Wizard of Oz

The house burns. 

I almost trip over her corpse as one hand stuffs a deflated blow-up doll into my shirt, and the other wipes blood off my chest with a brochure for St. Albany’s School of Excellence. Seven in nine of their graduates end up in ivy league schools. Impressive.

The campus is state of the art. First rate, grade A heroin for helicopter moms. The gym features a full size weight room, two olympic swimming pools, and suspension ropes for aspiring gymnasts. 

“I want Jonny to have the best education,” I tell her, between not staring at her breasts and looking at the pools. “If only Veronica could see this…”

“We can schedule a second tour if you like—” the guide leans in and raises an eyebrow, “for your wife?”

It’s generally not considered polite to talk about car accidents, cancer, or dead spouses with strangers. I drop them all into her DD cups in a single line.

Then her blue plaid blouse is on the floor of janitor closet #4, the math wing. Superior to #7, the science wing. No one left an open container of Clorox bleach on the shelf.

Next is St. Mary the Immaculate’s School for Girls. Cushioned indoor track. Virtual reality computer lab. Red headed tour guide. Tears. Dead wife. Supply closet.

Wilconsin’s School for Excellent Children. Equestrian program. Dead wife. Tack room.

Academy of Arts. Dark Room.

School of Science and Space.

You get the idea.

“Tell me about your son,” she glares through thick glasses. Forehead stretched as taught as her bun. Thirty couples walk the halls waiting their turn. Her day hasn’t even started.

Tears are good, with manly control. Shudders and shoulder trembles draw them closer. A solid, “I promised I wasn’t going to do this today,” is gold. Avoid snot bubbles. Passion turns to disgust with the first pop.

I get through my dead wife routine, composure mostly maintained. A good show.

Her pencil stops tapping.

“That’s very touching,” she says.

Her name is Margret. 

She strives for her students to finish first. I love her for it. It saves my life.

“But, it doesn’t answer my question.” Margret looks at the stack of student files left to interview, “What makes Jimmy special?”

If a dead mom doesn’t make a kid special, what does?

Margret sets her pencil down.

“Look. There are countless couples who want their kid short listed. So, I’m going be blunt. Is that OK?” She waits for me to nod. “Good. Tell me what you or Jimmie can offer to get him on the list?”

***

Sexual anhedonia is caused by medications, physical conditions, and psychosis. It’s the joke without a punchline of a sexual disorder. Unlike erectile disfunction, everything works. The zucchini gets hard. You can mash that potato whenever you want. 

Sex therapy is supposed to help. So is exercise. I spend thirty minutes a day doing Kegel’s to strengthen my pelvic floor. It doesn’t.

Imagine cooking pulled pork. Eight hours of slow cooking bliss. The kitchen fills with the succulent smell of rendered fat and BBQ sauce. The warm tug as you pulled the loin apart with your hands. Five minutes under the broiler crisps the edges to perfection. You plate the meal. Set the table. Sit down. But don’t eat. 

Yes, you’ve satisfied your senses on the process. You’ve gained fulfillment by making perfection. But no matter what you do. No matter how many meals you prepare. You can never take a bite. You live in constant hunger.

That is sexual anhedonia. You get all the sweat and cum, but none of the fun.

Can you imagine the lengths a person would go to achieve an orgasm?

***

I pick up Thai and a tail on my way home. Two lights and three turns after Thai Nana Plaza, I see the blue Malibu. Four cars back and keeping pace.

After a closet rendezvous some people feel guilt. They tell their therapists. They tell their spouses. They tell their friends. Who do you think needs to watch their back? When I was younger, before I knew better, I found myself with slashed tires and broken bones. I’ve learned. Now I watch the rearview. 

It doesn’t take much to loose an amateur. Pros are harder. A few quick turns, run a red light, and the Malibu’s gone. Coincidence, maybe. Stranger on a night drive, probably. Better safe than broken.

