The girl snaked her arm around his waist.

  “I’m kind of with Connie,” he said. “How about later?”

  “Well, I kind of need to talk to you now.”

  The girl glared at me.

  “Yeah, okay.” Ron walked a few feet away. I followed.

  “What are you doing?” I asked him.

  Ron looked over my shoulder. “Kind of on a date.” He smiled.

  I moved close and pushed my face in his neck and held him. “I miss you,” I said.

  “Ron?” The girl was back.

  He pushed me away, but I didn’t go too far. “I love you,” I said. “Okay? I want you to know that.”

  The girl stood next to Ron. “What? Are you some kind of faggot?”

  Ron looked nervous. “We’ll talk some other time, okay?”

  I stepped forward again and grabbed him by the head and stared in his eyes and wouldn’t let go. “It’s me,” I said. “Brent.”

  Ron held me back by the collar. “Stop it, okay? Just stop.” “Let’s go,” the girl said.

  Other people stood around gawking. “Hey McDermott, Connie! You in or not?” Some guys a few yards away were waving to them, waiting. They looked at me, and the look said, You’re not invited.

  For one second, we locked eyes, Ron and me.

  “Fuck you,” I said.

  He leaned over and whispered, “I didn’t choose to be a freak, Brent. You did.”

  I stood there unable to move or speak. The girl wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He disappeared in a smudge of smoke and heat. People walked by, gawking and smiling. I didn’t care. I hated them. Then I noticed a guy sitting on the back of a truck by himself. Blond as sunshine, alone. He looked me over then looked away. What the hell? I walked over and stared at him.

  “What are you looking at?” he said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  I could have walked away. He grabbed my arm at the wrist. “Lover’s spat?”

  “What? Fuck no.” I felt mean now, spiteful. There was something dangerous about this guy; I knew it and got a chill but then followed him anyway.

  I love it when men kiss. Eye contact first. Then shared breath. Gentle lips. A little tongue. More lips. More tongue. They suck each other’s lips. Whirl their tongues around. Moaning. They hold each other’s heads. They get rough. Or they’re gentle.

  I was shoved into a car from behind. Two hands on the back of my head. My forehead hit the roof as I went. Then I was shoved into a seated position on the backseat. The car began moving. Two guys sat on either side of me. Up front, the guy I’d been kissing was driving. Another guy in the front looked over the seat at me.

  “What the fuck you looking at?”

  I looked away.

  They started talking.

  “Let’s dump him in the faggot park.”

  “Yeah, the dumb fuck.”

  I started crying.

  The guys in back began slugging me with their fists.

  I had a pet rat once. Daxter. He got sick. His pale-yellow sides heaved as he struggled for breath, and red stuff leaked from his eyeballs. I touched his fur with my fingertip, and he squeaked. I touched him again, and he squeaked. I wanted to hold him, comfort him, except when I touched him, he squeaked. Then he began trying to drag himself away from me. So I wouldn’t touch him.

  I tried to drag myself away from them. They kept kicking and slugging me. I begged them to leave me alone.

  Sunlight. I feel it on my face and imagine a perfect circle around me, like a circle they draw in voodoo to protect or keep evil spirits away. How long will I last? Where am I bleeding? Mom? I see her patching a hole in the knee of my jeans, which is weird, because I haven’t worn those jeans since I was ten. I watch her work the needle into the denim, pull the thread out, work the needle into the denim, pull the thread out. Mom, I can’t wear those jeans anymore. I hear voices. I try to say something. Over here, the naked beaten boy.

  Someone is above me like a streak of white light before becoming a face. I don’t know him. Should I fight? Is it over?

  I feel a hand cupping my forehead, a warm touch. “We’ve got you now,” he says. “You’re all right. Can you hear me?” There’s this song by Madonna. One of the lines goes We only hurt the ones we love. I want to ask this person above me, Do you think Ron loves me? But I can’t spit the words out, only a little blood.

  SUCKSLUTS ANONYMOUS

  Scott D. Pomfret

  “Hi. My name is Michael. I’m a suckslut.”

  “Hi, Michael!” booms a chorus of male voices.

