.
THE VIKING
Rob Wolfsham
It was freshman year. I had just moved into Branch Hall, a pretty shitty dorm on campus. But the whole college experience was exciting. I had met my roommate Dustin at new student orientation earlier in the summer. It was a coincidence we picked the same session, and it was a great chance to get to know each other. Dustin’s hot, a nicely built shorter guy, blond Irish, with an annoying upstate, upscale New York accent, foreign out here in West Texas. I made fun of him for the way he said “shower.” It came out “shar.”
This story isn’t about him.
But it was Dustin who, the first week of school, invited me to a party—the party that changed everything. To set the stage: I was a nerd in high school, and while I was now a fledgling hipster in college—at least, I was trying—the scars still showed. Literally: the after-effects of adolescent acne lingered. I’m a pasty guy, real skinny, about one hundred and fifteen pounds, five nine, brown shaggy hair that I usually cover with a black beanie, hazel eyes, sharp nose, long goatee. I’m always messy.
When Dustin described the party, I knew I’d be out of place: he promised a bunch of older, dumbass wrestling and football friends from his hometown—or, I should say, home-rich-fuckelitist-suburb. But it was college. I was one week fresh, with few friends. I was up for anything.
“Awesome,” he said, spraying a retarded amount of Axe body spray on himself. “I’m gonna get you drunk on all kinds of beers, man.”
If Dustin had known I was gay, he might not have promised both hunky men and lots of beer. Too suggestive.
“Rock on,” I deadpanned, checking myself in the mirror and adjusting my tight green military jacket. I pulled the usual black beanie onto my head, and my hair flipped up around it. I didn’t like the look much, but I wasn’t gay enough to care about hair. Hence the beanie. I just hoped I stood out among the frat-tards and their polos, khakis, and loafers. I put on comfy cords with bright red Chuck-T’s. They’d know I was a fag the moment I stepped through the door. I’m not sure why Dustin didn’t.
“Yup,” Dustin continued. “This is where our real college education is gonna happen.” He dug through his drawer and pulled out a strip of condoms: Magnums. Typical dreamer.
“Nice,” I said.
Dustin winked. “And this is where the real partying is.”
He looked away and I rolled my eyes.
We were off in Dustin’s shitty black Camaro. It was an automatic, but he still shifted it like a manual. What a poser. On the edge of town, hundreds of duplex one-story homes all looked the same. It would be a nightmare getting out of there inebriated.
It was obvious where the party was. Dustin followed a herd of jacked-up pickups, SUVs with big wheels (small penis), and, oh, yeah, we spotted a girl throwing up in a front yard. Bingo. Dustin’s excitement as he parked the car a few houses down the street and reached for the case of beer by my feet was palpable, even contagious; almost comforting.
I checked my beanie in the flip-down mirror one more time, frowned at the look, and got out of the car. We walked through the yard behind a group of big-muscled fellows. At that point I really felt out of place. It’s one thing to hear the idea of the party; it’s another to see the actual people.
“Yo D-Man!” said one of the blonds, a six-two ogre. He sidled up next to Dustin, slapping his hand low.
“Ace!” Dustin said. “How ya been, man?”
Ace? D-Man? Great. This was some of the faggiest shit I’d heard since Top Gun. Maybe it will improve my prospects, I thought, but before I could snicker at myself, I was being introduced.
Dustin put his hand on my shoulder. “Ace, this is my buddy and roommate, Marx.”
“Marx?” Ace said like I’d just tried to kiss him. “What kind of name is that? Like the Russian Communist guy?”
“Actually, he was German,” I said.
Dustin slapped both our shoulders and started kneading them, as if bridging a connection between our bodies would remedy the awkwardness. Failure. Oh, wait. Dustin was touching me, and it felt good. Success.
“Whatever!” Ace brightened. “Let’s go get some drunk pussy!” The guys whooped and hollered their way into the house. And I was swept in with the tide of musculature and Axe.
The party was a whirlwind of alcohol, skanks, beer pong, Aberzombie bitches, and some shitty Kanye West playing at an ear-bleeding volume. Something crashed to the floor behind me. I couldn’t turn around to look; I was being pulled through the crowd to the kitchen. Someone poured a shot for me. Dustin’s hand was all over my shoulder. He was my commissar. I was introduced over and over again. Marx! What a name!
One guy had a shaved head, a goatee comparable to my own, with a cutoff shirt revealing strong arms; very buff overall. When Dustin introduced me, he grabbed my balls. He grabbed my balls. He grabbed my fucking balls. With Don Corleone’s sternness. Like he was checking me for breeding stock.