***

I get home to Veronica waiting, hair done up, make up on, and mad as hell. Like always, she sits at the dinner table. The thai is as cold as she is, so we eat in silence. It fits us like a glove.

When it’s time for bed, she shows me her back. This is the signal. Three days ago I told her I was horny as all hell, so she’s right on time. Three days, every time, like resurrection clockwork.

Twenty minutes of back rubbing. Fifteen minutes of manual stimulation. Five minutes of cunilingus. She manages to touch me right before penetration. Its clinical. Just enough to make sure I’m hard. After that, she doesn’t touch me again. Doesn’t kiss me. Can’t even look at me. This ends the same for me every time. Nothing.

Alden’s Organic Vanilla Bean Ice Cream is considered the best in the world. An investment banker told me during a school tour. How they process the beans draws out a depth in the flavor that causes people to go mad. They’ll stand in line for hours just for a taste. For vanilla. Vanilla fucking ice cream. Sure as a pallet cleanser. A free cone at someone else’s birthday party. Maybe throw in a sprinkle of road head, a squeeze of bondage, with some butt play on top. I’m mixing metaphors. 

The point is, no one can survive on a diet of vanilla alone.

My first therapist said anhedonia can be cured. It was just a matter of finding the right stimulus. It was possible to walk the yellow brick road of sexual experimentation to the Orgasm of Oz. You just need the willpower to keep trying.

***

The call comes at 4:30 am. Blocked number. I answer anyway.

“You still want Jimmie on the short list?” asks Margret.

I get to her place as the blue of the sky starts taking over from the night. Big house. Stone. Fruit trees on the lawn. And Margret hitting my thighs with a whip, clad in skin tight leather, screaming, “When you finish the dishes you’re going to wash the floor. I want to see my reflection in it!”

***

Working on the belt isn’t as bad as people think. It’s about seeing what’s different. Like that Sesame Street Song, “One of these things is not like the other.” Except instead of fruit it’s prophylactics. 

As each foil wrapped string slides by they are visually inspected for punctures and tears. Any damage to the container and they’re pulled. Marked for destruction. One in every four-hundred receives manual inspection. One condom randomly chosen from the strip is rolled on and off a baseball bat. If the condom fails before the seventh application the whole batch is pulled. Marked for destruction. It’s an insurance thing. Failure testing is not my department. I just inspect and remove.

The belt vibrates as the condoms go by. If you lean into it just right it provides constant stimulation. I’ve been employee of the month for over a year now. I’m dedicated to this job.

One guy in the New York Plant was employee of the month, too. He came at work early every morning. Better than reading the newspaper with his Mrs. He told me about the vibrations. Two years ago he went bare nut to wheel and they found him dead two hours later as clean cut as a bloody Ken doll. Supposedly, a couple in Illinois won the prophylactic lottery, they found a nut and half his shaft.

Insurance says there’s supposed to be a plexiglass barrier on all observation posts. No one listens.

At the end of the day I load all the marked for destruction rejects into my trunk. The foreman helps. He saves overhead not running an incinerator 24/7, and I’m the largest blackmarket distributor of wholesale condoms in 200 miles. Most of the rejects are actual rejects. Some are perfectly fine and pulled to fill customer orders.

My biggest clients are clubs, travel agents, and college vending machines. The vending machines are the real money makers. I sell 1,000 count a week to the resupply technician at 3/4 standard wholesale rates. We both make a bundle.

If you’ve bought a condom from a club for a private dance or “drinks” in the champaign room, you’ve bought from a guy like me. Was it a reject or taken from the line to fulfill an order? Toss a coin. If you get anything but heads there’s a good chance you just won child support.

***

After I finish weeding Margret’s garden and deepening the edging, she pushes me onto her couch. Like her students, she wants her lovers to finish first. She says it’s to deplete sperm count, reducing the chance of pregnancy. I think it’s about the control of keeping me hard after ejaculation.

She disappears under a weighted blanket before taking me into her mouth. It’s four or five inches thick. The blanket. If anyone walked in, they wouldn’t even know she was there.