  Michael is standing at a lectern positioned at twelve o’clock in a circle of folding chairs in the yellowed basement of a UCC church. On the wall hang children’s drawings of the Hindu gods and goddesses. There’s burnt coffee on the folding table and Styrofoam cups in towers. A dense pall of smoke lingers near the ceiling lamps. The other men look back impassively.

  Michael is handsome, with a round head, early salt-and-pepper hair, and maybe too much chin. It makes him look cartoonish, like a superhero. It’s his first time at the lectern after listening to other tales of cock-induced misery—the heartache, the chapped lips, the beloved pet Pekinese ruthlessly used to attract what’s your doggie’s name-type men in the park.

  “Here’s how bad I am. On my way over here, there was this hot doorman at the Plaza. Tall, dark skinned, Hispanic maybe. He was wearing one of those frock coats, an old-fashioned bandleader sort of uniform with the epaulettes and the gold braid. Standing, legs apart. A fucking colossus. Thighs like a speed skater. The two sides of his long coat were spread wide. His pants were tight as a bullfighter’s. He jerked his head toward the valet booth, where they keep all the guests’ car keys.”

  One of the men calls out, “Admit you’re powerless against your addiction!”

  “Submit to a higher power,” says Gerry, Michael’s sponsor. He’s a stern, gray eminence with an oversized mouth.

  “I explained to the doorman that I don’t suck cock anymore, that I’m going to meetings and moving along on the road to recovery. He hauled out this slender rock-hard member. Eleven inches. No shit! I’ve seen a lot of cock in my day. I’ve sucked off the so-called baby’s forearms and donkey dicks. Trust me. I don’t exaggerate. It had a dark, almost purple tip. On the underside was a thick blue vein that had its own pulse. I flicked it with my tongue until the shaft was slicked and shiny. His crotch had a stale, mossy smell from the heat and sweat.”

  One of the men in the circle of folding chairs interrupts. “That’s it,” he says. “Bare your…” he takes a long drag on his cigarette before he adds weakly, “…soul.”

  Michael picks up where he was interrupted. “‘Stop fucking around,’ the doorman growled, ‘and suck it.’ So I did. I put my mouth over the tip and got down. It touched the back of my throat before I was halfway down the shaft. His cock throbbed and jumped. His thrust cracked my head back against the underside of the counter. ‘Touch my balls,’ he said. I cupped his sac, lifted his balls, rolled and kneaded. With my other hand, I grabbed the shaft. I did it as much for my balance as for his pleasure. He was pressing against my head, threatening to knock me over.”

  A few brothers slink in late, wiping the jizz from the corners of their mouths. Someone eases over and welcomes them to the meeting. Not a single one of them catches anyone’s eye. Not even the one Michael had just exchanged blow jobs with in the utility closet braves a second glance.

  “I dug fingers into his asscrack. He had a real StairMaster ass. I pulled it apart, slid my fingers into the heat and moisture. My ring finger touched his anus. He moaned and arched back. I pulled him into me, forcing his cock deep into my throat.” Michael’s hands perform a pantomime above the lectern that every eye in the room follows as closely as a child watching shadow puppets.

  “Then he pulled away. He slid the engorged mushroom cap across my glistening lips as he jerked himself off. He was not looking at me so much as at his own member. Then suddenly he spasmed and thrusted. Wet spunk coated my lips and nose and cheekbones. Another spurt reached my forehead, stuck in my hair. Wet, sloppy chunks exploded all over the place; I caught them in my mouth like they were a first snowfall. At that moment, we both heard the voice that might have been speaking for some time already: ‘May I have my Mercedes, please?’ ”

  Michael glances at the circle of men. His face is full of rueful shame. “That’s how bad I am. I truly am a suckslut. I admit it: I’ve lost control.”

  Faces in the front row nod in recognition. Sympathy. Someone walks over to Michael and gives him a hug.

  “What’d you do then?”

  “Well, obviously, I gave the guy in the Mercedes head in return for a ride over here. I had to. I was worried I was going to be late.”

  Glances are exchanged. There’s some perturbation in the ranks.

  “Thank you for that introduction, Michael,” Gerry says. “What else do you feel compelled to share with us tonight?” “Um…well, first, I don’t think of myself as a victim,” Michael responds. “I’m a person who has the power to choose my behavior.”

  “Absofuckinglutely,” someone calls out, but a dozen men who don’t really believe in the piety fidget in their seats. Someone swears after burning himself on an errant splash of coffee.