“Oh, yeah, don’t mind that,” Dustin said reassuringly. “It’s his thing. He just grabs your balls when you meet him. Sees if you’re cool or not.”
“Okay…” Ball-grabber glared at me. Dustin said he went by “Rock.” Who the fuck comes up with these nicknames? He lived in the house, it turned out.
How did I do?
Rock winked at me.
I’m in.
I also felt the first pulse of excitement. Well, you would too if a guy that good looking grabbed your balls with the force of a Godfather. Should I have been surprised at the sudden submersion into homomasculinity? Maybe. It wasn’t what I expected.
We celebrated with more shots. I felt more like I belonged as the night went on. Blame alcohol? Blame oddly receptive meat-heads who I prejudged?
By one A.M. I was trashed, slurring, telling silly jokes, feeling girls’ tits for shits and giggles. They giggled. One shit. I’m kidding about that one. But they loved me. I was different. I was a creature from another scene, I had wandered, welcomed, into their Hollister catalogue. I was the ambassador from skinny nerd land. One girl liked my beat-up Chuck T’s and asked where I got them. Thrift store of course. Cool, what’s that? Only the best place to find good shit.
Then I reached that point, that drunk point, where I stopped caring who knows or not. You know what I’m talking about. I started joking about how hot some of the guys looked. The girls loved it. They asked who I thought were the real hotties. I pointed out a few. One guy rubbed his nipple. Laughs all around. Is he joking? Nah, he couldn’t be a fag. He’s not joking, the girls said—he’s got good taste.
“You’re gay?” Dustin blared drunkenly. A Greek god of a wrestler who had lost his shirt was holding my roomie up, stopping him from falling into the entertainment center. Dustin was excited, like he just found five dollars under his pillow.
I shrugged affirmatively. The group made a lot of noise. I couldn’t tell if it was positive or not. Call it “ambiguous drunk reaction.” It spread like a Facebook news feed. That guy’s gay? Yeah, yeah! I’ll drink to that! Me too!
Dustin raised his red cup over his head, as if making a toast. Beer spilled onto his curly hair.
“D-man, watch out,” one bitch in sunglasses yelled, but she wasn’t serious.
“Hey everyone!” Dustin shouted, drunk and stupid. “My roommate’s gay!”
Everyone cheered. Like they were reacting to the tone and not the words, like he just said he was getting married. Some guy shook me by the shoulders. Okay. Thanks.
Now I was a punch line hanging in the air, in limbo, a match in a room suddenly filled to the ceiling fan with gasoline. But it was all cool. The party went on. I drowned my apprehension in Keystone. God, what an awful beer. Everyone got more trashed. Someone thought the cops were coming. Everyone panicked. No. False alarm. Carry on! New song! Madonna came on. Boo! Gangsta rap. Us white people went nuts. Booty dancing all around!
At one point a guy carried me wedding style through a doorway. Put me down. I think it was Ace. I was disoriented, laughing. I’m travel size. Travel-size fag. Travel-size token party fag. Good for all drunk occasions with awkward masculine sexual tension. I’m the homo icebreaker. By now my green military jacket was off. I was in my wife-beater and cords, barefoot. By now, most of the boys had no shirts. I never found my Chuck-T’s. Fuck it. They were five bucks at Savers.
Then I saw him. The one that changed everything. I stopped mid-gulp on my fourteenth beer.
He looked like a Viking, a tall redheaded beast, at least six three, hard to tell when the room was revolving. Fiery hair fell to broad shoulders. He was scruffy around his mouth, his chin, his jaw, bright orange scruff and freckles set off haunting deep-set green eyes. I glanced at his crotch, checking the faint thick outline of his cock against not-too-loose gym shorts, then dropped my gaze—no, by now my stare—to sturdy, red-furred legs; big pale feet; even his toes. I’ve never been one to notice redheads, but he haunted me, chilled me, and set me on fire at the same time. He walked toward me. He must have been in a back room of the house the whole night. Everyone cheered his entrance, but I couldn’t hear them, just a broad roar as he approached. He sat near me on the couch. He spread his legs. I stared again. The party receded into a vague dull moan. I was a thousand feet under an ocean of testosterone. I studied him. He looked at me every few seconds. He said something to someone and gestured to me, then laughed. A couple more laughed. I laughed and finished my drink. One girl’s hands were running all over me. I was numb to it. Another girl whispered something in my ear. I drank again and laughed. His name was Jake, she had said. Jake. Sounded strong. Jake. Maybe it was the K sound. Like “cock.” Either way, he was my Viking.