I enjoy eye contact and the curves of a woman’s back, but the blanket makes it easier. Faking an orgasm while staring into someone’s eyes as they drool smile like they’re doing you a favor is tedious. Facial contortions. Eye rolls. The whole kabob – waisted effort. I finish, but there are no fireworks or tingling limbs. No elation, euphoria, come to Jesus moment of release. Just me. Empty. 

There are times when it is right there. When the building pressure leads to a momentary spasm of promise. Like the sun coming over the horizon, about to warm your face with early morning rays — only to plunge back into darkness again. Unfulfilled.

***

The travel agents don’t like me bringing my wares through the front door. They worry people will ask why they buy hundreds of single serve condoms at a time. They couldn’t just be honest. Lay it all out. How do people think they stay in business with GroupOns, Trip Advisors, and other large tech taking over the travel game? What kinds of “trips” do people think they arrange these days?

I unload the boxes onto stacks of dusty timeshare brochures, and go up front to collect payment. 

Syed has been a customer from the beginning. He arranged my first dungeon experience. I give him a discount.

He gives me a check and tells me to go to Malibu — hot girls, great party scene, real crazy stuff — when the door bell jingles. 

“Hey there, stranger,” a voice says. “Planing a trip for you and little Jonny?”

St Albany’s School of Excellence. Blue plaid blazer. Janitor closet #4, math wing. 

“Bora Bora,” I tell her, not staring at her tits. “I was thinking sunny beaches for Christmas.”

She squeezes my arm to her chest.

“You are such a good dad,” her lips quiver enticingly. “I don’t know if I could be so strong if—”

And she bursts. Pulls me into her cushy embrace. Warm tears running down my neck from her cheeks. I feel it. Actual passion. Desire. Today is the day. I am going to finally reach Oz. Pressure builds. She pulls me tight. I’m about to pull her into the back room. Throw her down on the dusty time share brochures… and her snot bubble pops in my ear.

***

The drive home is tedious. One more day. Two minutes from home and I’m so distracted by failure I almost miss it. A hint of blue five cars back. The tail. 

I drive straight on Sinclair instead of right on Jackson. An immediate left to Kimble, left again to Johnson. Another hint of blue. I speed through a red light at Four Corners Intersection and slam into a driveway between two pickup trucks. Thirty seconds later the blue Malibu slowly prowls by. And there’s DD cups, Mrs. Snot Bubble herself, scanning the road. 

Our meeting at Syed’s wasn’t a coincidence. She got on my trail. But for how long, what has she seen, and why?

A neckless bruiser in a wife beater that matches his truck pounds on my window. “What the hell do you want?” he asks.

I smile. “Do you have time to talk about our Lord and savior?”

***

Veronica is silhouetted in the dinning room window when I get home long after dark. She doesn’t speak when I get in. No dinner on the table. She didn’t touch the breakfast I left her, and there’s no chance she’s going to touch me. Just stares. Cold.

I shower and make us sandwiches for dinner. Peanut butter and jelly. Barely a meal. We eat in silence.

***

The phone call comes at 1:30 pm. Blocked number. Margret.

“Get here now,” she demands through the phone. “And if you want the short list, bring your wife.”

I try to convince her otherwise. I don’t have a wife, or girlfriend, dead or otherwise. Try to tell her the truth when the lies don’t work. She doesn’t listen.

“I followed you home tonight, asshole,” Margret says. “I saw her silhouette in the window. You have an hour.”

She hangs up.

Fucking silhouettes.

I get Veronica in the car and talk the whole way. I explain everything. Every sordid detail. Every casual liaison. I try to explain what makes one closet better than another. Snot bubbles. Sexual anhedonia. I did it all for little Johnny. She doesn’t say a word.

When we arrive she won’t get out of the car, so I carry her up the steps. The light of the opening door falls across our struggle, Margret is all laughs and memories of leather.

“Oh! This will be fun,” Margret giggles, and leads the way inside.