  “I do truly believe I was born a suckslut.” Michael’s breathing has gotten easier, and there’s an arrogant edge to the way he carries on. He surveys the room. “I sucked my thumb in the delivery room when there was nothing else to turn to. Teachers and babysitters used to remark on my perseverance. I wore my pacifier to a nubbin. As a child, I could suck the color off a lollipop. Everlasting gobstoppers lasted me about ten seconds. Popsicles didn’t have a chance to melt in my mouth. Chrome off a trailer hitch? You betcha. Every Boy Scout leader this side of the Mississippi wanted me in his den.”

  Michael bangs the top of the podium with an open palm. Many in the audience jump and look guilty. Others are staring at the movements of Michael’s mouth; from the looks on their faces, it’s easy to see there’s just one thing on their minds.

  “On my eighteenth birthday,” Michael says, “I sucked off the entire starting line-up of the boys’ varsity basketball team—at a single sitting. I spent a summer at the beach doing nothing but inflating rubber rafts; I put the electric air pump to shame.”

  Michael’s face is earnest, his mouth grim. “I am not proud of these things,” he says, yet he sounds proud. “But the best I ever had? It was a nineteen-year-old Mormon hoops player, size sixteen shoes. A kid who had never before had his dick sucked. I got him naked in the towel room at a resort where he was playing a tournament. A quick compliment, maybe two, and he was showing me everything the good lord had given him. Like all young men’s, his cock was perfectly perpendicular, tight as a tuning fork. And he was so damn proud of it, like a little boy who’d just won the spelling bee. He was eager to show me how his new toy worked. I swear, the load he shot into me, he’d been saving since puberty.”

  Michael lowers his head and swallows deeply.

  “I know it’s wrong,” he says. “Not everything is about sucking a stiffy. There’s lots of other tremendously important things in life…ahem…like, uh, um. Well, I’m having trouble thinking of any. But there are, I’m sure. It’s just that, well, a party without swinging dick—it makes me nervous.”

  “Amen!” shouts somebody in the circle.

  “I’m soothed by dick,” Michael says. He grips both sides of the lectern. He runs his palms rhythmically up and down the polished edge. He lets his fingertips gently caress and adjust the microphone stem. “Swinging dick in loose trousers—like a metronome counting down the minutes until someone blows a load down my throat. You know what I’m talking about.”

  There’s a murmur of something like assent. Something knowing and brotherly.

  “I look at cock in the locker room. I check it out in the shower. I look at it in the urinal. I am the nightmare of every straight man with the Irish curse.” He grips both sides of the lectern as if he might vault himself over it. “My experience is that men like to show off their cocks.”

  There’s an audible cheer this time, but everyone looks as if he’s asking himself: Is a cheer permitted? Shouldn’t we be ashamed of this?

  “You know what I’m talking about!”

  Now there’s an unabashed and thoroughly lusty cheer. Michael steps away from the lectern. He paces the room like a maniac. “There are boys who like it up the ass. There are boys who like to watch. Boys who like toys. But me…my vice? I’m a suckslut. I love cock.”

  He looks at them defiantly. Is anyone going to dare to stir, to yawn, to express anything but loving approbation?

  “It doesn’t mean you’re a bad person,” someone calls out. “No way!” says someone else. It’s a very supportive environment.

  Michael’s hand burrows deep in his pocket. He squeezes his erection through the cloth.

  “Michael,” Gerry says. There’s a tremor in his voice. “I think we’re beginning to get off—off message, I mean.”

  “What about straight cock?” Michael asks. “I had this buddy back in college. He knew I was a suckslut, but he was cool with it. He said, just keep away from mine. He was hot. He buzzed his hair down to the skull. He always had his eyes squeezed slightly shut as if he were squinting in the sun. This guy enjoyed being looked at. He liked to cause a stir. Stroll buck naked down the hall from the shared showers with his towel over his shoulder. He’d stop and talk and absently play with his cock.”

  Hidden behind the lectern, Michael pokes the tip of his cock through his open fly. It’s thick, pale, and too big for his grip. He brings up his hand, licks his palm, reaches down, and begins to stroke.

