No mention was made, that I recall, of the missing G. boy's footwear. His disappearance was big news that summer, in our small community, and people gossiped about it nonstop but, whereas the CLOTHES he was said to have been wearing, when last seen, was described, his footwear was not. (👟👟, surely?)
The G. family lived near a boulevard that had a very wide median of golden grass running through it, separating its four asphalted lanes, and down which giant hydro towers lurched. The G. boy's bike was found abandoned in this golden grass. His eldest brother would search for him on his motorcycle.
It was one of my host's three brothers who went missing (my host at the Halloween party), and whose body was later discovered in the woods behind our school. I was nine when this happened, and possibly (probably?) nine at the party. I never stepped foot in that house again, after the disappearance.
I went to a Halloween house party, in junior high. I was dressed as an old man, in my mother's trench coat. My rubber mask, bald on top, with fluffy white hair on the sides, fit right over my head. Because of my naturally long eyelashes, and the softness of my fingers, my host thought I was a girl!
I asked him if I could blow him, and he said, "What are you doing for Halloween?" "Nothing," I said. (I would've liked to have gone to a party, in a cozy little hall, like the one in the Peanuts TV special—warmly lit, in the night—but I didn't say this.) "Do you wanna be gangbanged in a cemetery?" 🎃
I want to be hugged by him—for a long time. Is the black part of his jacket softer than its silvery sleeves? His T-shirt must be soft. And his beard... I wouldn't try to kiss him (he's not gay), but I'd feel his whiskers, on my cheek. He's consoling me, is he? What's happened? (I don't care at all.)
I went with him, but only for some jack-off material later, mental images of cute guys I might see there. I often fantasize about being fucked by a good Christian boy: he's in his Sunday best (half out of it) when he's fucking me, and this fuck takes place either just before or just after Holy Mass.
I offered to blow him, and he took it "well," considering the fact that he was straight: he offered to take me to his church, that very night, where I'd be among friends and, hopefully, find the very best friend I could ever hope to have: Jesus Christ. WTF! I hate it when guys don't conform to type.
He's straight. Figures: I'm most strongly drawn to straight guys. (Wouldn't you find blowing a straight guy hotter than blowing a gay one?) He's promiscuous, with women—so, emotionally immature. Maybe I can get something out of him after all, exploit that boyish, angry side of him, bring it out? 💪💥👅
Guys who wear tops like this know they're hot, and want to make me suffer. They want this carelessly, though; if they register me glancing at them (discreetly—I'm a fraidy-cat hypocrite), it's only half-consciously, at best. My only hope is that their sadism runs deeper than mere exhibitionism. 💪🏾🐈💥👅
I wanna lick his arms. Then lick his ASSHOLE. I LOVVVVVE licking guys' assholes. It's crazy, eh? They shit from there, but I wanna put my mouth there and SUCK. Suck and jack, suck and jack...! I'd do it right in this parking lot, I don't care who's watching. I don't care if GOD is watching—fuck HIM!
What a nice smile! He's my favourite. I want to KISS him! Is he a terrible flirt, knowing he can get anyone he wants? But that's part of his charm, too, eh, his teasing and trifling with us? Of course, I want to BLOW him, five seconds after seeing him. Can I pull off playing hard to get? I doubt it!
Coach stands comfortably in his big body, all the guys calm down when he's around. You can stay after class and ask him a question; you make one up, just to be near him and that lulling influence. You feel so good sometimes, you feel like crying—like climbing into his arms and hugging him, so CLOSE!
Coach was just in gym shorts and a T-shirt, but his muscles (calf, thigh and forearm (sprinkled with red-blond hair: he's a ginger)), biceps, kept him warm, in the cold autumn air. His gym shorts and T-shirt were a stark, babyish white, luminous beneath a leaden sky, a beacon in the leafless scrub.
Coach saw us from his office window, and came out and got us. The others scrambled ahead, through the brushwood, and Coach brought up the rear with me, his hand on my shoulder. (It was fall, so I had a jacket on.) We'd been looking for the G. boy's gravesite; the yellow police tape was finally gone.
Then douses me with a divine bladderful of warm, stinking urine. Gets the handkerchief, and my face beneath it, good and wet, sopping wet—I'm drowning in GOD'S LOVE! Opening my mouth and sucking in the tasty (headcheesy?) cloth! Will he leave me out here, until I "change face"? Or knock my head off?
He gives me a ride on the back of his motorcycle—I'm holding onto GOD'S WAIST! Walks me into some woods and tells me to turn around. He blindfolds me, covers my entire face with, presumably (it's still warm), the handkerchief (?) he was wearing over his. He tells me to get down on my knees, f*ggot.
Are the tenants watching? Fuck 'em! I hate them ALL. Hate anything that isn't masculine, virile—COCK! Actually, I welcome their stares, their contempt, subjecting them to this show I'M THE FUCKING STAR OF, FUCKERS! Mothers, send your sons out to me, grown men still (nasty, horny) little boys inside.
I kiss the red tips first, my lips to his... leather? rubber? ones. Above him, behind him, in the long perspective, the glowering sky is perfect: he is a god, angry with me for neglecting him, but come down to give me a chance to finally worship him, in person. I'm drooling on hallowed asphalt here.
In the parking lot, I drop to my knees, slowly. Get down on all fours and crawl to him, kissing the asphalt, the ground he may have walked on. "Please, sir," I beg, between kisses. "Stomp on my head." But he is/will be a KIND master, who, when I reach him, only raises his sneaker, its sole, to me. 🧎♂️
Wow! The talking and singing guys really look real! I like the guy at 30 sec—his singing makes him hotter! We lived on the edge of an Italian neighbourhood when I was growing up, and there was this guy YOUR guy reminds me of: Johnny Ciccone, I had a crush on. I used to go to his church to see him! ⛪
From Coach D.'s office window, we can see the woods where the murdered G. boy's body was found. Titus takes me there, on the back of his bike, and fucks me, face down in the dirt. (This doesn't really happen; the school and woods were razed, and condos put up, where people are just waiting to die.)
Marc plays hockey. One time, I go watch him, at the arena. I can't really see him, inside all his gear. I hope he doesn't see ME, in the stands. There aren't many people here, but it's not well lit; cold and gloomy, kind of depressing, but you sip your cocoa (you get at the snack bar) and watch. ❄️🏒♥️
His name is Danny, Marc's brother. There's a field behind their house, with tall grasses and wildflowers growing in it, beneath steel hydro towers that look like giant robots, walking. Cain killed his brother outside, was it with a rock? I think Marc and Danny would be very beautiful in their field.
Marc's at the bathroom, and his younger brother comes in. He calls me a f*g—very calmly, quietly; he's younger than I am (by two years?), but very sure of himself. His eyes are cold, they don't change. He really doesn't like me. I didn't think he knew me. He won't hit me, but I know he'd like to.