***

The living room is entombed with candles. Soft music plays. An open bottle. Glasses.

“Tonight will be different,” Margret says, sipping her wine. I pour a glass for Veronica, anything to make this easier. 

“No chores. No work. Just sex,” Margret smiles.

“Let her leave,” I plead. “She has nothing to do with this.”

“No,” says Margret, and pushes me onto the couch. “She watches.”

And she disappears under the weighted blanket.

If it weren’t for the sounds of suction and casual gags, it would be easy to pretend we were alone, Veronica and I. Music and candle light. A romantic evening. The things normal couples do. Normal couples who are not us.

As my tension builds, I can’t look at her. I can’t meet her eyes. She won’t look away. This is what she’s always wanted. This is her ticket out. After tonight, she can wait as many days as she wants before showing her back. She can not touch, not kiss, not look at me as much or little as she pleases. She sits triumphant, and I stare out the window just waiting for it to be over.

And the window stares back.

In the darkness of the night, the candle light reflects off the contours of a face. Blue eyes. Angry scowl.

“Ohh. Fuck!” I scream.

“Let me have it,” Margret moans. “Don’t hold any back.”

“Don’t move,” I tell her. Stiffening, holding her head in place. The window breaks.

“This is what you want!” a voice yells, as I don’t stare at her tits. “This is what you chose over me?”

Margret bites down in shock.

“No!” I cry, picturing bloody Ken dolls.

“This could have been me. I loved you.” DD says, wiping tears with her right hand, showing me the gun. “I loved you, and you treat me like this?”

Fuck. This is my moment.

“I’m sorry,” I say, trying to keep Margret still under the blanket. “I don’t even know your name.”

“You,” DD’s head shakes uncontrollably. Tears. Snot bubbles. “How can you say that? We love each other.”

I look at Veronica, “I don’t know her. She was a closet fling. I don’t know why she’s doing this.”

DD barely looks at Veronica. The gun comes up. BANG. Right in the head. The bullet passes cleanly through shattering a bottle of wine and launching candle-wax and flame across the floor. Margret jumps at the sound, I can barely keep her head still.

The motion combined with the smell of burning plastic as Veronica slowly deflates onto a bed of candles pushes me into high gear.

“Welcome to Munchkin Land” blasts through my head.

DD sees the blanket move at my lap.

“That’s what gets you going?” she screams. “A fucking doll? Well it’s too fucking late. There’s only one way to deal with trash like you.”

She points the gun at my head.

A tornado. Falling houses. Fields of poppies. Lions. Scarecrows.

“I’m going to take the only thing you care about,” tears stream down her face as she lowers the gun towards my crotch.

“NO!” I yell. 

She fires.

I explode.

All hail the Wizard of Fucking Oz.

By Royal Decree

I hesitated at the doorway, looked left and right down the corridor, then knocked. Knock-knock, pause, knock-knock-knock, pause, knock. The code I’d paid for.  God, I hated these places. Couldn’t believe I’d sunk this low. 

I turned the knob, sticky from god-knew-what—I didn’t want to know. 

“Welcome.” 

A youthful voice. My lips pulled back into my cheek. The right side only. I felt it. The pull. Felt it because I tried not to show my delight.

I stepped from dark corridor into darker room, let the heel of my snakeskin boot tap the door closed.

“Make yourself at home.” The youth’s words, syruped with drink, stumbled from across the room. 

A light flashed. Moved through the air. Landed on a stubble of candle wax. Phosphor smell burst through the air, then poof, disappeared, replaced by the scent of vanilla, and something I couldn’t quite put my finger on. A rotten lemon? A decaying tuna sandwich? Vomit? My stomach tightened. Why couldn’t I turn around? Leave?

“Don’t be shy. The bed’s right there.” 