  “So one day, we were strung out and drinking beers and watching the game in his dorm room. Just the two of us. Sox win, and he changed the channel to “Charlie’s Angels.” It was late, but I wasn’t about to leave. There was something in the air. I had—have—a fine-tuned instinct for cock. Whenever or wherever it’s likely to show its face. My friend peeled off his shirt and threw it at the dirty clothes hamper. He was lying there in just basketball shorts. His hand was beneath the waistband, his eyes on the TV. He yawned and mentioned how horny the Angels made him. All those hot girls. My mouth went dry. I wet my lip with my tongue. There was a rise in my crotch, just as he grabbed his. He had a huge erection; it tented his shorts—a circus big top. He still wasn’t looking at me, but he pulled his basketball shorts down to midthigh. I licked down his shaft and pulled at the folds of his loose, fleshy sac. I bobbled the nuts with my tongue. He eased down and put his hand on my shoulder and said, ‘Easy. Real slow.’ So I licked and lapped and pulled a tube of piña colada-flavored gel from my pocket. It was my sixth dick that day; I figured I was due for some dessert. I squeezed out a dab and worked it into the stiff flesh with my fingers. When I went down again, he became quiet as death. His eyes were still closed. A light scrape of teeth made him tighten and go, ‘Mmmmmm.’ Sucking his cock was like choking up on the sweetest baseball bat in the world. Drool and lube matted his pubes. I tweaked his nipple with one hand. ‘I’m gonna jizz,’ he said. I pulled away and milked the shaft, staring at that eye at the tip, ready to catch the load that squirted free. His belly tightened, abs in stark relief. And then a thick chrism spilled down his shaft, like from a slow-flowing volcano. I caught gobs of the stuff in my hands and licked it warm off my fingers. He groaned quietly, and then immediately fell asleep. Man, he tasted so good, it made me want to cut off his shorts and run away with them so I’d have something to remember him by.”

  Affirmative grunts rise from the circle of men. Michael’s dick throbs. The tip is sticky. The balls are drawn up in his sac. His mouth aches for something hard and fleshy. For a moment, he leaves off stroking.

  “Not that I think that’s a good thing,” he says. His tone suggests the contrary: that it’s a very good thing indeed.

  “Michael,” Gerry warns, “maybe you’re not quite ready…” Michael points at him. On Michael’s finger, a flick of pre-cum glints under the dim light. “I know what you’re thinking, Gerry: this is too self-aggrandizing. Too much of me in the telling. But I’m the first to admit that I am not in the top ranks of sucksluts. The professionals. The kings.”

  Michael’s accusing finger moves around the circle and comes to rest on a diminutive middle-aged man in a seersucker suit. “My modest friend Matt the Mouth, that’s him there. From personal experience I can tell you it doesn’t get any better. I bow down before him.”

  Michael inclines his head.

  “Even at his age, he’s unerring,” says Michael. “A prodigious talent. He can size up a fellow at a hundred yards and rattle off the stats: cut/uncut, length, fast or slow, pubes trimmed or curly, teeth or no teeth, purple head, veiny, crooked—you name it, this guy can feed you the scoop. Some of it experience, but some of it a gift. ‘Gotta be good at something,’ Matt always says. Unfailingly humble. He always lets you have first choice. And he doesn’t mind sharing a stray cock now and again. A real saint.”

  Men crane their heads to get a look at the object of Michael’s praise. Michael shakes a knowing finger to temper their spirits.

  “But my friends, whether you’re Matt, or you’re me, or you’re you, you know as well as I do—it starts to get you in trouble. Cock will do that. You know how it goes.”

  “Say it, brother!”

  “What was your rock bottom, Michael?” Gerry prompts. “Don’t be afraid to share.”

  “Oh, man. Like when my boss stopped by my desk three days running, and each time I was in the men’s room sucking off the new fresh-off-the-boat hottie janitor. Or when my doctor determined that—by volume—my daily diet consists of nine-tenths jizz. Or the fact that my tongue muscle is bigger than my biceps. And no ChapStick can ever soothe my calloused lips.”

  He opens his mouth. At the sight of that well-used maw, ready for action, a few flies unzip in a kind of Pavlovian reaction, as if Michael’s mouth has gravity, capable of drawing cock to him from around the solar system. Sweat breaks out on Gerry’s brow. His iron self-control begins to waver.

 

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