Dustin grabbed me, pulled me away from the roaming hands and out of my reverie to introduce me to a girl he had been talking to most of night. “This is my gay roommate!” he shouted in her face over the roar of the music, like I was a trophy. Maybe it was Justin Timberlake? Not me. The music. She said nothing, offered a crumpled smile and looked somewhere else. She was one of those girls uninterested in everything. Good luck, D-man.
I went back to my couch seat. A cute built guy patted it as I approached. Fuck, they’re all built, and they saved my seat for me. How kind. I fell into the empty spot and leaned into built boy. He put his big arm around me and I nestled into his muscles and rested my chin on his smooth, maybe shaved, forearm. I rubbed my goatee on it. He tightened his arm around my chest. Someone laughed at my blissful expression. Built boy pulled away and I was sad. Someone awwed. Something patted the beanie on my head. Before I could figure out what or who, the Viking came at me. Danger? No. His hands swooped under me, scooping me up, sweeping me upward. Then higher, one hand pushing hard between my shoulder blades, and one clutching my ass. Yes, clutching my ass. I was inches from the ceiling. Bliss. I let my arms fall. I was flying. I was being pumped up and down. Viking demonstrated his strength with ease, and then set me down gently on the floor. Cheers erupted. This was like some UFC after-hours gayathon. Let’s play deadlift the fag. I had a boner.
“Eh, yeah, but that’s easy!” a meathead shouted. “The guy probably only weighs a hundred pounds!”
“One-fifteen,” I mumbled. I was handed another drink, guzzled it down.
The girls awwed.
Dustin came by to tell me he was gonna go home with the girl. Uninterested was apparently not so uninterested after all. I winked and told him I’d be fine, I’d get a ride later. His eyes glowed with excitement as the girl came to his side, asking if he had found her something-whatever. They went to look for it. I guess they found it. That was the last I saw Dustin that night. I heard later it didn’t work out. The Magnums kept slipping off.
Eventually everyone got too drunk and too tired. By three-thirty, only a third of the partygoers were left. This was the wind-down. Music was turned low, conversation grew sparser. Deeper? Someone started arguing about politics. All I got from it was: McCain shoulda won, Obama was a socialist Muslim who palled around with terrorists, and Sarah Palin was a mavericky VPILF. The conservative rhetoric killed my boner. I stumbled into a bathroom for a piss, fifth time that night, at least, and didn’t bother to close the door
As I was zipping up, the Viking passed by. I slumped against the door frame. He laughed and stopped. I got lost in the tangle of orange hair on his forearm when he braced himself against the wall.
“Hey,” he said. “Marx, right? If you need to crash, man, my casa is your casa.”
“You live here?”
“Yeah. So if you need my bed, it’s all yours, buddy.”
I smiled and leaned my head against the door frame, and my eyes smiled too. My hand found his arm, and I pushed down on it, getting him to lower it. “Thanks,” I said. He walked toward his room and I followed him closely. He looked back and chuckled.
“I’m ready to crash now,” I said, rubbing my face.
He opened the door and showed me his king-sized bed. Football posters covered the walls, along with magazine cutouts and a jersey. I had guessed by then he was a football player. He had the look. I hopped on the bed, crawling across its expanse, sticking my butt out. I do this gay Bambi shit when I feel drunk and cute enough.
“Feels good,” I said falling on my stomach, melting into his cool comforter and pillows. He shook his head and laughed and went into the bathroom. I snuggled more deeply into the sheets.
He left the door open and I heard him pee. And pee. And pee. The man was a beast. A pee beast. (Oh, yeah, this isn’t a water sports story, sorry guys, not my thing. Just a detail.) I was so drunk that I passed out before he finished pissing.
When I opened my eyes, they burned. I was under the sheets and comforter. The house was silent. Dull blue morning light seeped in under the blinds. I had left my fucking contacts in. I blinked painfully and bumped something hairy with my foot. A fucking leg! I shifted to turn and look. The Viking! He was in bed with me! My heart leapt into my throat. He was sound asleep on his stomach, no shirt. The blue light fell on his pale, sculpted body. He was freckled lightly on his back and shoulder blades and biceps. His arms were sprawled out, one hand over his pillow, one under and close to where my head had been. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t want to disturb him. I was still dressed. I quickly pulled my wife-beater off and threw it to the floor. Hey—I was hot. And bothered. Then I fished the eyedrops out of my pocket, put drops in to ease my burning eyes, and pulled off the cords, leaving me in my boxers. I got comfortable.