Now I could see who owned the voice. Nice looking. Had me by an inch or two. The hair reminded me of Black Minx, the horse I’d lost a bundle on at Doomben. On a photo finish no less. Should’ve listened to Charlie Hersch. He warned me that filly would stay undefeated. The Minx’s mane was longer than the kid’s, which fell just past the collar of his shirt. Looked like a silk shirt. Black silk. Or maybe midnight blue. Or deep plum. 

I slid my fingertips across my bottom lips, thinking—color, not a difference to make a difference. I rubbed my bottom lip against my teeth, an old habit I had no intention on breaking, except in front of news cameras. Now skin color? That would make a difference. A big difference. 

But Billy Ray knew where I stood on that matter. Christ, every voter in Dawson County knew where I stood on that matter. 

Candle light flicked shadows across the kid’s pale face. 

I loosened the tie around my neck. “Where’s the goddamn air in this place?”

“A.C.’s down. Billy Ray says heat’ll add to the atmosphere.” 

“If I wanted to screw in a sauna, I’d go to my club.” No. Not my club. Somebody else’s club. “Shit.” No A.C.? In fucking west Texas? “I paid Billy Ray good money. I should have comfort.” 

“Billy Ray isn’t into comfort.” 

“Flexing his sadistic muscle, is he?” 

“Paying me to provide the comfort.” 

I unbuttoned the top button on my shirt, forced my breathing to slow, forced my blood pressure down. No sense getting worked up over something you couldn’t change. Wasn’t that what I told city counsel just this morning? 

“I’ve had my fill of arguing,” I told the kid. “Got enough of that with people at work. Every fucking day. Makes the goddamn office a pressure cooker.” 

I removed the linen handkerchief from my pocket and wiped my forehead. “From one pressure cooker into another, huh?” A chuckle strangled my windpipe. 

“You’re smiling.”

“Pretty funny.” Wasn’t funny at all. I ought to get a medal for how well I hold it together. “I’ve got a right to let off steam. Any way I see fit.” I removed my jacket and tossed it on the bed.  

A sandstone-colored sheet I assumed was once white covered the mattress. Spotted, dark stains reminded me of Old Joe, the mongrel who shared my home for fourteen years. 

Where the hell did that thought come from? Old Joe was dead. Dead for three fucking years. What’s that mutt doing raising his ugly head now? 

Maybe that’s what I need, a new mongrel. One who runs to me when I come home at night, wagging his tail, lapping my hand, slobbering his delight.

“Sheet’s clean.”

I jumped when the kid whispered, close, sudden, into my right ear. Nearly peed my pants. God I hated being startled. 

The kid placed a gentle hand on my forearm. “Sorry.” The word almost dripped, like thick, raw molasses. “I didn’t mean to scare you. . . . unless you want to be scared.”

“I . . . ah—” 

“All you need to do is describe your wishes.” 

Wishes? My wishes? I’d made a living out of bartering other people’s dreams. My own had died long ago.

“Your first time?” he asked.

What a laugh. “Yours?” 

The kid glanced away, hesitated. “I’ve got experience.” 

Hmm. A dodge. I’d obviously struck a nerve. I tried to keep my eyebrows level, my lips from smiling. I’d heard first timers worked harder to please. I waited for the squirm. 

“Why don’t you give me a name I can call you?” he said. “Bob, Leonardo, Mr. Smith . . .?”

“It’s . . . King.” A slight rise in my voice tipped off my deceit.

The kid hesitated again, either spotting the lie or about to make one up. “Then King it will be.” 

Now I did smile. Wise kid. Knew a big tip depended on making nice.  

“And you can call me . . . Prince.” He took my arm and guided me to the bed. “Come over here.” 

He had a knack, this kid. He almost made his voice sweet as a woman’s. A new admiration spread inside me. So did Hope. The hope that I’d find what I was searching for, what I’d had to deny needing. Deny needing for way too long. I could help the kid get somewhere in this business. 

I sat on a mattress that must’ve been stuffed with the county’s best caliche soil. Hard, lumpy, and moist.  “Christ, it’s hot in here.” 

Prince stood before me and unbuttoned my shirt. 

My shoulders dropped and I rolled my head from side to side, heard the crackling as I stretched out the kinks. Prince must’ve heard it too. He slipped warm hands under the opening of my shirt, kneading the tension from my neck. 

A burst of needles radiated from my elbows, ran cold prickles through my arms and chest as my torso shivered. A sound I didn’t even recognize as my own moaned from deep inside me. 

“How about a drink, King? Be right back.” 

A drink? Now? Did the kid think I wasn’t ready? He trying to enhance my pleasure or get me loaded, make his work easier? Or maybe it was the kid who wasn’t ready. Maybe Prince was as confused as I. 

I used the time while Prince was out of the room to scan the nightstand, not really a piece of furniture, rather a pile of cinderblocks with a wood slab on top. A candy dish with a half dozen assorted condoms and finger rubbers sat in the center. An opened package of Juicy-fruit gum, a matchbook with “The Hot Spot” embossed on the cover, and a ballpoint pen lay to one side.  A Gideon Bible sat toward the back, looking as crisp and untouched as the day it was printed. 

Was the Bible a reminder? A portent to go home? Prince returned with a glass of pale amber liquid. I held it for a long while before drinking it. What if it was spiked? Or poisoned straight out? I twirled it under my nose. It smelled like weak beer. It tasted flat, stale. 

“It’s my own concoction,” Prince said. “How do you like it?”

“Different. It’s different.” 

“That’s me. Nothing common about me.” Prince pulled his tee shirt over his head and tossed it onto a chair. Cream-colored skin flickered in the candlelight. Obvious the kid didn’t work outside, but he did do some sort of physical work. Tight abs. Defined muscles. He nodded to my glass. “Feel better?”

“Sure, thanks.” Actually, I did feel better. Relaxed. I reached out and touched the kid’s hard chest. The softness of his black hair reminded me of the negligee my wife wore on our honeymoon. “Shit.”

“What?”

“Damn thoughts keep popping into my head.” What the hell was happening to me? I gulped down the rest of the unnamed elixir. “How about we talk first. Okay?” My words surprised me as much as the thoughts about Old Joe and my wife. 

“Sure.” The muscles in Prince’s face softened, his eyes relaxed, his shoulders lowered.

Or perhaps it was a reflection of my own relief. 

“‘Your nickel’ as my grandfather used to say. As long as you realize the meter’s still ticking, talk away, King.” Prince lay on the bed, his arms bent, hands under his head. 

The pose oozed an invitation I fought against receiving. 

I paced the short length of floor by the side of the bed. “How much is Billy Ray paying you, Prince?”

“Why?” More curiosity than distrust. Good. Definitely an amateur.

“Maybe I can pay you more. If you can be discreet.”

He got up on his elbows. “I’m listening.” 

Ah ha. He needs money.

“You clean?”

“I don’t have any drugs, if that’s what you’re looking for. But if you’re worried about sex, I’m cleaner than a bar of soap.”

“Why you doing this?”

He sat up. “None of your damn business.”

I sat next to him, laid a palm against his cheek. Clean shaven. Smooth. “I want to make it mine. Bet your family doesn’t know you’re queer. Bet that’s why you sell it—to get it.”

His jaw muscle pulsed. He pulled my hand from his face. “Sorry, King, I’m not paid to give you my family history. You want to talk, tell me about yourself.”

“I can’t do that.” I stood and took a fifty out of my wallet. Placed it on the nightstand. 

He looked from the money to me to the money again. Then crossed his arms over his chest and gazed straight ahead. I took another fifty from my wallet and waved it in front of him. He followed my movements. I laid the bill atop the other. 

Prince stared at the money and exhaled between pursed lips. “It’s complicated.”

“Always is. Do they love you?” 

He looked off to his left, ran his gaze along the side wall, up and down, sucked in the corner of his lip. He shook his head, just tiny back-and-forth movements, while staring at the wall. His gaze lower to his hands and they closed into fists. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath and released his clenched hands. He took another deep breath, then sprung to his feet. “So how do you like it, King?”  

I yanked off my boots, dropped my pants. “I’ll show you. Get undressed.” 

Prince stripped and I regretted the command. Without saying a word, his body, lean and full of youth, shamed my soft chest, my flabby gut, my marshmallow derrière. Christ, I’d become my old man. “No!”  

“No what, King?” 

Sweat hid under my hairline, ran like sideburns past my ears, dribbled down my forehead. I glanced at the door. He’d be coming home from work soon. Don’t you love me, Daddy? My hands flew to my head. “No!” My son’s voice? My own?

I recoiled from the bed. Two steps and my back was to the wall. 

“Hey, man. It’s all right.” He took a small step forward, tested the ground for explosives. “It’s all right, King. No one’s going to hurt you.”

My vision blurred. My son came toward me, whispering, Don’t you love me, Daddy? My son morphed into me, I was approaching my father, whispering, begging, Don’t you love me, Daddy?

Love you? How could I love a queer like you? Was it Daddy talking or was it me? “You disgust me.”

“Okay,” Prince said. “If this is how you like it.” 

“Like it?” How could a man like having a homo for a son? 

“I can get you to like it.” 

In one step Prince was in front of me, pressing his bare chest against mine. Pressing an erection next to mine, crushing me against the wall, whispering in my ear. “You’ll like this.” His fingers grabbed my hard, oozing cock. Christ, I couldn’t help myself. I moaned and threw my head against the wall, arching my chin to the ceiling. Prince tightened his grasp and my knees went weak. I pressed against the wall to stay on my feet. 

“Yeeeeessssss,” I called to the ceiling. 

Prince licked my chest, sucked on a nipple, dragged his tongue down the center of my body. He took me into his mouth, working his tongue and suction in harmony, his hands crawling around my ass, kneading and pressing and probing. I spread my knees like a cowboy posting a horse. Oh, god. Why’d I stay away for so long? The kid was so fucking good. I grabbed Prince’s head and thrust it harder against me, pushing myself deeper into the kid’s throat. I came quickly, shuddered and shrunk in the kid’s mouth. My back traced the wall to the floor. 

Prince lowered himself with me until we were both lying on the small floor, not even caring about the last time it was vacuumed. Prince propped himself on an elbow, pulled a hair off his tongue, wiped the sweat off my temple with his fingertips. “That wasn’t so hard to like, now, was it?” 

I closed my eyes and pulled in a big draft of air. I could have said no, but the word caught in my throat. 

“Good,” Prince said. “You want to give it in the ass now? Or you want me to give it to you?” 

I jerked myself to a sit. “You think I can’t come more than once, kid? You think I’m not the man you are?” 

Prince rolled to his feet. “I didn’t say that.” 

“Hand me your belt.” 

Prince cocked his head, arched an eyebrow.

I stood and pulled on my pants, zipped and buttoned them. I stuck out my hand. “Now.”

Prince pulled the belt from the loops of his pants. “This’ll cost extra.”

“I know what it’ll cost. Now hand it to me. Bend over that dresser. I’ll show you what I want to do with your ass.” I folded the belt in half. With the double ends in both hands, I snapped the leather twice. 

I could tell Prince tried not to jump, but he couldn’t help himself. I tucked the belt under my armpit and freed my hands. With both palms I rubbed Prince’s bare ass, separating his crack, pushing it together, feeling the softness, losing myself in the kneading, my eyes closing, my head tilting up, extending my neck, feeling the heat of his skin, hearing Daddy ask, So is this what you do with those boys?

“You want sounds?” Prince asked.

I bent and kissed the center of each ass cheek, a hard, deep kiss. When I stood, I told him, “Not a sound. Not a whimper. Be a big boy and I’ll go easier on you. Show Daddy you’re not really a faggot.” 

Zzzwhack. I slapped the belt across the kid’s butt. The soft skin vibrated with the assault.

The kid grabbed the handle of a drawer. Said nothing. 

Zzzwhack. 

A welt erupted along the trail of the first strike. The mark of the second strap was instantaneous. 

“Turn over.” 

“This’ll cost you an extra three bills. You got it with you, man?”

“Man. Strange word coming from you, queer.” 

The kid stood, his eyes moist with unspoken pain. “I think you should go.”

“I’m going nowhere.” I snapped the belt. “I need you to show Daddy you’re a man. A goddamn fucking man. My genes didn’t create any fucking fags.” I pointed to the bed. “Screw her!”

The kid shot a look at the bed. “Scenes’ll cost you another two. And I don’t run a tab.”

I raised the belt and he flinched. I slapped the leather on the bed. “I told you to shut up, girl.” I stepped to the bed, made sure her hands and feet were still tied. “You ought to be proud of yourself, girl, proving your brother’s no sissy.” I pointed to the bed again. “If you want to belong to this family, prove you’re really a man. Fuck her.”

The kid’s eyes roamed over his sister’s naked body. His beautiful twin’s body. He stood there staring at her. Just staring at her. I lifted the belt and he inched his way onto the bed. 

“I’m watching you, boy. You fuck her good, then spread her legs and pleasure her till she cries out for more. You hear that girl? If he pleasures you, you better cry out for more. And if you beg for more, by God, he’d better deliver. You don’t cry out for more, I’ll know him for the fag he is. He’ll no longer be your brother. He’ll no longer be my son.” 

I glared at the kid’s crotch. “Get it up, boy, and show your sister what a man can do.”

I instructed the kid how to fuck the girl, at times demanding he pull his torso back so I could see his penis enter her. At times, I’d stick my finger inside her to demonstrate where the kid’s tongue should go. 

The girl cried out and I shouted, “Again.” She cried out for more and I ordered, “Again.” She cried out and—it wasn’t a cry of delight. Her face glistened with tears. Blood colored the sheets, from her wrists, from her ankles, from her—

The kid lay limp and exhausted beside her. 

“What have you done?” I grabbed the kid’s shoulder and pushed him off the bed. “What the hell have you done to your sister? You think fucking a virgin will make you a man? You’re sick, boy. I can’t bear to look at you.” I rushed to my jacket and hauled out my .38. 

The kid backed behind a chair and glanced at the door. “Easy, man. I didn’t do anything to anybody’s sister. I fucked the damn mattress is all, doing what you told me. Now put that thing down.”

Look what you made me do. Why’d you do that, Daddy? I was floating. I couldn’t let Daddy get away with—Daddy says God’s got to punish queers. I was Daddy. I pulled the trigger. The kid, me, Daddy slumped to the floor. Red or crimson or scarlet spouted from his pale chest. Color, not a difference to make a difference. 

The gun burned with fever, its sweat made it slide in my hand. Had it made a sound? I hadn’t heard anything. I listened now. No footsteps running in the corridor. No siren. 

Holy shit.

What had I done? 

I shoved the gun into my jacket pocket, poked my arms into my shirt sleeves. 

God’s gonna punish you. I smacked my temple with an open palm. “Shut up, old man. You crazy, fucking old man.” Christ. I needed to get out of here. 

I pressed my heels down hard inside my boots. Pocketed the money on the nightstand. My money.

Blood spun in my ears like in a centrifuge. My mind whirled, my thoughts gyrated. But I had to think straight. Ha. Daddy’d have a laugh at that one: me, thinking straight. 

Billy Ray would know what to do, how to clean up the mess. He wouldn’t want a spotlight on his business. Besides, helping me would be like earning a get-out-of-jail-free pass. 

I made a quick sweep of the mess. Prince’s crumpled, nude body had stopped gushing blood. I took his shirt and covered his privates. My hands were vibrating like a goddam dildo, but I gently closed his eyes. “Cradle this young prince in loving arms, Lord. It’s about fucking time he had a good father.”